The Cowboy Meets His Match Read online

  Also by Margaret Brownley

  A Match Made in Texas

  Left at the Altar

  A Match Made in Texas

  The Haywire Brides

  Cowboy Charm School

  The Cowboy Meets His Match

  Christmas in a Cowboy’s Arms anthology

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2019 by Margaret Brownley

  Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks

  Cover art by Chris Cocozza

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Left at the Altar

  One

  Two

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  What men call accident is God’s own part.

  —Philip James Bailey

  1

  Haywire, Texas

  1886

  The moment Emily Rose stepped off the train, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake. It wasn’t just the heat pressing down on her like a thick, wet blanket. Nor the dust that clogged the throat and stung the eyes. It wasn’t even the relentless flies.

  Rather, it was the feeling of dread that settled like a lead weight in the pit of her stomach. One look at the sorrowful excuse for a town, and the trouble she’d left back in Boston seemed like a tea party in comparison.

  The dark-skinned driver set to work tossing her baggage into the rear of the hotel omnibus with reckless abandon.

  “Oh, do be careful with that,” she cried, grabbing her bandbox out of his hand.

  Shooting her an exasperated look, the driver reached for her carpetbag and hurled it into the compartment with the rest of her baggage. Since her belongings commanded all available space, the other passengers were forced to carry their travel gear on board.

  One matronly woman glared at Emily, her beak-like nose flaring. “Some people have no consideration for others,” she grumbled, her voice loud enough to gain the attention of those still standing in line.

  Emily apologized and offered to help the passenger with her valise, but the woman would have none of it. Instead, she made quite a show of lugging her single satchel up the steps of the omnibus, grunting and groaning and complaining like an old crow.

  Emily disregarded the woman’s theatrics, but it was harder to ignore the curious stares directed at her stylish blue traveling suit. She had been so anxious to make her escape, she’d not thought about clothes. The last thing she needed was to call attention to herself. Had she been thinking straight, she would have purchased something more sedate like a simple gingham or calico dress, though she doubted such a thing could have been found in all of Boston.

  The same was true of the plain cloth bonnets locals seemed to favor. Her own felt hat, stylishly trimmed with feathers, now seemed hopelessly out of place.

  Sidestepping a pile of horse manure, Emily boarded the omnibus, her bandbox in hand. She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and wiped off the dusty leather seat before adjusting her bustle and sitting.

  The driver took his seat and waited until the last of his passengers had boarded before shaking the reins and clicking his tongue. As if to protest the heavy load, the two roans snorted as they plodded forward, scattering more dust with their heavy hooves.

  Emily fanned her heated face with the soiled handkerchief and gazed out the glassless window. Compared to Boston’s sturdy redbrick buildings, the adobe shops with the false fronts and rough-hewn signs looked like they could be blown away with one good gust of wind.

  No cobblestones lined the thoroughfare. Instead, a bumpy dirt road wound through town, flanked by wooden sidewalks.

  She looked for the drugstore owned by the man she’d traveled all this way to marry but didn’t see it. Instead, they passed a general store, a bank, a gunsmith, and a leather shop, but no ladies’ hat or dress emporiums. A sign reading Haywire Book and Sweet Shop gave her a flicker of hope. The selling of books suggested that maybe the town wasn’t as primitive as it appeared.

  Emily reached into her purse and pulled out the dog-eared letter that had been carefully tucked inside. Unfolding it, she reread the simple instructions written in bold handwriting. She was told to check into the hotel. A driver would pick her up at four o’clock sharp and drive her to the courthouse. Her betrothed would meet her there to exchange vows.

  She chewed her lower lip and forced herself to breathe. Never had she imagined herself a mail-order bride. But then neither had she dreamt she would be forced to leave Boston in shame, with hardly a penny to her name.

  Her only hope was that her soon-to-be husband was as kind and caring in person as he appeared to be in his letters.

  She checked her pendant watch, grateful that she’d remembered to adjust it to local time at the train station.

  The omnibus turned onto a bewildering series of winding, pretzel-like streets before pulling up the drive leading to the Haywire Grande Hotel. Judging by the weathered facade, the only thing grand about the hotel was its size.

  Emily’s stomach knotted. Whatever fate had in store for her couldn’t be any worse than what she’d left behind. While the thought
did nothing to lift her spirits, it did help calm her pounding heart. Refolding the letter, she returned it to her purse. Moments later, she stood in the blazing sun and waited for the driver to unload her luggage.

