The Bride Wore Spurs. Janet Dean
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tagged after Zack, Matt’s youngest brother? At the time, Matt had been married to Amy, his high school sweetheart, and had reveled in teasing Hannah at every opportunity. That had been before Amy’s horse threw her and she died from a broken neck, when Matt’s laugh came easy.
Now, he looked tense. Did he resent picking her up? Well, she wasn’t any happier about the switch.
Still, to be fair, she should ease her attitude toward the man, give him the benefit of the doubt. From what Papa had told her, he’d closed himself off after his wife’s death.
They stopped before the baggage cart’s perspiring attendant. Hannah pointed out her bags and large camel back trunk.
The porter surveyed her luggage, mumbling an oath under his breath.
Heat flushed her cheeks. If she’d had a choice, she would’ve left every dress behind in Charleston. But, Papa had tired of seeing her in denim and had insisted she return with a new wardrobe. Aunt Mary Esther had made his wishes her mission.
Matt slipped the attendant a tip. “I’ll take it from here.”
With a snaggletooth smile, the porter doffed his hat, then turned to the next traveler.
Matt hefted the trunk onto his shoulder, letting out a grunt. “A man could bust a gut toting this load. Must’ve brought the entire state of South Carolina back with you.”
“That’s not my fault, I—”
“If you packed them, I’d say that makes them yours,” he said before she could explain the large number of cases weren’t her idea.
He balanced the trunk then grabbed a valise’s leather handle, straining muscles that pulled his shirt tight over powerful shoulders and arms, producing an odd flutter in the pit of her stomach.
“Stay put,” he said. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“I’m perfectly capable of carrying...” Her voice faded as he swaggered off. How dare he treat her like a hothouse flower.
She grabbed the three remaining cases and marched after him, the sun glaring on her back, her lungs heaving against her cast-iron corset. The ostrich plume on her gray felt hat drooped into view, tickling her nose. Her aunt would say the hat made fashion sense. More like fashion insanity.
Papa had sent her away to gain grace and style and all those put-on manners the finishing school had drummed into her. Now she supposed she was indeed finished.
But not as Papa intended.
Her aunt’s aimless life had made Hannah all the more determined to remain a rancher. What she did on the Lazy P had significance, and gave her satisfaction.
Without a free hand to swat at the tormenting feather, she blew a puff of air. The feather fluttered, then came to rest against her nose.
Matt stopped, turned back. His gaze settled on the feather. He gave a smirk. “I’d prefer you’d wait until I can return for the rest.”
“I prefer doing my part.”
Surly eyes gave her a cursory glance. “In that?”
Hannah’s gaze swept her traveling dress, all flounce and ruffle, as uncomfortable as armor thanks to the torturous corset. “Don’t judge me on my attire.”
He harrumphed. “Like Charleston hasn’t changed you.”
She jerked up her chin. “It hasn’t. At all.” Another breath lifted up the feather. This time it stayed put.
“Whatever you say, Miss Parrish.”
He headed down the boardwalk. She followed, perspiration beading on her forehead. At the wagon, she dropped the load with a clatter at Matt’s feet—feet clad in cowboy boots, high quality, Texas made. And he accused her of being a clotheshorse.
Matt leaned against the wagon, apparently untouched by the heat. “Didn’t that fancy finishing school teach you to allow a man to give you a hand?” he drawled.
“It taught me to take care of myself.”
Not exactly the truth. The headmistress’s main message was a proper lady relies on a man for everything, not merely heavy lifting. Well, Hannah tried to never rely on anyone for anything.
His amused expression disputed her claim. “Course you can.”
She slapped her arms across her chest, arms that ached from carrying that load, but she’d never admit as much by rubbing them. “Are you questioning that?”
“All right, then. Go ahead. Take care of yourself.” He gestured toward the trunk.
On the ground. Six feet below the bed of the wagon.
“You mean put that...in there?”
“You said you could take care of yourself.”
To admit she needed help would mean admitting defeat. She bent, the feather quivering in front of her eyes, then gripped the leather handles and heaved with all her might, releasing a decidedly unladylike grunt. And managed to budge the trunk three whole inches before she let it drop. A year in Charleston had made her soft.
“Give up?” Matt asked.
“Never.” Heat flooding her cheeks, she gritted her teeth and tried again.
“We’ll be here all day while you try to prove your point.” He bent down, grabbed the trunk as if it weighed less than the obnoxious feather on her hat and shoved it into the wagon, then stowed the rest of her bags.
“I could have done that.” She met his amused gaze. “Eventually.”
“Next time the trunk is all yours.” With a chuckle, he rounded the wagon and gave her a hand up.
His touch trapped the air in her lungs. Since when did Matt Walker affect her this way? Exhaustion had muddled her mind into mush.
He climbed up beside her. His fluid movements revealed how comfortable he was, how completely at ease. Whereas she felt thrown off balance, as if she’d stepped into somebody else’s skin with a whole set of reactions she didn’t understand. Or appreciate.
She wanted to go home, to see her father, to soak in the tub until not one speck of travel dust remained.
Home. To the cattle, to the land she loved, the limitless expanse under the Texas sky. Home. Where she’d shuck her frills and finery and don her usual garb and favorite Stetson, clothes she could move and breathe in. Home. To Papa.
With large, capable hands, Matt took the reins, then clicked to the horses. The wagon jerked forward as the horses pulled away.
Beyond the depot lay the bustling town with wagons, buggies and horses jamming the streets. After a year in Charleston, returning home was like easing into comfy boots.
Hannah removed her hat, her gaze caressing each edifice they passed. The courthouse dominated Main Street, teeming with storefronts, saloons, Bliss State Bank, Bailey’s Dry Goods, The James Hotel, the post office, the office of The Banner Weekly newspaper and two groceries. They passed the blacksmith shop, O’Hara’s livery stable, the sheriff’s office and the Calico Café, owned by the widow Shields with two rooms to let upstairs if boarders met her strict standards.
At the outskirts of town, they headed toward the ranch. No longer distracted by the racket and dust of Bliss, she turned to Matt. “Is my father well?”
Matt glanced at her, then away, staring at the horses’ rumps. Just as she decided he wouldn’t speak, he cleared his throat. “Martin’s had a rough few months. When I stopped in last night to check on him, he asked me to meet your train.”
“Check on him? Why? Isn’t Rosa there?”
“Yes, of course.” Matt shifted on the seat. “Wait to talk to him.”
“I need to know what’s wrong before I arrive.”
“He’s