Dance with the Rancher

Colorado, 1879

Jilted once, Garret McCoy has sworn never to fall in love again. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting to have a little fun, and he bets he can be the man to get the preacher’s shy daughter out on the dance floor. He never gambled on her stealing his heart, though!

Rory Boyle has kept to herself, fearful if the townsfolk learn her secret, she’ll be an outcast. But she can’t resist taking a turn with the handsome but ornery Garret. Or giving in to his kisses...

Dance with the Rancher

Lauri Robinson

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Stetsons and Scandals!

Rancher Garret McCoy rarely takes off his Stetson, and Rory Boyle, well, her entire life has been a scandal. One she doesn’t want exposed.

At his daughter’s wedding, my brother did get me on the dance floor, and that night, long after the reception ended and I was dozing off to sleep, the fun of the night swirled into a story. How would a woman feel when she discovers a man only danced with her to win a bet? Of course, one dance always leads to a next, and that’s what happens for Rory and Garret.

Stories are like that. It doesn’t take much more than a flicker of a thought to spark into a fire that soon catches air and grows. I love those initial flickers. No, they don’t all become stories, but I’m glad Garret and Rory’s did.

If you enjoy their story, the other book of the Stetsons and Scandals miniseries is Rescued by the Ranger, where you’ll meet Texas Ranger Trace Edwards and Annie, his brother’s wife.

Blessings,

Lauri

Dedication

To my younger brother, Jeff, who bet he could get me on the dance floor.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Copyright

Chapter One

Eastern Colorado, 1879

Old Chester Franks, stomping one foot against the wagon bed as he drew the bow across the strings of his fiddle, filled Grady Campbell’s barn with a tune that had folks tapping toes and clapping hands.

Garret McCoy tipped back the brim of his hat, taking in the women dressed in ruffles and bows and men in suit coats and string ties. He had on a string tie, too, though he’d rather not have. He’d have much preferred to be home, spending the evening in the bunkhouse listening to Art and Sam reminisce about the old days and playing cards.

Being the dutiful son didn’t allow such luxuries. Ma needed him, so he’d sent his younger brothers, Toby and Jeb, to drive the herd to the rail station in Dodge. He’d be here until the wee hours of the morning, when he’d pull out the wagon being used as a stage, clean up the party debris and help Grady get his critters back in their stalls.

There was no sense regretting it, but he sure didn’t have to enjoy it.

“Hey, McCoy!”

Garret turned toward the speaker in no rush. Craig DeLong always had something to say, and most of it wasn’t worth listening to.

“You want in on the bet?” DeLong asked.

Letting the question settle as his gaze wandered the inside of the barn again, Garret pushed off the frame of the open doorway and meandered his way toward the hay bundles someone had fashioned into a table and benches—complete with a red-checkered tablecloth to keep the cards from getting stuck in the hay—beside the barn. “What’s the game?” he asked, nodding toward Ray Ray Jepson.

Shuffling the deck as if he was on one of the paddleboats he bragged about gambling on before losing one eye when a game got out of hand, Jepson said, “We ain’t started playing cards yet. We’re betting on who can get Rory Boyle on the dance floor.”

Garret did his best to hide the sudden chill that stabbed his spine like a sharpened spur. “Why?”

“Uh?” DeLong looked utterly confused, as did several others sitting on the bundles.

“Why would anyone want to get Rory Boyle on the dance floor?” Garret asked.

“‘Cause she’s the prettiest gal at the dance,” DeLong answered. “Mayhap, the county.”

“All that yellow hair and those blue eyes—I’ve only seen a few prettier in all my years of riverboat gambling,” Ray Ray said, nodding as if that bit of information was of high importance.

It wasn’t. What was important, to Garret, was the fact Rory Boyle was the reason he was at Grady Campbell’s barn dance instead of on a profit-making cattle drive. She’d convinced his mother he should be the one to stay home this time. That Toby and Jeb needed to learn to handle the drives by themselves. His brothers could handle the drives, all right; there wasn’t a McCoy who couldn’t handle anything thrown at them, and it wasn’t Rory Boyle’s place to stick her nose in and say boo about any of it. Every day that went by, she got more uppity, waiting on Jim Houston to return. Half the town had figured out it wasn’t going to happen—Jim coming back, that is. He’d always been a scalawag, a blowhard not worth the time of day.

