Janet Dean - The Bride Wore Spurs

How long before her plan to run the Lazy P singlehandedly blew up in her face?

* * *

A rooster’s call pierced the muggy morning air drifting through the open window. Hannah stirred then opened her eyes, stretching languidly, relishing the pleasure of waking in her own bed.

A smile curved her lips. In the dream she’d had, a handsome cowboy, tall, dark, held her in his arms.

She reared upright. All the events of yesterday slid into her sleep-fogged brain, rousing her faster than a cold dip in a horse tank. Her stomach knotted, as she recalled Matt’s attitude toward women, and Papa’s poor health and sudden determination to make her a lady.

Lady or not, she had work to do. Last night she’d looked the part of debutante. Today she’d show Matt Walker, her father and the Lazy P cowhands she could run this ranch, if need be, wearing skirts. That ought to earn their respect. And wipe that smug smile off Matt’s face.

Hannah donned a pair of denims and a shirt, her hands trembling. What if she failed to earn the crew’s respect? What if they wouldn’t listen to her? What would she do then?

One glance around her room’s familiar belongings slowed her breathing. The quilt her mother had stitched, the rocker beside the open window, curtains rustling in the morning breeze. Peaceful, normal.

Her stomach clenched. With Papa ill, normal had fled faster than a calf freed after branding.

At the washstand, she splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth, then ran a fingertip over the chip on the blue-and-white ironstone bowl, the result of a carelessly tossed hairbrush years before.

Her possessions might not be perfect but this room was an oasis in a world flipped upside down. “Oh, please, God, don’t let Papa...” Her voice trailed off, the possibility too horrible to speak aloud.

Surely things weren’t as dire as they appeared. She took a calming breath. She’d see that Papa ate well and got plenty of rest. Whether Matt believed in her ability or not, she’d run the ranch, gladly taking the burden from her father and returning the operation of the Lazy P to its rightful owners.

She braided her hair, shoved her feet into scuffed boots, grabbed her leather gloves and Stetson, then strode out the door.

In the kitchen, Rosa removed a pan of biscuits from the oven.

“How’s Papa this morning?”

“Sleeping. You up with rooster.”

“I’m heading out to help with the chores.”

“I fix big breakfast when you finish.”

“Thanks.”

Hannah downed a hot biscuit and coffee, then strode to the stable. A few feet away, the pungent odor of manure and horseflesh teased her nostrils, softened by the sweet smell of hay, a welcome relief from the overpowering scents of potpourri and eau de cologne permeating her aunt’s house.

She stepped into the dim interior and a ray of sunlight dancing with dust motes lit a path to Star’s stall. As she approached, she spoke the mare’s name.

With a nickered greeting, Star poked her bronze head over the stall door, bobbing it in recognition.

Hannah pulled the mare’s nose against her shoulder, rubbing the white irregular shape that earned her name. “Oh, I’ve missed you,” Hannah murmured. “Later today I’ll take you out.”

Hannah grappled with the feed sack, watching the oats tumble end over end into the feedbox. A sense of peace filled her. Here in the stable, among crusty cowpokes, unpredictable livestock and her steadfast steed, she fit. This life filled her as she’d filled Star’s feedbox, to the brim, to overflowing.

Across the way, Jake Hardy lugged two buckets of water into the stable. Stooped and wiry, he’d worked on the Lazy P for as long as Hannah could remember. “Hi, Jake.”

“Well, welcome home, Miz Hannah!” Jake entered Star’s stall and tipped water into the trough. “Star missed you something fierce. Reckon lots of folks like me are glad you’re back, specially your pa.”

“Thanks, Jake. How’s that back?”

He grinned, revealing the gap between his front teeth. “’Bout what you’d expect for an old coot throwed too many times from breaking broncos.”

“Any news from your niece?”

The light in Jake’s gray eyes dimmed. “No idea where Lorna’s gone off to. I don’t mind telling ya, she’s got me worried. What kind of a woman leaves her child?”

What else had Papa kept from her? “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“My sis is taking care of Lorna’s girl, Allie.”

Lord, help Lorna do what’s right. “I’ll pray for her.”

A smile crinkled his leathery face. “’Preciate it.”

If anything happened to Jake’s sister Gertie, Jake would have to take care of Allie. He wouldn’t know what to do with a seven-year-old girl any more than Hannah would.

Finished with the morning chores, Hannah glanced outside. “Do you know where I can find Tom?”

“I’ll fetch him.” Jake hobbled toward the bunkhouse, pitched forward from the waist, his legs curved as if permanently astride. Thanks to multiple injuries, Jake looked older than his years, but he was sinewy, his disabilities didn’t slow him down.

While she waited, Hannah checked the tack room. Oiled leather hung on the wall. The horses looked well cared for. Even with Papa’s poor health, the ranch appeared to be operating efficiently. How much credit was Matt’s? How much was Tom’s?

She wandered outside and spied the foreman rounding the corner of the corral, ambling toward her, his frame reed thin, a bandana around his neck, spurs jangling. She raised a hand in greeting.

He touched his hat. “You looking for me, Miss Hannah?”

“I want to thank you for keeping the ranch running smoothly.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Before I left for Charleston, my father and I discussed the need for a well on the south range. When I arrived yesterday, I noticed nothing had been done. I’d like you to get the digging underway first thing tomorrow. I’ll arrange for a windmill.”

Tom removed his hat and scratched the back of his head. “The boss didn’t mention nothing about another well.”

“With his illness, the plan must’ve slipped his mind.” She knew ranching. Soon Tom, the entire crew, would see that too, and give her respect. “Progressive ranchers don’t rely on nature to supply water to their herds.”

Tom shuffled his feet. “I’ll check with the boss.”

That was the last thing Papa needed. Hannah bristled. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Ain’t no trouble.” The foreman tipped his hat, polite enough, but the sullen look in his eyes said otherwise.

As she watched Tom clomp to the house, an unsettling sense of foreboding gripped her, squeezing against her lungs. What would she do if Tom refused to work for her? How could she run the ranch? From the conversation at the table last night, the cows were dropping calves. That meant roundup was only a few weeks away, which was the reason she’d wanted to get the well dug now. Perhaps she’d been hasty in pushing the issue with the foreman.

Across the way, Matt emerged from the house, swung into the saddle and rode toward the Circle W. No one paid a social call at this hour. She sighed. More likely, he’d helped her father dress and shave. Thoughtful of him and easier on Papa’s pride than turning to her or Rosa for assistance.

Had Matt heard Tom question her authority with Papa? Perhaps, if she asked him to intervene, he’d set Tom straight. But she wouldn’t ask. She couldn’t build respect with the men if she didn’t handle things herself.

She strode to the house and met Tom coming out. The smug expression he wore steeled her spine.

“Ain’t going to be no well dug,” he said.

Was her father too ill to stick to his plan, to stand up to his foreman? “Do you think you’re running this ranch?”