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  © 2014 by Mary Connealy, Robin Lee Hatcher, Debra Clopton, and Margaret Brownley

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8856-1 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Four Weddings and a Kiss : a Western bride collection / Margaret Brownley, Robin Lee Hatcher, Mary Connealy, Debra Clopton.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8854-7 (softcover)

  1. Weddings—Fiction. 2. Love stories, American. 3. Christian fiction, American. I. Connealy, Mary. Spitfire sweetheart II. Hatcher, Robin Lee. Love letter to the editor. III. Clopton, Debra. A Cowboy for Katie. IV. Brownley, Margaret. Courting trouble.

  PS648.L6F755 2014

  813'.08508—dc23 2013049755

  Printed in the United States of America

  14 15 16 17 18 RRD 5 4 3 2 1

  Margaret Brownley: I dedicate my story to Robin, Mary, and Debra. Working with these three terrific ladies was a joy, a privilege, and an honor.

  Robin Lee Hatcher: To my readers. Thanks for joining me in the adventure.

  Mary Connealy: To my newest grandbaby. A little boy whose name I don’t know yet because he’s going to be here right about the time this book comes out.

  Debra Clopton: For my Taycie, Kyelie, and Paige—I love you sweet girls to the moon and back and then endlessly around and around and around . . . What beautiful gifts of God you are to me. What joy you bring my days. May each of you grow up loving the Lord and knowing that for as much as I love you, your Heavenly Father loves you even more.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Spitfire Sweetheart BY MARY CONNEALY

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  A Love Letter to the Editor BY ROBIN LEE HATCHER

  Dear Editor

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Dear Editor

  A Cowboy for Katie BY DEBRA CLOPTON

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Courting Trouble BY MARGARET BROWNLEY

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Reading Group Guides

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  PROLOGUE

  Fort Worth, Texas, 1885

  REVEREND GREGORY MILLER DREADED GOING HOME. THE weeklong revival meeting had been a resounding success with more than a thousand in attendance. Tomorrow he would board a train bound for Phoenix. With the thought came the memory of big blue eyes and a sweet curving smile.

  He clutched his hands into a ball, praying, Why, God, why? I’ve been a faithful servant and served my church well. So why do You feel the need to test me? Actually, punish would be a more apt description.

  Breaking up with Elizabeth was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but it was also the most necessary. The marriage would have been doomed from the start.

  “But how can I go on without her?” he railed. “Will You tell me that, God?”

  Realizing he’d spoken aloud, Gregory’s eyes flew open. His heated face had less to do with the campfire blazing beneath the star-studded sky than the disapproving stares from the other four preachers. Talking aloud during silent prayer was frowned upon. The other campfires scattered about the grove seemed to dim in light of his blunder.

  He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and ran a finger along his stiff collar.

  “Please accept my humble apologies.”

  One preacher lifted a monocle to his eye. “Who exactly is this woman causing you such distress?”

  Before Gregory could answer, the preacher next to him shifted his weight on the fallen log and slipped his Bible into his frock coat pocket. “I told you he had calico fever,” he drawled in a Texas twang. “Why else would a young man mope around like a tick-fevered doggie?”

  “I wasn’t moping.” Okay, so he’d kept pretty much to himself during the revival, interacting with the other ministers only when necessary. So what? “And her name is Elizabeth Princeton.”

  His response brought a chuckle from the minister who hailed from Wyoming.

  “This woman, Elizabeth . . . Do you love her?”

  Gregory sucked in his breath. Such a nosy question. But having spoken during silent prayer, he felt obliged to answer. “Well, yes.”

  “And does she love you?”

  “Yes, but—�
��

  “So what’s the problem?”

  The Texan tossed another log onto the fire, dashing Gregory’s hope that his companions would retire to the nearby tents soon and leave him alone in his misery.

  “Miss Princeton is . . .” He searched for a way to describe her. “Reckless.”

  “Reckless?” The word escaped all four men in perfect harmony.

  He sighed. It wasn’t like him to talk about personal matters. Drawing attention to himself was not his style. Back home in Phoenix people expected their ministers to be dignified and sedate. At age thirty, he’d served his church well. He could only imagine what his congregation would say if they knew how their esteemed leader bared his soul to a group of near strangers.

