An Unwilling Husband Read online

  AN UNWILLING HUSBAND

  By TERA SHANLEY

  LYRICAL PRESS

  An imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

  For my little buckaroos, Olivia and William.

  Acknowledgements

  So many people contributed to this story and deserve a giant “much obliged.” Thank you to my husband, Anthony, who has supported me from day one in this crazy writing adventure, and who gives me an incredibly romantic life to draw from. To my little cowgirl, Liv, and my little cowboy, Will, for their patience with the odd hours I keep during rounds of edits. Thanks to my parents, Paul and Paula, for setting such a beautiful example of romance over decades. To Grammy, the strongest lady I know. Your years of running cattle, and taking the time to teach your grandkids about ranching gave me both inspiration and experience when tackling Maggie’s story. To Mary Murray, my lovely and at times magical editor, for helping me give this story a clean voice. And lastly, this book wouldn’t be possible without Renee Rocco and Lyrical Press taking a chance on a Wild West tale of a smart-mouthed proper lady and her unwilling husband.

  Chapter 1

  Margaret Flemming. What an intolerable name. The last name wouldn’t be so unbearable if it wasn’t directly preceded by the first. To be sure, Margaret is a fair name on other girls who are more suited to it, but for me it is a constant reminder of who I am named after. One Margaret Hall; the sole benefactor of the very wealthy William Hall and a hard soul with an acute and bitter dislike for me. She also happens to be my aunt. My mother thought naming me after her sister would increase my chances of that wealth trickling down to me, though she was absurdly wrong. What my kind and loving uncle ever saw in that woman, I fear I shall never know; but I digress. I have made a decision. Since no one will know me where I’m going, I think I shall call myself Maggie…

  The slowing of the train pulled her against the seat, and she caught the small vial of ink that slid toward her. She plugged it up, wiped the pen, blew on her journal before closing it, and placed the writing materials into the side pocket of her luggage that was packed and waiting patiently beside the small table in the compartment. She stood and smoothed the soft material of her full dress. The wide hooped skirts and cream colored bombazine dress were completely inappropriate for the dusty Wild West cattle town of Rockdale, Texas.

  The outfit wasn’t her choice. Dear Aunt Margaret had made it a last request that she wear a proper dress as she rode off to her new wanton life. And now she would undoubtedly stand out as the proverbial sore thumb in this small town. “An adventuress,” Aunt Margaret called her, though she’d used the term like a curse. Aunt Margaret’s bitterness and condemnation still stung.

  The train let out a shrill whistle and the brakes screeched loudly. The force made her brace against the nearest wall in the tiny space. She picked up her luggage as the train came to a stop, and left through the trim door. Her skirts swished and folded unbecomingly as she moved through the small doorway. No doubt she looked like a bowl of gravy being poured from the compartment. A heavyset man gave her a wide eyed look and shook his head. Maggie stifled a laugh. She had never been good at first impressions, and Rockdale would have something and someone new to talk about for at least a week until the next gossip stole their attention.

  The thought made her nervous all over again, and her smile faded as she stepped out of the train and onto the platform. Her bags were terribly heavy and she set them down beside her. All along the platform her recent train mates and their loved ones reunited with happy embraces, handshakes, and smiles. No such reunion was to be expected for her. The man she had traveled to see was unaware of her intentions to visit.

  She needed to find a coach and quickly. The mid-day sun bore down relentlessly, and she already roasted in her full skirts. A drop of perspiration raced southward between her breasts, and she sighed as she hefted her baggage. Ignoring the open mouthed stares from the crowd, she headed through the small station and congratulated herself on only being slightly flustered at their attention.

  She dropped the heavy bags with an embarrassing thud onto a wooden porch directly in front of a carriage. An older gentleman in a dusty waistcoat and full, gray beard perched on its seat. “May I bother you for a ride, sir? I can pay,” she said.

  He studied her with a slight frown. “Where you headed, miss?”