  “Will that be all, ma’am?” he asked. His sudden politeness could only mean he expected a generous gratuity.

  “Yes, thank you.” She handed him twice the number of coins she normally would, more out of guilt for commanding so much space than gratitude.

  While a bellhop arranged her luggage onto a wooden handcart, she glanced again at her watch. In just two hours, she would be married to a man she had never set eyes on—a total stranger.

  Now that she’d seen the town, it seemed that she was about to exchange one prison for another.

  * * *

  Chase McKnight paced the floor of the judge’s chambers. Where was she? His bride should have been here by now.

  The dark wooden paneling and teak desk reflected his gloomy thoughts. Never had he imagined a wedding day as bleak and unsettling as this.

  There were three men in the room, counting Chase. Judge Gray sat behind the desk, waiting to perform the wedding ceremony. Chase’s uncle occupied the single chair in front of the desk, ready to serve as a witness. With their dark suits and serious expressions, they could just as easily have been attending a funeral.

  Chase wished to God he’d never agreed to this marriage. He’d met the bride-to-be but once, years ago when they were both in their early teens. Still, what choice did he have? What choice, for that matter, did the lady have?

  Now a widow with three small children—two boys and a girl—she lived in the next county. He’d heard that she regularly attended church, was a hard worker, and had accepted her lot in life with grace and goodwill. If his memory served him right, she wasn’t that bad to look at either. But that wasn’t the point.

  He glanced at his uncle. “Maybe she’s not comin’.” It would be disastrous if she didn’t show, but who could blame her? He was as much a stranger to her as she was to him, with a less-than-stellar reputation.

  “Relax. She’ll be here,” his uncle said, though his drumming fingers belied the calmness of his voice. Uncle Baxter was a large, pompous man who resembled his brother—Chase’s father—in size, but not disposition. He was a hard-nosed businessman whose relentless ambition had driven more than one woman away. “She needs this marriage as much as you do.”

  Chase sincerely doubted that, but now was no time to argue.

  Judge Gray reached into his vest pocket for his watch and flipped the case open with his thumb. As round as he was tall, the judge had a long, white beard and white hair. Faded gray eyes peered from behind tortoiseshell spectacles.

  “She better come soon. I’ve got another wedding in fifteen minutes.”

  Chase balled his hands at his sides. He longed to shrug off the frock coat and boiled shirt. As a cattle rancher, he wasn’t used to such formal attire. Why weddings required such a getup was one of the mysteries of life.

  Discomfort turning to irritation, he glared at his uncle. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.” There had to be another way.

  Uncle Baxter leaned forward and snubbed his cigar in the copper ashtray on the judge’s desk. “You know what your father’s will said. The first son to marry gets the ranch. Do you want your brother claiming what’s yours?”

  “Stepbrother,” Chase gritted out through wooden lips.

  The mere thought of losing the ranch was like a knife to his heart. It wasn’t just a spread; it was a family legacy. The Rocking M Ranch had been founded by his Scottish grandparents. It was Grandpapa McKnight who had taught Chase everything he knew about cattle and ranching. By the age of twelve, Chase could ride, rope, and shoot as well or better than any man.

  The judge checked his watch again. Chase’s uncle’s gaze sharpened, and his mustache twitched, but he said nothing.

  Chase paced the floor and punched his fist into his left palm. When his uncle had first approached him with the idea of marrying the widow, it had sounded like the perfect plan. It wasn’t easy being a rancher’s wife, and few women could handle the demands. Cassie Decker had grown up around cattle. That alone would make her an asset.

  Had things gone according to plan, not only would the marriage have saved the ranch and Chase’s family legacy, but it would have helped a woman and her small children. Now, the plan seemed bound for failure.

  A clamor made Chase stop pacing and turn. “Why’d you bring that?” he asked, tossing a nod at his uncle’s shotgun on the floor. “I said no violence.”

  “Think of this as insurance.” His uncle reached for the shotgun and tapped the floor with the gunstock. “If your stepbrother gets wind that you’re here, there could be trouble. I don’t aim on letting anything go wrong.”

  Chase pinched the bridge of his nose. Something had already gone wrong. The bride-to-be had apparently suffered a case of cold feet. “Maybe I can get a bank loan.” He resented having to pay his stepbrother to save the ranch. But if his bride didn’t show, he might not have a choice.

