Miss Murray On The Cattle Trail
A cattle drive is no place for a greenhorn
But this city miss is here for the ride!
Cowboy Zachariah Strickland should put Alexandra Murray on the first eastbound train home. But he has no choice except to take her on his cattle trail. She hasn’t ridden a horse to death, or shot anybody, but she does drive him furious with longing... Is it possible Alex belongs right here in the Wild West—with Zach?
“[A] delightful and passionate western romance... Romance fans will enjoy the fast pace and nonstop action.”
—RT Book Reviews on Her Sheriff Bodyguard
“Charming, heartwarming and tender.”
—RT Book Reviews on Western Spring Weddings
LYNNA BANNING combines her lifelong love of history and literature in a satisfying career as a writer. Born in Oregon, she graduated from Scripps College and embarked on a career as an editor and technical writer and later as a high school English teacher. She enjoys hearing from her readers. You may write to her directly at PO Box 324, Felton, CA 95018, USA, email her at carowoolston@att.net or visit Lynna’s website at lynnabanning.net.
Also by Lynna Banning
The Lone Sheriff
Wild West Christmas
Dreaming of a Western Christmas
Smoke River Family
Western Spring Weddings
Printer in Petticoats
Her Sheriff Bodyguard
Baby on the Oregon Trail
Western Christmas Brides
The Hired Man
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
Miss Murray on the Cattle Trail
Lynna Banning
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-474-07352-3
MISS MURRAY ON THE CATTLE TRAIL
© 2018 The Woolston Family Trust
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk
For my dear and admired friend Shirley Marcus
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Extract
Chapter One
Smoke River, Oregon, 1871
He knew something was wrong the minute he stepped up onto the front porch. For one thing, Charlie was rocking away in the lawn swing with a big grin on his lined face. And for another, Alice, the ranch owner’s wife sitting beside him, wasn’t.
“Been waitin’ for ya,” Charlie drawled.
“Yeah? Not late, am I?” Maybe that was why Alice’s heart-shaped face looked so set, but Zach discarded that thought right away. When Alice Kingman was displeased about something, she didn’t waste time looking dour; she bared her nails and lit right into your hide.
“All the hands are inside, Zach. And they’re damn hungry,” Charlie added.
Alice stopped the swing with her foot and rose in such a ladylike motion for a woman climbing up on her forties that it brought a chuckle to Zach’s throat. Alice was pure female, and in her blue denim skirt and ruffly red-check blouse she looked good enough to eat.
Charlie slapped him on the back. “Come on, Zach. Consuelo’s fried chicken is getting cold.”
Alice disappeared through the screen door, and Charlie draped a heavy arm across Zach’s shoulders. “Got somethin’ I want to show ya.”
All Zach’s senses went on alert. The last time Charlie had had something to show him, Zach had limped for three days after the boss’s new stud horse threw him.
“It’s not a horse, is it?”
“Heck, no,” Charlie spluttered. “Cain’t invite a horse to Sunday dinner, can I?”
So it was a someone, not a something the boss was showing off. Someones got invited to Sunday dinner at the ranch house, along with Zach and the Rocking K ranch hands.
In the dining room, Zach stood between slim, dark-skinned José and Roberto, an older, slightly overweight man with a salt-and-pepper mustache, and waited for Alice to seat herself. He eyed the vacant chair across from him. Okay, boss, we’re here. So where’s the someone?
He heard the rustle of petticoats behind him and caught a whiff of something that smelled like lilacs. Oh, no, not Alice’s Great-Aunt Hortense! Hell’s bells, Roberto had put her on the train for San Francisco scarcely a month ago, and...
Zach swallowed hard and the other hands stiffened to attention, waiting for Aunt Hortense’s entrance.
But it wasn’t Aunt Hortense.
A young woman so pretty it made him swallow hard glided across the room and sat down next to Roberto’s nephew, Juan. The young Mexican’s blush turned the tips of his ears red.
Everyone dropped onto their chairs like boneless sandbags and Zach slid into his upholstered seat and waited. No one said a word. Finally, Alice signaled Consuelo and the meal got under way.
“Boys,” Charlie announced, snagging a drumstick off the platter the cook offered, “say howdy to Miss Murray.”
A rumble of respectful male voices rose. Then another long silence fell.
“Miss Murray is visiting from Chicago,” Alice said, thin lipped. She split a biscuit with a stab of her knife.
“Welcome, Señorita Murray,” Roberto offered. The older man had civilized manners; his nephew also knew what to do, but he was real young and not as polished as Roberto.
“Ees an honor, señorita,” Juan said with an even deeper blush.