The thought of another girl waiting for her beau to return filtered into the back of Garret’s mind, but he slammed that door shut. He was not Jim Houston, and Emily Rosengren was not Rory Boyle.

“You all turning suicidal?” Garret asked the group. “Rory Boyle is none too fond of men.”

“We know that,” Ray Ray said. “That’s what makes it a challenge. You in?”

Garret tried to tell himself he wasn’t the least bit interested, but damn if he wasn’t. He’d be at this blasted party until it ended, and entering the bet would give him something to do. Irritate Rory. The opportunity to bend that snooty little nose out of shape may not come up again. “How much is the ante?” he asked, digging in his pocket.

“Ten dollars,” DeLong said.

“Ten dollars?” Garret repeated. “That’s awfully steep.”

“The high ante means only serious bidders will play,” Ray Ray said. “Of course, if no one wins, everyone will get their money back, minus my holding fee.”

“Holding fee?” Garret asked, more to himself in simple disbelief. It never failed to amaze him how some men made money.

“Fifteen percent,” Ray Ray said. “Someone needs to assure the hundred and fifty dollars remains safe.”

“A hundred and fifty dollars?” Garret asked. No doubt there were a few men in town who’d ante up ten bucks to be the one to lead Rory Boyle across the dance floor. DeLong had been right calling her the prettiest thing in the county. There might not be another woman in the state as cute as her, especially when her dimples showed. He’d admit that. It was her demeanor that got to him. “You already have fifteen men striving to get Rory on the dance floor?”

“You’d be the fifteenth one,” DeLong said. “But the Rose brothers haven’t arrived yet.”

“We believe the kitty will be two hundred,” Ray Ray said.

“Two hundred bucks and all I have to do is make Rory Boyle dance with me?” Garret asked for clarification.

“Yeah,” DeLong answered.

“Well, you can’t hold a gun to her head or anything like that, Garret,” Ray Ray added seriously.

Garret slapped his money on the table, but as Ray Ray reached for it, he flatted his hand over the bills. “You’ll be here after the dance, to pay me.”

“Right here.” The man patted the red-checked tablecloth. “I don’t plan on leaving all evening.”

“And I don’t plan on it taking me long,” Garret said. Dang if life didn’t seem a whole lot brighter than it had just moments ago. This was going to be the easiest 200 bucks he ever made. Well, 170 once Ray Ray took out his 15 percent.

* * *

Any words she might have hoped to say dried up in Rory Boyle’s throat as a sudden burst of perspiration left her skin clammy. Drawing a breath through her nose, she finished filling the cup in her hand with fruit punch and then set it on the table with several others.

It would help if Garret McCoy didn’t look as if he could charm a baby bird out of its nest, standing there in his bleached white shirt and shiny black string tie, grinning. Too good-looking for his own good, that was what he was and that, too, frazzled her in ways she’d never been frazzled before.

Rory took another breath, held it deep in her lungs in order to say as evenly as possible, “Hello, Mr. McCoy. Would you care for some punch?”

“Nope.”

That didn’t surprise her. Garret was not a punch-drinking kind of man. Taking swigs off the bottles being passed behind Grady Campbell’s barn was more his style.

Through gritted teeth—trying to uphold her preacher’s daughter’s persona—Rory suggested, “Perhaps you’d care for some pie, then.” She waved to the table next to the punch one she was in charge of. “There are several flavors.”

“Nope,” he said again.

His green eyes held a touch of silver, like the undersides of oak leaves when they curl up to signal a rainstorm, and his dark hair always made her think of fresh-ground coffee beans with all its different shades of brown. Snapping her chin up, Rory told herself he was simply a man. Yet she couldn’t help but admit he was the man that made what happened with Jim Houston all the more infuriating. Your past never goes away, and always impacts the future. That was what her mother had said. Until some months ago, Rory had hoped that wouldn’t be true for her. She knew better now.

The smile she forced to remain on her lips hurt. “Well, then, would you mind moving? There are people behind you who would like punch and pie.”

He took a single step, taking himself out of the line, but how he leaned with one hand on the edge of her table showed he had no intent of leaving. The chill those green eyes cast over her skin also told her he was still furious with her. Which wasn’t new. Garret McCoy had been mad at her for most of the past year. Ever since his mother had hired her to assist with personal things. Rory didn’t believe it was necessarily the assistance Garret minded or the money his mother paid her but the suggestions she continuously voiced. Sons or not, the three McCoys, Garret, Jeb and Toby, were grown men and needed to accept their mother, Abigail, couldn’t do everything she used to do.