  His uncle discounted this idea with a shake of his head. “No bank is gonna give you a loan, and you know it. Not with the economy the way it is.”

  “I’ll think of somethin’.”

  “If there was another solution, we’d have thought of it by now.” His uncle slipped a hand in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his gold watch. “You better start praying that the lady shows.”

  The judge’s unkempt, bushy eyebrows rose and fell. “You have ten minutes.”

  Chase took a seething breath and continued pacing while his uncle kept checking the time. After another couple of minutes, he stopped. “Whether she shows or not, I’m not givin’ up.”

  Uncle Baxter grimaced. “You may have to,” he said, surprising Chase. It wasn’t like his uncle to admit defeat. “It’s a shame for it to end this way. The ranch meant everything to your father.”

  Chase’s nostrils flared. “If it meant so much to him, then why did he put such a stipulation in the will?”

  How his father’s second wife had persuaded him to write such a will was a puzzle that continued to haunt Chase. Her son, Royce, had never put in an honest day’s work in his life. Drinking, gambling, and womanizing were more his style.

  “There’re some things that are out of a person’s control,” his uncle said cryptically.

  Chase’s gaze sharpened. “What things?”

  A look of uncertainty crept into his uncle’s expression. “Just…things.”

  There was something his uncle wasn’t saying, but Chase was too incensed to pursue it.

  The judge’s voice floated across the room. “If your bride doesn’t show in the next couple of minutes, I won’t have time to marry you. The next wedding party is due to arrive momentarily.”

  Chase sucked in his breath and started for the door.

  “Where are you going?” his uncle asked. “There’s still time.”

  Chase whirled around. “Marrying the lady was your idea, and I should never have agreed to it.” Lord knew he had enough on his plate without taking on an unwilling bride.

  “Now listen to me—”

  “No, you listen to me.” Chase was shouting now but didn’t care. “If I lose the ranch, I lose the ranch. But at least I won’t be tied to a loveless marriage!”

  He turned toward the door just as it flew open. The widow had finally arrived, and she was decked from head to toe in full bridal regalia.

  2

  Emily stared at the two men whose voices had been loud enough to be heard in the hall. She guessed that the younger man was Jake Garvey, the druggist she’d come here to wed, but she couldn’t be certain. Please don’t let the groom be the one with the shotgun…

  Whichever he was, the groom had sounded as reluctant to marry her as she was him, and that was odd. He’d been s
o persuasive in his letters, so committed to making a life with her, so perfectly charming and kind.

  If she hadn’t known it before, she knew it now. Coming to Texas had been a mistake. How foolish of her to think that marrying a stranger would solve her problems.

  Since neither man seemed anxious to say to her face what had been said before she’d walked in, it appeared it was up to her.

  “I…I changed my mind,” she said, grateful for the veil that covered her face. Instead of sounding bold and sure of herself as she’d hoped, she hardly recognized the uncertain voice as her own. Dear God, if she didn’t marry the man, how would she ever support herself? She had no skills. At least none that would earn a living in a town such as this.

  She cleared her throat and knotted her hands at her sides. “I-I can’t do this,” she said. Her decision could mean sleeping in doorways and eating bread crumbs, but at least she wouldn’t be tied down to a man who didn’t want her.

  “I can’t marry you,” she said, her voice stronger this time. There had to be another way; there just had to be.

  The silence that followed her outburst was broken by a previously unnoticed third man in the room—a man she suddenly realized was the judge. “Five minutes.”

  The older man with the shotgun opened his mouth to speak, but the younger man interrupted. “If that’s how you feel…”

  “I-I think it’s best.” Casting a nervous glance at the man with the gun, she added, “Please accept my apologies.” Anxious to make her escape, she picked up her voluminous skirts and hurriedly left the room.

  Outside the courthouse, shouts and mass confusion greeted Emily and stopped her in her tracks. What had moments earlier been a calm and peaceful town was now mass confusion. Men, women, and children ran down the middle of the street, screaming.

  A man on a horse raced by, waving his hat and yelling, “Clear the way. Clear the way!”

  The wooden-plank boards beneath her satin slippers began to vibrate, then violently shake. Startled, she clutched at the railing. It felt as if the world was coming to an end.

  A thick, roiling cloud of dust headed her way, and terror held her in its grip. Just as the cloud reached the courthouse, the dust gave way to thundering hooves, bawling cries, and clashing horns.