  “Roy Davis’s place. I’m a relative.” Well, close enough to a relative anyway.

  “I know Roy Davis, and I reckon I can take you to his place. I ain’t no coach though. Those only come through a few times a week right now.”

  “Oh.” How embarrassing. “Terribly sorry. I saw you waiting out here and just assumed.”

  “Nope. I’m in town pickin’ up a few things. If you’d wait a minute, I can give you that ride. It’s not too far out of my way and Roy is an old friend.”

  “Thank you. I would appreciate it.” Could she trust this man? He looked unassuming enough but one could never be too careful. Out of options, she nodded. He jumped out of the buggy and loaded her bags in the back. True to his word, the man returned shortly with two boxes of supplies. After they were off, he introduced himself as Bill Borland.

  “Maggie Flemming,” she said, only hesitating a bit as her lips formed the name. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “So you’re kin to Roy Davis?” Bill asked.

  “I’m his daughter, sir.”

  “His daughter? You don’t look nothin’ like him!”

  Bill’s surprise was sincere, and her cheeks flushed with heat as he studied her face. She knew what he was thinking. How could dark-as-an-Injun Roy Davis have a daughter with auburn hair, bright green eyes and a smattering of freckles over her fair skin?

  “I take after my mother’s side,” she lied.

  “I thought you said your name was Flemming.”

  “It is. I didn’t take Roy’s name. It’s a long story.”

  “Well, good thing we got a few hours before we get there so you have plenty of time to tell that long story of yours.”

  “A long story I don’t care to share,” she clarified.

  “Suit yourself, Miss Flemming,” Bill quipped, and was quiet.

  She may have frustrated the man, she didn’t know, nor did she pretend to understand the inner workings of men’s minds, but the last thing she needed was to unload her family’s skeletons on a stranger who would, no doubt, go gallivanting straight back to town with the gossip. She’d at least try to keep her reputation intact in this new place she was determined to call home.

  How would it be to see Roy after so long? She’d never called him Father because, biologically speaking, he wasn’t. Blood aside, though, he was the closest to a father she’d ever have in her lifetime. She hadn’t wanted to leave the caring man behind all those years ago, but Mother was a fearful creature who’d never accepted the wilderness as home. Maybe if Mother hadn’t been brought up in London Society with all the conveniences of city life, she could’ve found happiness out there.

  The leaves on the passing trees lifted lazily in the wind and sang a quiet song of homecoming. How Mother hadn’t seen the beauty of the wide openness of this place, she’d never know. Scandal did awful things to people, and Mother had endured her share of heartache. Maybe she’d had a broken heart, and that hadn’t allowed her to see the secret promise in life.

  Maggie reached out and plucked a leaf from a low hanging branch as they passed. As long as she lived, she’d never allow a man to break her like her real father had Mother. Leaving a woman like he did, without a care for giving his unborn child a name was the vilest act of dishonor a highborn man could commit. Roy, with his plain way of life and e
asygoing ideals, had been ten times the man and hadn’t even had a reason, other than he loved her and Mother. The genuine, smiling expression in his eyes still visited her fondest memories of childhood. Yes, there was something to be said about finding happiness in a simple life out here. And seeing Roy again was a start.

  She fingered the stack of letters she’d pulled from her baggage to calm her nerves. She and Roy had kept in touch by writing a few times a year. His letters were a reminder of the life she’d loved as a child and left behind. The tattered notes had always brought solace during dark times in her life, and she needed such comfort again as the buggy jerked and swerved closer to the only place she had ever considered home.

  The town had changed and grown so much in the past ten years, that she felt disconnected with it. The road to Roy’s homestead passing beneath the buggy’s wheels, however, was just as she remembered. Still rutted with pot holes so deep, they echoed, and peppered with rabbits frightened out of hiding as the shallow-bedded wagon rolled noisily by.

