The Wrong Cowboy. Lauri Robinson

       Chapter One

      August, 1884, Dakota Territory

      Stafford Burleson prided himself on a few things—he wasn’t a quitter, his cooking wasn’t all bad, he was a mighty fine carpenter and he was quick on his feet. His wits were good, too. He was known for coming up with a plan at a dead run, yet right now he found himself dumbfounded. “What?”

      “Mick’s mail-order bride is waiting for him at the hotel in Huron.” Walt Darter’s scratchy voice repeating exactly what he’d said a moment ago made about as much sense the second time around as it had the first.

      This time Stafford added a few more words to his question. “What are you talking about?” He set his cup down and dug his fingers into hair that sorely needed a good cutting. His scalp had started to tingle and he scratched at it. Eerily. “Mick didn’t order a bride.”

      “That’s not what she says.” Walt couldn’t have looked more stone-cold serious if he’d been standing before a judge and jury.

      “Who?”

      “Miss Marie Hall.” The old man’s face was sunburned from years of riding in the summer sun, and as he said her name a grin formed and his chest puffed with pride as if he’d just announced he’d found a goose that laid golden eggs.

      The woman’s name was completely unknown and Stafford pondered that. No one from Huron had been out this way for several months. Not that it was expected. The little town of Merryville had sprung up around the people who chose to stay behind when the railroad camp packed up to follow the tracks westward. There weren’t too many businesses there yet, but he and Mick now bought their supplies in Merryville. It was only a few miles north of their land, and the railroad company had promised that, when the line was done, a depot would be built in the settlement, which meant cattle could be shipped and received there. It was what he and Mick had predicted would happen when they settled on their tracts of land and formed a partnership for the Dakota Cattle Company.

      Their plan, to build one of the largest cattle operations in the north, was falling into place more smoothly than the railroad line. Although Stafford would be the first to admit—and he often did—they still had plenty of work to do before they could sit back and savor the rewards of what they’d sowed.

      Right now, they were still driving in herds every year, consisting of various breeds to ensure nothing would wipe them out. Not weather or disease. He’d brought in a hearty line of Herefords out of Texas this spring, and Mick had left a few weeks ago to go farther south, into Mexico, to purchase some of the Spanish cattle he’d read about.

      A grin tugged at Stafford’s lips. Mick must have stopped in Huron, let it be known he was heading south. “You almost had me on that one, Walt,” Stafford said, letting out a sigh. In the five years since they’d settled out here and claimed hefty shares of glorious land from the government, Mick had talked about finding a wife, especially during the long cold winters. Stafford, having had his fill of women before he left Mississippi, told Mick countless times what a bad idea that would be. He went so far as to suggest Mick heat up a rock on the cookstove if his bed was that cold, had even hauled home a few good-size stones now and again, just to keep the teasing going. Practical jokes were never far apart between the two of them. Mick was like that—a jokester.

      Half the men in the territory, including Walt, had heard Mick spout off about finding a wife, and the old jigger must be trying to carry on the joking. “So, what’s your real reason for being here?” Stafford asked, picking his cup up again. “No one rides a day and a half just to say hello.”

      The deep wrinkles in Walt’s face remained as the merriment slipped from his eyes and the grin transformed into a grimace. The kind people make when they’re delivering bad news. A chill raced up Stafford’s arm and he set his cup back down.

      “That is the reason I’m here, Stafford. There’s a woman claiming to be Mick’s bride, or soon to be, at the hotel.” Walt shook his head as if he didn’t quite believe what he was saying, either. “And she’s got a passel of kids. Six I think, but I could be wrong. I’d have brought them out,” Walt went on, after taking a sip of his coffee. “But I ain’t got a rig that big.”

      The eerie sensation was back, suggesting the man was serious, yet Stafford, as usual, stuck to his guns. “The joke’s on you, Walt,” he said. “Mick’s not here. He and a few cowhands left last month. I don’t expect them back until the snow flies, or next spring if he buys cows.”

      “Oh,” the man said, as if that was news. Bad news. Shaking his head, he added, “I ain’t trying to fool you, Stafford. There’s really a woman, and she’s really claiming to be Mick’s bride.”

      Stafford bolted out of his chair and was halfway across the room before he knew he’d moved.

      “What are you gonna do?” Walt asked.

      “What am I going to do?”

      Rubbing his stubble-covered chin, Walt appeared to be contemplating the ins and outs of the world. “Well,” he said slowly. “I suspect you could hire one of Skip Wyle’s freight wagons.”

      Growling and rubbing at his temples, Stafford silently called both Mick and Walt a few choice names. His question had been hypothetical. He didn’t need a freight wagon. Mick hadn’t been any more serious when he’d talked of marriage this time than he had been dozens of times before.

      Don’t be surprised if I come home with a wife, Mick had shouted as he’d kneed his horse out of the yard. But he said those same words practically every time he left for town. As usual, Stafford had replied that Mick had better add on to his cabin first. His partner’s reply had been the same suggestion as always. That Stafford could do that as a wedding gift, since he was the one who liked to build things.

      The sensation that came over Stafford was that of breaking through ice on a frozen lake. That had actually happened to him once, and Mick had been there to pull him out and haul him home.

      Right now he wasn’t remembering how sick he’d been afterward, how he still hated walking on frozen water. Instead, he was recalling how his parting conversation with Mick hadn’t ended as usual. This time Mick had told Stafford that he’d better hurry up, have the cabin done by the time he returned.

      “Damn,” Stafford muttered before he spun to stare at Walt who was refilling his coffee cup from the pot on the stove. Another shiver rippled down his spine. “Six kids?”

      Walt nodded.

      * * *

      Marie Hall sat on a patch of green grass in the field next to the hotel, watching Terrance and Samuel play with the dog they’d discovered begging for food last week. A stray, possibly left by someone traveling through, that’s what Mrs. Murphy, the aging woman who cooked for the restaurant and who’d saved scraps for the animal, had said.

      Marie smiled to herself, for the dog—white with brown patches—had been just the diversion the boys needed. Marie shifted her gaze to make sure Beatrice and Charlotte were still picking daisies, and then she glanced toward Charles and Weston. Never far apart, the youngest of her wards were chasing grasshoppers and mimicking them, which had Marie chuckling at their somewhat awkward leaps. The twins were only four so their coordination wasn’t the best.

      They were adorable, though. All six of the Meeker children. Strangers on the train, and here in town, had commented they all looked identical, not just Charles and Weston, and would ask how she could tell them apart. It was easy. Perhaps because she knew them so well.

      Like right now. “Charles,” she said warningly. “Do not put that in your mouth.”

      Little blue eyes surrounded by thick lashes