  “Maybe that’s not the right word but . . .” He couldn’t think of another. “She taught our church ladies to play rounders.” Women wielding sticks was shocking enough, but irate husbands insisted the games also interfered with the women’s household chores.

  The eye behind the monocle never wavered from its examination of him. “Far as I know, rounders isn’t a sin. Why are you all riled up?”

  Gregory blinked. Did he have to spell it out? “I’m a very conservative man. I run a conservative church. The most daring thing our deacons ever did was lock spiritual horns with the Methodists next door.” Denominational rivalry ran rampant in the West where only the best-attended churches could survive. “What’s more, Miss Princeton sided with the Methodists.”

  “No!” the preacher from Wyoming exclaimed with a hint of amusement.

  “She also discussed politics in the churchyard.”

  “Shocking,” exclaimed the reverend from Colorado with mock gravity.

  Gregory studied the others; were they not taking him seriously? “And she made the children laugh during Bible class. Can you imagine? Laughing in church? And when I disapproved of a young couple holding hands during the Doxology, she called me a stuffed shirt.”

  One of the preachers leaned forward. Gregory tried to recall his name. Albert? Alden? That was it: Reverend Alden. “The other day in leaders’ class you said that until recently your church experienced low attendance.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Would it be accurate to say that your lady friend has had a positive influence in that regard?”

  Gregory sat back aghast. “Are you suggesting that Miss Princeton’s rounders tournaments had something to do with the recent rise in church membership?”

  The older man shrugged. “Times have changed. We have the railroad and telegraph to thank for that. If the church doesn’t change accordingly, I fear we’ll all be in trouble.”

  The man from Wyoming pulled out his watch. “Perhaps God sent Miss Princeton to save your church and you at the same time.”

  “That’s crazy,” Gregory said. Why would anyone think he needed saving?

  Alden arched a dark brow. “Is it?”

  “Of course it is. Marriage is out of the question. It’s highly unlikely that God means for her to be a preacher’s wife.” Such a woman would have to be modest, reserved, and obedient—all the things Elizabeth Princeton was not.

  “As unlikely as Sarai and Abram having a child in their old age?” Alden asked.

  “Or Moses, a man slow of speech, becoming a leader and great orator?” added the preacher with the watch.

  The Texan gave a nod. “Or a lowly shepherd boy takin’ down Goliath without benefit of a firearm?”

  Soon a friendly game was in progress with the four older preachers vying to name God’s most unlikely servants.

  The man from Wyoming summed it up. “The one thing I’ve learned in all my years of ministry is that God sometimes brings unlikely people together for a purpose. His purpose.”

  Reverend Alden poked at the fire with a stick. “Reminds me of a couple I once knew.” He chuckled at the memory. “You never saw two more mismatched people in your life.”

  The other ministers were all anxious to share stories of their own.

  Alden tossed the stick into the fire and sat back. “I’ll go first, then you can each take turns.” The matter settled, he continued, “My story involves a couple named Maizy MacGregor and Rylan Carstens who are living proof that God has a sense of humor. Let me tell you . . .”

  Spitfire Sweetheart

  Mary Connealy

  CHAPTER ONE

  Saurita, New Mexico, 1879

  MAIZY MACGREGOR LEANED HER HEAD BACK AGAINST the rocks, accidentally knocking her Stetson off. She grabbed it as it fell, then tossed it aside in disgust. She had on men’s clothes—the hat, britches, shirt, boots, even a six-gun she wore on her hip. It had never bothered her before Rylan Carstens.

  She wiped her eyes. It was sure enough bothering her now.

  The water roared beside her, cascading down in a rush. She came here when she needed to be alone. And she really needed that now.

  Tossing aside her buckskin gloves, she pulled her red handkerchief out of her hip pocket—no lace kerchief tucked up her sleeve for Maizy—and wiped her eyes again, then blew her nose in a completely unladylike way.

  How had she let herself get this upset? And over a man, of all things.

  Over the neighbor whom she’d long ago accepted would never see her as anything but a child, and an unattractive, annoying child at that.

  She was used to it, and she ignored it mostly, but today it stung. He’d found her walking among his Angus cattle.

