Laurie Kingery - Hill Country Cattleman

A Match Made In Texas

To escape a scandal in England, Violet Brookfield is sent to her brother’s ranch in Texas. Soon she discovers that the vibrant new world and rugged trail boss Raleigh Masterson are perfect material for the Western she’s writing. And when her time is up, she’ll return to the nobleman she left behind.

Violet is the most elegant female ever to set foot in Simpson Creek, and Raleigh is sure she’ll never stay. He has no business falling for the beautiful aristocrat. But soon Violet makes a place for herself in the Hill Country—and in his heart. Now if only he can convince her that she belongs there forever….

“I’ve never met a writer before.” He let his admiration show in his voice.

Violet turned back to him, surprised. “You’re

the first person who’s ever called me a writer, Raleigh Masterson. Even Gerald doesn’t—” She stopped suddenly, as if she’d said too much.

“Who’s Gerald?” he asked.

“Gerald is the man I’m in love with. He’s the Earl of Lullington.” She spoke so softly that he had to strain to hear, but when he made sense of her words, his heart sank. Of course she’d found someone to love, someone who was titled and wealthy, as she was. He’d been a fool to think otherwise.

“I’m surprised you could leave him for so long,” he said.

“I didn’t have a choice. My brother thinks if he separates us for a time, I’ll forget about Gerald. But I won’t, of course.”

There was an uncertain look in her eyes, as if she couldn’t speak with confidence about her beau’s feelings for her.

“I’m sure no man in his right mind could forget about you, Miss Violet.”

LAURIE KINGERY

makes her home in central Ohio, where she is a “Texan-in-exile.” Formerly writing as Laurie Grant for the Harlequin Historical line and other publishers, she is the author of eighteen previous books and the 1994 winner of a Readers’ Choice Award in the Short Historical category. She has also been nominated for Best First Medieval and Career Achievement in Western Historical Romance by RT Book Reviews. When not writing her historicals, she loves to travel, read, participate on Facebook and Shoutlife and write her blog on

www.lauriekingery.com.

Hill Country Cattleman

Laurie Kingery

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which

so easily doth beset us, And let us run with patience the race that is set before us.

—Hebrews 12:1

To my “adopted sisters”

Carole Tyson and “Tudie” Metzer.

Thanks for being part of my family!

And as always, to Tom.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

Simpson Creek, Texas—July 7, 1868

“Simpson Creek!” the driver called out as the coach rolled onto the bridge over the creek that had given the town its name.

“Thank goodness,” grumbled Violet’s brother Edward, Viscount Greyshaw, rubbing his back and glancing resentfully at the top of the coach after the driver hit yet another rut. He grabbed for the overhead strap to steady himself. “He does that on purpose,” he muttered, then added, for the hundredth time, “I don’t know why Nick chose to live so far from the coast. Barbaric place, Texas. Too big by half.”

Normally, her elder brother was the kindest of men, but the two of them had been on the road for several days now, first on the stage line that ran from Indianola, on the Gulf coast, to Austin. They’d had to cool their heels in the Texas capital for several days until Friday, when the stage to Lampasas ran again. Once in Lampasas, however, they had learned there was no regular stage that ran the final thirty miles to Simpson Creek. It had taken a sizable bribe at the stagecoach station to convince an off-duty driver to take them the rest of the way. They had not gone a mile when Edward had voiced his suspicion that the coach had been retired due to its lack of springs and threadbare cushions.

Violet ignored his complaining as she stared raptly out of the window on her side of the coach. “I think it’s a darling little town—so quaint and picturesque. So very Old West.” She could already imagine penning a letter in which she described it to Gerald—assuming there was a place to post a letter to her beau back in England. And she could use Simpson Creek as the basis for the fictional town in the novel she was writing. “Oh, look—is that the church where Nick and Milly were married?”

“The very one,” her brother murmured, his tone softening somewhat. “It’s the only church in town, so everyone attends it.”

They rolled past a row of storefronts on either side and finally pulled up in front of a hotel.

“Driver, will there be time for us to have luncheon before we go on to the Brookfield ranch while you obtain a fresh team?” Edward inquired as he descended the coach.

“I’ll be changin’ teams, all right,” the driver said, beginning to lift down the trunks that had ridden on top of the coach during their journey, “but I cain’t take you out to no ranch, Mr. Greyshaw. I got t’ git back t’ take the Lampasas-to-Austin run at six in th’ mornin’. I’m gonna be plumb tuckered out as it is.”

“That’s Lord Greyshaw,” Edward told him curtly. “And how in blazes are we to get to my brother’s ranch with all this luggage—walk?”

“Like as not y’ could hire a wagon at th’ livery, sir,” their driver said cheerfully, unfazed by her brother’s anger. “Follow me, if yore of a mind t’ take care of that now. That’s where I’m goin’ to change horses.”

“Out of the question,” Edward said, and turned to Violet. “I suppose we shall have to hire someone to drive us to Nick’s ranch. I certainly hope we can find a better-sprung carriage than that poor excuse for a coach.”

Really. One would think Edward had never been to Texas before, and experienced the reality of traveling here, Violet thought with amusement. Before she could say something to soothe her brother’s ruffled feathers, though, she caught sight of a handsome blue roan trotting toward them.

If there was anything Violet appreciated more than books, writing and the Earl of Lullington, it was superior horseflesh. The approaching roan was the finest example of equine excellence she’d seen since she regretfully bade goodbye to the chestnut hunter Gerald had offered to loan her for the hunting season. He’d hinted he was going to give it to her later as a wedding present.

More powerfully muscled than the thoroughbred hunter, the roan had fire and spirit—and savvy. She had gleaned that word from one of the many books she’d read about the American West. It was from the Spanish word saber, meaning he knows. And this horse looked like he knew plenty—the perfect horse for a cowboy.

The hunting set decreed a proper horse should be bay, chestnut, black or gray, and would have decried the roan’s unusual color as flashy. But Violet thought the hue ethereally beautiful. Then, as the horse nosed in to a hitching rail at the store next door to the hotel, her eyes rose to its rider, and she forgot all about the roan.