Miss Murray smiled across the table. “Why, thank you, gentlemen.”
Charlie took over the introductions. “On your left is Juan Tapia, and to your right is Skip Billings. Across the table is José Moreno, Zach Strickland and Jase Snell. Zach’s the trail boss for the cattle drive.”
Miss Murray inclined her head. “Gentlemen,” she said again.
Man, oh, man, her hair was something else, dark as blackstrap molasses and so soft-looking that Zach curled his fingers into fists.
What was Charlie’s game here? He thought it over while platters of mashed potatoes and green beans were handed around the table. A prettier girl he hadn’t seen in too many years to count, but Charlie knew Zach wasn’t interested in romancing a female ever again, so what did Charlie want to show him?
Before Zach picked up his fork, Charlie dropped a hint.
“You boys still readin’ those newspaper stories from back East?”
“Sure, boss,” Jase volunteered. “Got ’em all pinned up on the bunkhouse wall.”
“Can’t hardly wait for the next one,” Skip added. “Best da—uh, darn horse-racin’ stories I ever read.”
Zach drove his fork into the pile of mashed potatoes on his plate. So that was it. This Murray woman was somehow related to A. Davis Murray, the newspaper reporter whose stories the hands devoured each week. His daughter, maybe? Or...his gut tightened...his wife? Who was she, exactly? And what was she doing sitting all pink and white at Sunday dinner at the Rocking K ranch house?
The hands couldn’t stop jabbering about A. Davis Murray’s horse-racing stories, and Miss Whoever-She-Was Murray looked mighty interested. More than interested. She was hanging on every word and her eyes... Oh, those eyes. Blue as desert lupines. Anyway, they sparkled like they’d been polished.
Zach caught Charlie’s eye and quirked one eyebrow.
“More chicken?” Charlie asked, his voice bland.
Zach shot a glance at Alice at the opposite end of the long walnut table and lowered his eyebrows into a frown. Alice looked madder than a wet cat, and that was a real puzzler. Alice never got mad about anything—not Skip’s rough table manners or Consuelo’s constant nattering about her dwindling supply of coffee beans, not even the time Charlie forgot her birthday.
But for darn sure she was mad today, and Zach figured it had something to do with pretty Miss Murray.
But Charlie always took his own sweet time about things, and this afternoon was no exception. Finally, finally, the owner of the Rocking K swallowed his last bite of strawberry shortcake, groaned like a contented heifer and rapped on his coffee cup for attention.
“Well, boys, today I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Jase’s scraggly blond head came up. “Yeah?”
“What if I told you...” Charlie paused dramatically and Alice rolled her eyes “...that Miss Murray’s first name is Alexandra.”
“What if ya did, boss?” Jase said. “Fancy name, but it don’t ring no bells for me.” Jase’s grammar stopped at the fourth grade.
“Doesn’t ring any bells,” Consuelo hissed as she circled with her coffeepot. “You set a bad example for my José.”
José ducked his head.
“I mean,” Charlie continued, “what if her name was Alexandra Davis Murray?”
“She is marry to the newspaper man?” Juan guessed.
Charlie gulped a swallow of coffee. “Nah. She is the newspaperman. Or, rather, newspaperwoman. This here lady is A. Davis Murray.”
“Ees not possible,” José protested.
Zach stared across the table at Miss Murray. Miss Alexandra Davis Murray. José was dead right, it wasn’t possible. Just what kind of game was Charlie playing?
Miss Alexandra Murray sent Zach an apologetic smile. “It’s true,” she said. “I write newspaper articles for the Chicago Times.”
Skip gaped at her. “You write about all them horse races?”
“I do.” She looked around the table at each of the ranch hands in turn until she came to Alice, who was still tight-jawed. “Aunt Alice doesn’t approve, obviously. But I like horse races. And I like writing about them.”
“Jehoshaphat,” Jase breathed.
“Madre mia,” José muttered.
Zach wanted to laugh. The thought of this soft, ruffly female tramping around a horse stable made his lips twitch.
Then they were all talking at once. During the hubbub, Charlie leaned forward and addressed Zach. “I want to talk to you,” he intoned. “In private.” He heaved his bulky frame out of the chair and led the way to his office across the hallway.
“Whiskey?” he asked when he’d shut the heavy oak door.
“No, thanks. Gotta ride out at first light.”
Charlie pushed the cut-glass decanter across his desk toward him anyway. “I’d change my mind if I was you, Zach.”
Without another word, he filled two glasses.
“Spit it out, Charlie, what’s up?”
