Lauri Robinson - The Cowboy Who Caught Her Eye

He felt like a man with two left hands who didn’t know how to use either of them.

While she’d slept last night, cradled in his arms, he’d lain awake, pondering all the complexities of life—especially those he’d never wondered about before. Like holding someone as they slept. He’d never done that, and instinctively he knew the marvel of doing so wasn’t something he’d forget anytime soon. Perhaps ever.

There were things he did know, and questions he did want to ask her, which were tumbling forward now, faster than dried up tumbleweeds rolling across the flat plains he’d seen down in Kansas. He tried, but was unable to catch one as it rolled across his tongue.

“Who’s the father of your baby?”

The American cowboy came about after the Civil War, when a shortage of beef in the northern states gave some enterprising southerners, mainly Texans, the idea of driving their cattle north. Their plan was to drive them to the closest railroads—Kansas. These cattle drives flourished for about twenty years—1866–1885—and a cowboy was considered to be anyone with ‘guts and a gun’.

The railroad soon spread across the nation, diminishing the cattle drives, but the cowboy lived on, performing a multitude of duties in winning the West. There is something about those men—rustic, rugged, risky, yet charismatic and downright sexy—that captures women’s hearts. They’re men we know will be there when needed, whether it’s three in the morning or three in the afternoon.

Though he’s a Pinkerton Man, Carter Buchanan is a cowboy at heart, and he’s there for Molly Thorson whether she wants him to be or not—at three in the morning and three in the afternoon.

I sincerely hope you enjoy meeting and getting to know both Carter and Molly as much as I did.

LAURI ROBINSON’Schosen genre to write is Western historical romance. When asked why, she says, ‘Because I know I wasn’t the only girl who wanted to grow up and marry Little Joe Cartwright.’

With a degree in early childhood education, Lauri has spent decades working in the non-profit field and claims once-upon-a-time and happily-ever-after romance novels have always been a form of stress relief. When her husband suggested she write one she took the challenge, and has loved every minute of the journey.

Lauri lives in rural Minnesota, where she and her husband spend every spare moment with their three grown sons and four grandchildren. She works part-time, volunteers for several organisations, and is a diehard Elvis and NASCAR fan. Her favourite getaway location is the woods of northern Minnesota, on the land homesteaded by her great-grandfather.

Previous titles from Lauri Robinson:

HIS CHRISTMAS WISH

(part of All a Cowboy Wants for Christmas )

UNCLAIMED BRIDE

INHERITING A BRIDE

Also available in Mills & Boon ®Historical Undone! eBooks:

WEDDING NIGHT WITH THE RANGER

HER MIDNIGHT COWBOY

NIGHTS WITH THE OUTLAW

DISOBEYING THE MARSHAL

TESTING THE LAWMAN’S HONOUR

THE SHERIFF’S LAST GAMBLE

WHAT A COWBOY WANTS

HIS WILD WEST WIFE

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Lauri Robinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To my sister-in-law, Berta. Gotta love those cowboys! Love you, Lauri.

Dakota Territory

August 1884

Carter Buchanan kept the hat pulled low on his face and his feet propped on the seat across from him, waiting for the others to gather their bags and bundles and head for the exit. He was as ready to get off the rumbling box on wheels as the rest of them, but he never let anything show—feelings or thoughts. That was how he liked it.

He did let out a pent-up sigh and cast a little glance around, checking how many other passengers still had to depart the Chicago and Northwestern railcar. Several, including the woman with a dozen kids. True, it wasn’t a full dozen, but she had a horde. With red hair and freckles. Irish. He was, too. Black Irish. That’s what they called him all those years ago when he roamed the streets of New York. His hair was still black, his eyes still blue, but no one had called him that for years now. Not that it mattered. It hadn’t then and it didn’t now.

Once the commotion slowed, he pushed back his hat, planted his boots on the floor and gathered up the bedroll he’d tucked his well-worn dictionary in earlier. Sampson would be glad to see him. The gelding hadn’t been impressed with his accommodations. Neither had Carter. What the railroad advertised and what he’d just experienced were as far apart as the east and west coasts. He knew. He’d been to both. Coasts, that is.

Right now he was smack-dab in the middle of these good old United States of America. The land his father never got to see. Mother, either. The trip over from the old country saw to that. Carter had seen this country though. Lots of it. And now he was in Huron, South Dakota. Named after the Indians that once roamed the prairies, founded to become the headquarters of the western division of the C&NW railroad, and where his latest case took him.

The only place bills had surfaced from last year’s train robbery was right here in Huron. Ironic, that’s what he’d called it. Told Mr. Pinkerton that himself. The man agreed and told him good luck.

Good luck. That, too, was ironic. What other kind of luck would you wish upon someone?

The outside air wasn’t a whole lot better than inside the train car. Hot and heavy. He drew in a good portion anyway and set off in the direction of his horse.

Full of muck and mud, a recent rain no doubt, the ground surrounding the depot platform stunk from droppings left about, which he stepped around as if sashaying a woman across a dance floor. Not that he did that too often. Unlike dancing, sidestepping piles he was used to.

Sampson was nickering before the gate to the stock car dropped and upon bounding down, the palomino made his own offering to the stench and muck.

“That happens every time,” a young kid said, handing over Sampson’s reins.

“I’m sure it does,” Carter answered, giving the curly-haired boy a coin for his troubles.

“If you’re hungry, there’s a restaurant in the hotel, or the mercantile sells breads and such, if’n you want to make your own.” The boy waved a hand toward the buildings lining both sides of the muddy street. “It’s a bit farther away, but I’d recommend the mercantile. Miss Thorson makes the best cinnamon rolls you’ll ever eat.”

“Obliged,” Carter said, tying his pack behind the saddle. He led Sampson away then, but just far enough to examine the surroundings. A cinnamon roll did sound good. He’d always had a soft spot for pastries, and the mercantile was one of the places he’d visit, but first he’d get a feel for the town.