Of course, none of the boys had witnessed what she had last summer at the church picnic, and she’d promised Abigail McCoy she’d never tell anyone—other than Dr. Richardson—about the episode. The man kept a close eye on Abigail, as well.

“Here you go.” Rory handed Francis McMillan a cup of punch. “Please return the cup so I can wash and refill it.”

“I will, Miss Boyle,” the young man with continually smudged glasses said. “Thank you.”

A grunt from Garret said he’d noticed Francis’s bright cheeks as much as she had, but Rory chose to ignore him as she continued to hand out punch.

When the long line ended—momentarily since the music had started up again—Garret asked, “Isn’t there anyone to relieve you? Or wash those cups that keep piling up?”

“No.”

“What if you want to dance?”

She cast him a look that clearly stated how she felt about dancing before spinning to dip four used cups in soapy water, then rinsing them in a second tub. A part of her wished she wasn’t stuck behind the punch bowl, but it was better for the town to believe she was pining for Jim Houston. It would help if Garret McCoy wasn’t as pesky as a mouse in the pantry: no matter how much they were ignored, neither would go away on his own.

Lifting a brow, Garret asked, “Why don’t you have any help?”

“Because I don’t need any help.” Pretending his presence didn’t bother her, Rory went right on washing, rinsing and drying cups. Once that was done, she refilled the punch bowl, preparing for the dancers that would descend upon her table as soon as Chester Franks set down his fiddle. The Virginia reel he was playing had her feet aching to slide across the dance floor. Even before Jim, she’d never been able to dance, enjoy such events wholeheartedly. A preacher’s daughter wouldn’t; therefore, she didn’t. What she wouldn’t give, though, for Garret McCoy to sashay her across the floor.

Regret, shame and a few other deep-set emotions threatened to rise up. Garret would never dance with her, and the only person she could completely blame—besides Jim—was herself.

The music ended and thirsty dancers arrived. Rory became so busy making small talk, smiling and pretending the world was a wonderful place, she nearly tipped the punch bowl when someone reached around her from behind and set down four clean cups.

Keeping her composure wasn’t easy or fun, but she did so, even managed to thank Garret as he kept her supplied with clean cups until the mad rush was over. Then she used a few more minutes to calm her nerves by lifting several jars from the basket beneath the table.

Garret picked one up, opened the lid and handed it to her to pour into the bowl. “What’s in these?”

“Fruit juices,” she answered, accepting another jar he’d opened. “I use the pulp for jam and save the juice for punch. I mixed it with sugar and apple cider at home.”

There wasn’t much space between the makeshift shelf holding her washing tubs and the table of punch and cups, and he filled a good three quarters of that area, leaving her little room and even less air to breath.

All three of the McCoy men were hard workers, gone from the house when she arrived and not home until long after she’d left, taking care of their cattle, plowing or planting fields and rounding up the wild mustangs. Although Garret had gone to law school, he much preferred rounding up and selling mustangs.

Their mother was proud of all three of her sons, told Rory that all the time, but it was the oldest, Garret, who Abigail depended on the most. Had done ever since their father had died a few years ago, and that was why he was the one Rory insisted stay behind rather than joining his brothers on the cattle drive to Dodge. The brothers wouldn’t be gone long, only a few weeks, but Rory didn’t feel it was safe for Abigail to be alone even that length of time.

“You’ve been assigned to stand guard,” he whispered, “make sure no one adds anything else, haven’t you?”

His teasing grin was almost her breaking point. He knew the townsfolk well. The women who insisted someone was in charge of just such a thing and the men who continuously tried to catch the punch bowl unattended. She knew the townsfolk, and she knew him. As well as his past, something no one dared mention, and his egg-stealing charm wouldn’t work on her.

“Thank you,” Rory said after she’d emptied the last jar he’d handed her, “for all of your help, but I’m fine by myself. You can leave now.” Becoming more nervous by the second, afraid he wouldn’t leave, she filled a cup and handed it to him. “Here, take this to your mother. I’m sure she’s thirsty.”

His gaze lingered on the cup before coming up to meet hers, at which point her hand started to shake. He took the cup and skirted his way around the table. Rory wanted to collapse at his departure. If only her past had remained buried on the other side of the state line.

Chapter Two

Garret made his way around the dance floor to the area where his mother and several of her older friends sat, clapping their hands to the music. Setting the punch on a makeshift table, he placed one hand on her shoulder, once again noting how fragile she’d become lately.