  When they neared the first turn off, shivers of excitement fluttered in her chest. Clusters of blooming cactus lined an unassuming dirt road leading away from the main. The turnoff signified the entrance to the Lazy S Ranch where Garret Shaw had lived when they were little. According to the updates in Roy’s letters, he didn’t live there anymore, but she peered as far as she could see across the flat landscape for him none-the-less.

  Garret. Her first and only love. Only calf love, as she had been just a child at the time, but the most she would ever feel for a boy. She still thought about him from time to time. Imagined what he looked like all grown up; what kind of man he had become. Roy had grown used to her asking about her childhood friend, and when he wrote, offered tidbits of information on him. Last she knew, he was finishing up his schooling in Georgetown, and had left his father to run the Lazy S. He hadn’t been back to visit in years.

  She squinted against the sun as they passed the Lazy S Ranch. What had he looked like? It had been so long ago for a person so young, half a lifetime. He’d had dark hair, though what color she couldn’t recall. Five years older than her, he’d been kind for accepting her younger and constant presence with minimal annoyance. Compared to her, tall, and he’d been as thin as a fence post, no matter how much his mother fed him. What had his features looked like, though? The color of his eyes? Had they been green? Her memories had blurred with time.

  The next homestead was Roy’s, and as Bill pulled the team up to the front of the house, Maggie tucked the letters into her luggage. She straightened her dress. The time had come to introduce her memories of Roy to the present day man.

  Roy’s cabin was well repaired, but showed the signs of aging. The wood wasn’t the color of new logs she remembered. The bones of the small home had grayed with age, and newer wooden shingles peppered the roof where leaks had been tended to. The porch creaked underfoot and her heart hammered as she lifted a gloved hand to knock on the frail looking door. No one answered. “Roy?” she called as she knocked again. Silence.

  Bill hopped from the buggy and sauntered around the house, yelling out Roy’s name, to no answer. “Well, he still lives here, I can promise you that. He runs cattle and he’s probably out with them, is all.” He hoisted himself onto the wagon seat and tipped his hat. “I wish you well, miss, but I’m losing daylight. That old coot won’t mind a bit if you just went on in there and made yourself at home.”

  She reached for her small coin purse. “At least let me pay you for your troubles.”

  He waved her off and slapped the reins against the backs of the two horse team. “No need.”

  “Thank you,” she sang out with a wave but if he heard her, he didn’t show it.

  When she opened the door to the cabin, a hundred memories from childhood assaulted her. Every piece of furniture seemed to be in the same place. The small oval dining table was surrounded by four ladder backed chairs and the deep slate sink that took up most of the kitchen still boasted the same old hand pump. The small bookcase had not moved from the shadow of the stone fireplace and the faded floral curtains Mother had hung lifted lazily in the breeze from the open window. Even the smell of bacon grease and yeast bread seemed familiar.

  A smile curved her lips. There, beyond the front porch and yard lay the prairie grass so tall it would tickle her waist if she had a mind to stand in it. She’d imagined this a thousand times. Home.

  She lugged her baggage inside, set it near the front door, and bit her bottom lip. A change into a dress with lighter skirts would be a relief, but it felt odd to make herself at home when Roy didn’t even know she was there. Padding around the cabin, she picked up a glass perfume bottle Mother had left behind and a folded drawing of an atrocious looking grasshopper she’d done as a child. She touched blankets, curtains, and furniture to re-familiarize herself with the place. In the mirror over the washbasin, she straightened her prim, cream-colored hat. She re-pinned a couple of curls that had come loose during the jarring trip from the train station and plopped onto one of the chairs at the dining table. Weakened with hunger and exhausted from traveling, Maggie lowered her head to her arms on the table. Her eyelids were too heavy to fight to keep open. Eventually, the hours of waiting lulled her into a fitful sleep.

  * * * *

  The door creaked open. Slam! The wall shuddered with the force of it. Maggie lurched awake to find a pistol pointed directly at her face.

  “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” the man holding the gun said in a gravelly voice.

  “Roy?” she said, still half dazed.

