The Bride Wore Spurs - Janet Dean Mills & Boon Love Inspired Historical

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is going to flip Hannah’s world upside down. She can’t keep the ranch,” Martin said, his tone weary. “I’ve got to make her understand that her future is in Charleston.”

      Martin spoke the truth. Yet that truth hurt Martin and would hurt his daughter.

      “I let that girl run wild.” A smile lifted the grim line of Martin’s lips. “Can’t wait to see the change in her.”

      Tomboy turned debutante would please Martin. “If you have everything you need, I’ll be on my way.”

      “Thanks for picking Hannah up at the depot.” Martin’s gaze dropped to his hands. “Appreciate it if you and your folks kept silent about my troubles. I aim to give my daughter a happy homecoming.”

      “Of course. You can count on us to—”

      The sound of shoes clicking on the floorboards cut off Matt’s words, then halted outside the open door.

      “Papa!” With a smile riding her face, Hannah rushed to where Martin sat, the late afternoon sunlight putting him in silhouette. As she reached him, her smile vanished. Wide-eyed, she gaped at Martin. Shock was on her face at seeing her once robust father a shell of his former self, a frail man, his face etched with lines, his skin an unhealthy gray.

      “Hannah, dear, I’ve been waiting all afternoon for my daughter’s kiss.”

      She leaned down, kissed his cheek then stepped back, plopping hands on hips. “You’re too thin. Are you ill? Are you eating properly?”

      “Been ill. Feeling much better now that you’re home. You need to change for dinner. The Walkers will be joining us.”

      Stormy blue eyes flashed Matt’s way then turned back to Martin. “Of course. I’ll wear one of my new dresses and relay all the news from Charleston.”

      “That’s my girl.”

      “I’ll see you later, Papa. Rest, okay?”

      She pressed a kiss to Martin’s forehead then strode to the door, grabbing Matt’s arm and hauling him with her.

      “See you tonight,” Matt said over his shoulder.

      As the door clicked shut, Hannah whirled on him. “What’s going on with my father?” she said in a harsh, hoarse whisper.

      “He told you. He’s been ill.”

      “That doesn’t tell me anything! Ill with what?”

      With a shrug and sealed lips, he met her gaze. He wouldn’t betray Martin’s confidence.

      Her eyes narrowed, latching on to him like a terrier to a bone. “Who’s running this ranch?”

      “I am.”

      “The Lazy P belongs to us. You have your own ranch.”

      “I’m only helping out.”

      “That was nice of you, but he has me now.”

      Matt fought to keep a straight face. “You?”

      “You think I’m nothing more than a debutante.” She poked him in the chest, her dainty forefinger carrying a surprising wallop. “I’m what I’ve always been, Matt Walker. A rancher.”

      “That’s absurd. The sooner you realize you have no business running the ranch, the better.”

      “The sooner you realize what I do is none of your business, the better,” she said, then stormed off.

      A young, inexperienced female boss was about as welcome to cowpokes as a rattler in the bunkhouse. How long before Hannah learned that truth the hard way?

      Chapter Two

      A nuisance stood on the Parrish threshold. Or so Hannah tried to tell herself. Taller than her by several inches, Matt’s dark mesmerizing eyes locked with hers.

      “Evening,” he said as he stepped inside.

      He looked far too appealing, even chivalrous as he swept off his black beaver Stetson, giving access to his features. Pressed flat on the sides from the pressure of the headband, his hair curled around his nape. His full lips and long lashes would make most women envious.

      The deep tan of Matt’s face and arms were in sharp contrast to the white cotton shirt beneath his leather vest. Open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves, the snowy fabric revealed dark curly hair on his forearms.

      Before she could gather her wits and take his hat, he’d hung his Stetson on the hall tree, obviously very much at home. He’d admitted running the ranch. Give the man his head and he’d encroach on every facet of their lives.

      She pasted on a smile, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, and glided across the foyer with a ramrod carriage even the persnickety headmistress in Charleston would approve of.

      Inside the dining room, candlelight flickered, shimmering in the high gloss of the tabletop. The silver serving pieces, possessions her mother had brought west, looked out of place in the rustic room’s whitewashed walls and dark beamed ceiling.

      At the table, Matt’s parents sat talking to her father. Papa looked even more frail beside the Walkers.

      Robert Walker’s hair might be streaked with silver, but he possessed the same broad shoulders and dark brown eyes as his son, no doubt the picture of how Matt would look when he aged.

      Were father and son preparing to acquire the Lazy P?

      Ashamed of her suspicion, Hannah cringed. Just because Matt helped on the ranch, like any good neighbor would, didn’t make him underhanded.

      Victoria Walker, tall, big-boned and pretty with soft blue eyes and silvery hair, wrapped Hannah in a hug. A strong woman with a contagious laugh and good heart, Victoria could have a sharp tongue. Or so Hannah had heard. A trait that had surely come in handy raising three ornery sons, one son in particular.

      Wrapped in a clean apron, Rosa waited, ready to serve from a table laden with steaming platters and bowls emitting enticing aromas. “The food looks and smells wonderful, Rosa. Thank you.”

      “I cook your favorites, Hannah.”

      Once they’d taken seats, Papa said grace. Everyone sampled the food—steak, corn pone, mashed potatoes and gravy—and declared every bite delicious. Smiling, Rosa returned to the kitchen.

      “A father couldn’t be more proud of a daughter than I am of you, Hannah.”

      “You’re a wonderful father.”

      Papa cleared his throat. “A picture of your mother, you possess not only her beauty but her spirit.”

      Fleeting flashes of gentle hands, a loving smile, a nine-year-old girl’s memories of her mother. The portrait hanging over the fireplace mantel a reminder that Melanie Parrish had been a lovely woman. “Thank you, Papa.”

      “Martin’s right,” Victoria declared as she buttered a bite of cornbread. “For an instant earlier, I thought I was seeing Melanie. Gave me quite a start, too.”

      “Hannah wasn’t eager to go to Charleston, but I wanted her to visit the city where her mother and I fell in love.” Papa smiled. “High time she got acquainted with her mama’s kin, too.”

      Finishing school wouldn’t help her work a ranch, but Papa had been insistent, as unbending as steel.

      “Growing up surrounded by cowhands and cattle wasn’t fair to you, Daughter. I wanted to give you the social graces your mother would’ve taught you had she lived.”

      Etiquette might mend fences, but not the sort made of barbed wire. Still, Papa had good intentions, always thought of her first. Hannah squeezed his hand.

      “So, Daughter, tell the Walkers about Charleston.”

      “The city’s beautiful. The grand piazzas

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