  Maizy looked to her left and watched the sleek black herd spread out along the downhill slope. Usually she didn’t go near them. Instead, she’d just slip into this spot. She’d been using it for a getaway since childhood. But this morning, not for the first time, she’d walked among his herd. They were gentle cattle, not a horn on a single one of them. They weren’t tame enough to touch—they gave way if she got too close. But they didn’t run for the hills one day, then attack the next like longhorns tended to do.

  She’d heard they were gentle, even the bulls. And she was savvy about cattle. She knew how to judge their tempers and stay clear of them when necessary. Her eyes rested on one especially young calf that might have been born just today, long after cows usually threw their calves.

  Maizy knew better than to go near a new mama, no matter how easygoing she’d been before her calf was born.

  She’d told Rylan all that and tried to make him see she was in no danger. He’d thrown her off his land anyway and even followed her home to complain to Pa, like she was a misbehaving child. He’d forbidden her to trespass ever again.

  But the minute she could get away, she came here, to her special place. The river was the border between his property and her pa’s, and it was true she was, right this minute, on the trespassing side. She barely had a toe over the line, and she was completely safe from his placid, fat cattle, so surely he wouldn’t complain about that.

  She took a little pleasure in defying him. And it was a harmless defiance, especially if he didn’t know she was here.

  Her horse was tied well across the river, on MacGregor land, cropping grass. She couldn’t see the brown-and-white pinto from here and neither could her neighbor.

  Hoping to get control of her hurt, she let herself soak in the peace of stone and water and air, loving the way this rocky ledge cut off the world. She couldn’t hear anything other than the rushing water. Her spot was curved into the rocks, and she could only see straight ahead and to the left. Water cascaded down from the mountain peaks on the right. Her almost-cave hid her from behind and overhead.

  She was in her own world, alone with her thoughts.

  Then a gunshot cut through the air, and she sat up straight and banged her head.

  Looking for the source of that gun, she turned and saw him.

  Rylan Carstens.

  And he was coming straight for her, galloping on his big chestnut stallion. Even at this distance she could tell he was looking right at her. How had he known she was in here?

  Another gunshot echoed from his Wincheste
r.

  Rylan bent low over his horse, coming as fast as he could on the rocky ground that rose to this bluff along the river. Was he trying to kill her? If so, he was doing a poor job of it. The bullets were missing, going way over her head. But even on her worst day, she’d never done anything to make the man killing mad.

  And Maizy knew, even though Rylan seemed like a mighty cranky man, that he wasn’t the type to shoot a young woman, especially not for just being annoying.

  He fired again and again, working the levered handle on his Winchester, and she finally realized he was firing warning shots. But warning who—about what?

  She scrambled out of the little overhang and took a few running steps to make sure he saw her and wouldn’t fire in her direction.

  That’s when she heard the growl . . . and the bellow.

  Spinning around, she looked up. On the ledge that formed the roof of her little cave, standing on its hind legs, was the biggest grizzly she’d ever seen.

  Movement to her side forced her to look, though it was madness to turn away. The huge Angus bull that lorded over this part of Carstens’s herd pawed the ground, and like all bulls, guarded his herd fiercely. There were only two things between that huge bear and that angry bull.

  The shining black calf, born out of season, still wobbly.

  And Maizy.

  The bull might be threatening the bear, but the bear only had eyes for Maizy. The rest of the cow herd, save the frantic mama, turned and stampeded away.

  The bull charged.

  The bear dropped to all fours and crouched to attack.

  Pound for pound there was no meaner animal on the face of the earth than a grizzly. Maizy had a Colt in her holster, but a bullet wasn’t enough to bring one of these huge beasts down. Maybe a perfect shot right into the heart or brain would do it . . . but mostly . . . getting shot just made ’em mad.

  The bear’s beady, bloodshot eyes were riveted on Maizy.

  The bull bellowed and turned the grizzly’s attention.

  Maizy saw her chance and ran.

  A shout and another blast of gunfire sent Maizy running straight down the grassy slope for Rylan. Her eyes locked with his and she saw horror. She thought he’d seen her, but she could tell he’d been out here riding herd and seen the grizzly.