  The gun was pulled away and clicked loudly as the man uncocked it. A bewildered look crept over his older, yet still familiar face.

  “Magpie?” he asked.

  The old nickname warmed her. Roy had only called her that when her mother wasn’t around to scold him for not calling her Margaret. “It’s me, Roy. I’m back.”

  She stood up in time for him to give her a crushing hug. He was still as tall and gangly, but gray now streaked his dark hair and beard. His brown eyes danced as he looked her over incredulously, and the crinkles of his face deepened when he laughed.

  “What’s happened, darlin’? Where’s your mother?” Roy asked after he regained his speech.

  Deep sadness welled up inside her, and she swallowed the urge to weep to the only other person who’d understand the depth of her heartache. “She passed about six months ago. I’m sorry to have waited this long to tell you, but I couldn’t bring myself to write it in a letter.”

  He was quiet, gazing vacantly somewhere beyond her, then said, “Is that why you’ve come? To tell me your mother has passed?”

  “I’ve come to stay, Roy.”

  “To stay?” He let go of her shoulders and took a step back. “What about your kinfolk?”

  “You mean Aunt Margaret, I suppose. I can’t go back to Boston. Not now, not ever. Boston was never my home, no matter how I tried to make it so. This is the only place I have ever belonged.”

  “It’s not safe for you here. This town just got the railway in. It stops here now, but sooner or later they’ll work to continue it. There will be teams of rough men out here. And ranchers from all around drive their cattle here and blow off steam in town. Half the danged town is saloons now. Things have changed since you left.” Roy shook his head. The look in his eyes pleaded with her to understand. “You look fair proper now, Margaret. You’ve built a life in Boston. Best you not ruin that by staying here.”

  “It’s Maggie now,” she said, tears stinging her eyes at the rejection. “I can’t go back to Boston. I can’t hear that I’m plain, or lazy, or unwanted, or a bastard child, or a thorn in the family’s name anymore. I’ll take my chances here, where I have a fraction of a hope at happiness.”

  Roy heaved a sigh. “I don’t think this is the place for a lady such as yourself, but I’d be mighty disappointed to see you leave again. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”

  Hoofbeats ech
oed off the hard packed ground outside. Roy cocked the pistol and opened the door, and she trailed him. Three figures charged the yard on horseback, riding as if they were melded to their mounts as one being. Stunning. Their thunderous entrance made a gray gelding tied to the post out front pull unsuccessfully against his knotted reins. After Roy got a good look at the threesome, he holstered his weapon and waved. The trio came to a stop in front of the porch and the leader tipped his hat to Roy.

  He was beautiful, though she had never before coined that term for a man as masculine a creature as he. The man had shoulder length, dark brown hair under his hat and short, dark stubble on his jaw. Tall and trim, he had piercing blue eyes that seemed to bore into her very soul. They didn’t make them like that in the city. Her heart pounded when his gaze swung to her and drank in her dress, face, hair and hat.

  His horse was still fidgety from the run, sidestepping. The man tilted his head toward a corral filled with cattle and addressed Roy. “Those the ones you’re driving into town?”

  Roy nodded. “Yep, sure are. You drivin’ some too? I heard the prices are decent right now.”

  “Yes, sir. Day after tomorrow. We only have eight hundred head so I figured we could take yours up too, if you want. Tell me how many you have and I’ll get you the money after we get back. Save you the trouble.”

  “Mighty kind of you. I’d appreciate that.”

  She was staring. Indeed, hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him long enough to notice the other two riders. Now he glared at her with a flash of annoyance.

  Roy glanced at her and cleared his throat. “This is—”

  “Maggie Flemming,” she said, smiling broadly.

  The man waited a half second too long to be polite. “Garret Shaw. Come on, Roy. Let’s go take a look at the cattle we’re taking.”

  Then he rode off around the side of the house. Her heart pounded in her chest and ears to the rhythm of the receding hoofbeats. Garret Shaw. Bloody hell, the man was her childhood friend.