His boss touched his glass to Zach’s and tossed back the contents. “Kinda hard to come right out and tell you, son.”
Uh-oh. Charlie only called him “son” when bad news was coming. Zach swigged down half his whiskey. “Let’s have it, Charlie. Like I said, I’ve got an early get-up tomorrow.”
“Well, Zach, it’s like this. It’s true that Alexandra is a newspaper reporter.”
“You already said that. Or somebody did. Anyway, I know that.”
“Yeah, well. See, her newspaper, the Chicago Times, wants her to do a story about a cattle drive.”
Zach slapped his empty glass onto the desk. “No.”
“I understand how you feel, Zach, but you see the answer’s gotta be yes.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Charlie just nodded. “Yeah, it does.”
“Why?” Zach demanded. “Why does she pick this ranch? Tell her to choose another cattle drive.”
“Can’t.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Because.” He refilled his glass. “Because not only is Alexandra a newspaper reporter, she is, uh, as you’ve no doubt realized, my niece. Her mama is Alice’s sister.”
Zach said nothing for a long minute. “So?” he inquired at last.
“So,” Charlie said, “she wants to—”
“No,” Zach repeated.
Charlie reached for the whiskey decanter. “You want to keep your job, don’tcha, son?”
Damn, he hated to be threatened, especially by the man who had his financial ass under his boot heel. Zach sighed and refilled his glass.
“Well, hell, Charlie, can she ride?”
Chapter Two
Aunt Alice settled on the edge of Alex’s bed. Her aunt hadn’t lit the lamp, but the moonlight streaming through the multipaned window illuminated her usually serene face, which at this moment looked pinched.
“Alex, you simply cannot go through with this. Surely you—”
“Stop!” Slowly Alex pushed up on one elbow. “Aunt Alice, you don’t understand. My newspaper editor came up with the idea. He is very insistent.”
“But a cattle drive! Women just don’t go on cattle drives.”
“I know. It’s a far cry from my stories on horse racing. It’s a far cry from anything I thought I’d ever, ever do. But my editor pays my salary, and he is adamant.”
“Oh, Alex, why?”
“Back East people are mad for stories about the wild, untamed West.”
“I feel responsible for you,” her aunt said. “And a cattle drive is dangerous.”
“I don’t have a choice, Aunt.”
Alice snorted. “Of course you have a choice. Just tell your editor no.”
“I can’t. If I refuse, he’ll fire me, and I’ve worked too hard to risk losing my job. Eight long, grinding years I’ve spent working my way up from the proofreading desk to being a top reporter. I’m the only woman on the entire staff, and I won’t give it up. I can’t.”
Alex bit her lip and smoothed a crease in the top sheet over and over. Why, why did her job depend on the harebrained idea of a newspaper editor who’d never traveled west of his favorite restaurant?
Alice sighed. “Your mother would never allow this.”
Alex flung back the sheet and sat up. “Aunt Alice, my mother is dead.”
“Yes,” Alice said quietly. “I know. And you’re just like her. Bright. Beautiful. And...” her voice tightened “...bullheaded.”
Alex slid her arms about her aunt’s rigid form. “Mama always said you were the bullheaded one.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Alice snapped.
“Aunt Alice, you can’t stop me. You can’t keep me from holding on to my career as a newspaper reporter.”
“Oh, I know, honey. I just wish you’d—”
“Settle down and get married,” Alex finished. “That’s what Mama always wanted, too. But I’m twenty-six. On the shelf.”
Alice shook her head and blew out a sigh. “You will be careful, won’t you? At least try to?”
“Of course I will. Uncle Charlie says Zach Strickland’s the best trail boss in three states. I’ll be in good hands.”
Her aunt let out a long sigh and said nothing.
* * *
Zach stuffed his thumbs in his front pockets and watched Miss Newspaper Reporter trip down the porch steps ready to go cattle driving. She looked so bright and shiny it made his head hurt. And, Lord love little chickens, what her butt did to a pair of jeans was indecent.
“Good morning!” she sang.
“Mornin’,” he growled. “Got a lot of miles to cover today. Sure hope you can ride.”
“Why, certainly I can ride.” She rested her hands on her shiny new belt buckle.
“Yeah? Where’ve you ridden?”
“In the city park,” she said, her voice frosty. “On the bridle path.”
Zach resisted a snort, looked her up and down and unhooked his thumbs. “Those your ridin’ boots?”
She glanced down at the stylish, neatly laced leather boots. “Yes. What’s wrong with them? I bought them in Chicago and—”
“They won’t work.”