“Good turnout,” he said above the noise.

“Yes, it is. But the Campbells always have a full house when they put on a party,” his mother replied, nodding her head, which held more gray hair than brown. “Everyone for miles around attends.”

“Yes, they do,” he answered. There’d been a time when they’d had parties in their barn, big ones, but that had been long ago. Lately he’d witnessed time catching up with his mother, and as much as Rory irritated him, he was glad she was there to assist Mother with several things, though for some reason, Rory didn’t want him and his brothers to know exactly how much help she provided.

“Mother,” he said, kneeling down so only she heard. “If it’s Campbell’s party, why is Rory supplying all the punch?”

“She offered to, dear.” Leaning closer, she said into his ear, “Rory doesn’t like to dance but does like to be in attendance.”

“Well,” he said, “there should be someone helping her.”

“By all means, there should be.” Waving a hand toward a group of youngsters, she said, “Go get Grady and Thelma’s daughter. You know which one she is. She’s old enough to help.”

Garret, knowing his mother would have the solution he hadn’t come up with himself, kissed her cheek. “I’ll do that.”

“While you’re at it,” she said, “it wouldn’t hurt you to ask Rory to dance.”

“You just said she doesn’t like to dance,” he reminded her.

Her eyes took on a youthful appeal as she whispered, “All women like to dance, Garret. Some just deny it harder than others.”

“If you say so, Mother,” he said, and gave her a wink before maneuvering past the dancers to where Grace Campbell and her friends sat with their legs dangling off the edge of the hayloft. He climbed halfway up the ladder, told the girls what he needed and jumped off the ladder before they knocked him down in their rush to help Miss Boyle.

The four girls, probably about twelve or so, he’d guess, took over the space between the table and shelf, forcing Rory to the edge, next to where he stood. He grinned even harder when her lips puckered and a scowl overtook her face.

“I didn’t need any help,” she seethed under her breath.

“It was Mother’s idea,” he half lied. “She insisted Grace and her friends were old enough to be helping.”

Clearly miffed, Rory glanced around. Unless he was mistaken—which he highly doubted—her blue eyes held the same hint of longing his mother’s had. Though Rory was trying to hide it as she searched for an excuse to hightail it for parts unknown. Garret wasn’t about to let that happen. He had a bet to win, and the Rose brothers had arrived, which meant the purse was now a full 200. He took her elbow and led her a few steps away from the table to where there weren’t quite as many people. “Now you’re free to dance.”

Her glare could cut glass. “I’ll tell you what I’ve told every other man here tonight.” Sharpening her gaze a bit more, she said sternly, “No.”

The pink-and-white getup she had on tightened over her breasts as she took a deep breath to refill her lungs. Her shape, well defined by the dress, was made for admiring, and he’d done that often enough, admired it. He’d never admit that or let it show. A woman’s sweet body and charm had twisted him once, and that would never happen again.

“Doesn’t any man understand what that word means?”

Garret let his gaze roam over her once more. “What word?”

“No,” she answered. “No, I don’t want to dance. I’ve said that a hundred times tonight.”

Playing dumb, he said, “I didn’t ask you to dance. I said you’re free to dance if you so choose.”

“You’re the only one who hasn’t,” she snapped. “The Rose brothers only arrived a few minutes ago and I had to repeat myself five times over to each one of them.”

The setting sun was shining through the wide doors beside them, and while painting the sky an array of colors, it also reflected in her cheeks, made her eyes a deeper blue. It also had her hair, which was pinned on top of her head in a fluffy sort of way with dozens of little curls hanging around the edges, glittering like gold dust.

A noise or movement or some such distraction had him glancing over his shoulder, where he spied close to two dozen men all looking their way. The Rose boys—men, actually; all five of them stood over six feet and not a one of them was married—were positioned at the front of the group. He and his brothers were as tall as the Roses but not as heavy. Those boys were as barrel-chested as racehorses, and he had to wonder just how seriously they held this bet.

“You know,” Garret said, acting as if he’d just come up with the idea, “you could dance with me.”

“Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “Maybe if you danced with me, the rest would quit asking. Leave you alone.”

She frowned and he knew the moment she sensed the men near the barn door. He shifted slightly to block her view.

“Don’t look,” he whispered.

She leaned sideways, trying to see around him. “Why? Who is it?”

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