She propped her hands on her hips and peered more closely at her feet. “Well, if it’s not too much trouble, Mister Knows Everything, would you mind telling me what’s wrong with them?”
He spit off to one side. “You won’t last half an hour in those fancy city leathers. Brand new and probably too tight. Go ask Alice for a pair of her old riding boots.”
For a moment, Miss Newspaper Reporter looked like she was going to argue, but he stared her down. Finally, she pivoted, stomped back up the porch steps and slammed through the front door.
Hell’s bells, she was a greenhorn. A ladyfied greenhorn, and one with a mouth on her. Charlie had just used up his last favor.
When Miss Fancy-Pants reappeared, she wore a pair of Alice’s well-worn riding boots and a sour look. Zach expelled a long breath and tipped his head toward the corral.
“Saddle up.”
“Oh, yes, sir, Mister Trail Boss.”
His jaw tightened. Gonna be a damn long day.
* * *
Alex snapped open her leather-bound notebook and jotted half a line before the chuck wagon rolled into position at the head of the muddle of cows and horses and riders. Her horse jolted forward. She stuffed her pencil in her shirt pocket and grabbed the reins, but the horse danced a few paces to the left before it settled down. She’d never before ridden anything but old, gentle, city-trained mares, and this horse was neither old nor gentle. Or a mare, she’d been told. In fact, she’d never been this close to a horse that had been...well, gelded.
At least forty horses milled around in a whinnying clump, and she counted seven, no, eight scruffy-looking cowboys, not including the horse wrangler and His Highness the Trail Boss.
And hundreds and hundreds of cows. Steers, Uncle Charlie said. Surely they couldn’t all be steers, because some of them had calves tagging along behind.
She flexed her toes in Aunt Alice’s boots. Her aunt had said they were well broken in, but they still felt awfully tight. She was glad she was riding and not walking the four hundred miles that stretched ahead of her.
The chuck wagon, a bulky-looking top-heavy box on wheels, rattled and clanked its way on ahead of the roiling mass of animals and men on horseback. She watched Roberto, the driver, stash his whip under the bench, put two fingers to his lips and give a sharp whistle. Right away she decided she liked the white-haired old man. The wagon lumbered off down the trail, drawn by two horses.
Bellowing cattle, yipping men on horseback and the thunder of horses’ hooves added to the hubbub. It was deafening. She clapped both hands over her ears and lost control of her mount. A rider swung in close, grabbed her reins and settled the horse. Juan, Roberto’s soft-spoken nephew. He laid the leather straps in her gloved hand, touched his hat brim and reined his horse away.
Dust rose in thick clouds. She had just kneed her horse off to one side when Juan dropped back and shouted something. She couldn’t hear over the noise, so she tried to read his lips. “Señorita.” He mouthed something else, but she had no idea what it was.
She shook her head. He pointed at the bandanna covering his mouth and nose. Oh! Of course. But she didn’t have a bandanna. Oh, well. She smiled at Juan, lifted her chin, and spurred her mount forward.
She was on her way!
It was all fascinating. So this was how people in places like Philadelphia and New York got their meat, a thousand bawling cows lumbering after one old seasoned bull called a “bell steer” because of the clanging bell hung around its neck. They would all end in some rough, dirty railroad town in Nevada with the Indian-sounding name of Winnemucca, where the cowboys would load them up in cattle cars that would end up two thousand miles farther east in slaughterhouses in Chicago.
Just imagine! Right before her eyes were thousands and thousands of thick juicy steaks on the hoof. People back East would be avid for these sights and sounds. She patted the notepad and pencil in her breast pocket. She knew her readers would gobble up each delicious detail of this adventure.
* * *
They were three hours out, and whenever he could manage it, Zach pried his eyes off the herd and glanced back at Miss Murray. She lagged way behind, a good forty yards in back of Skip, who was riding drag, and she was fighting through thick clouds of dust. She’d pulled her wide-brimmed black hat down so far it almost covered her ears, but hell, she couldn’t see what was three feet ahead of her.
He winced in spite of himself. Anybody joining a drive for the first time always rode drag behind the herd, the dustiest position there was. She wasn’t complaining. Yet. He knew she must be hot and more miserable than she’d ever been in her pampered little life, and a small part of him felt just a tad sorry for her. An even larger part was making bets on how long she’d last before she’d turn tail for the Rocking K and a hot bath.
Maybe he should... Nah. Let her suffer. Teach her a lesson.
Juan trotted up on his sorrel and signaled that he wanted to talk.
“What’s up?” Zach yelled over the lowing steers.
“The señorita, she has no...” he swept a thumb and forefinger across his face “...Panuelo.”