Please enjoy the following glimpse of Margaret Brownley’s A Match Made in Texas, now available:
Two-Time, Texas
1882
Could she trust him? Dare she trust him?
The man—a stranger—looked like one tough hombre. Perched upon the seat of a weather-beaten wagon, he sat tall, lean, and decisively strong, his sunbaked hands the color of tanned leather. The only feature visible beneath his wide-brimmed hat and shaggy beard was a well-defined nose. The beard, along with his shoulder-length hair, suggested he had no regard for barbers. From the looks of him, he wasn’t all that fond of bathhouses either.
“Need a ride?” the stranger asked, looking down at her with open curiosity.
She hesitated. It wasn’t as if she had a lot of choices. If she didn’t accept his offer, she might have to spend the rest of the day, maybe even the night, alone in the Texas wilderness with the rattlers, cactus, and God knows what else.
“Where you headin’?” he asked.
This time she answered. “Two-Time.”
“Same here,” he said with a gruff nod, as if that alone was reason to trust him.
His destination should have offered no surprise. Two-Time was the only town within twenty miles. “Why there?” she asked.
Her hometown had grown by leaps and bounds since the arrival of the train but still lagged behind San Antonio and Austin in commerce and population. Most people, if they ended up in Two-Time at all, did so by mistake.
He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Good a place as any.”
Moistening her parched lips, she shaded her eyes from the blazing sun as she gazed up at him. No sense beating around the bush. “You don’t have a nefarious intent, do you? To do me harm, I mean?” A woman alone couldn’t be too careful.
The question seemed to surprise him. At least it made him push back his hat, revealing steel-blue eyes that seemed to pierce right through her. What a strange sight she must look. Stuck in the middle of nowhere dressed to the nines in a stylish blue walking suit.
“Are you askin’ if your virtue is safe with me?”
She blushed but refused to back down. The man didn’t mince words, and neither would she. “Well, is it?”
“Safe as you want it to be,” he said finally. His lazy drawl didn’t seem to go with the sharp-eyed regard, which returned again and again to her peacock feathered hat, rising three stories and a basement high above her brow.
It wasn’t exactly the answer she’d hoped for, but he sounded sincere, and that gave her a small measure of comfort. Still, she cast a wary eye on his holstered weapon. The Indian Wars had ended, but the possibility of renegades was real. The area also teemed with outlaws. In that sense, it wouldn’t hurt to have an armed man by her side. Even one as surly as this one.
“If you would be so kind as to help me with my…um…trunk. I’d be most grateful.”
He sprang from the wagon, surprising her with his sudden speed. For such a large man, he was surprisingly light on his feet. He was also younger than he first appeared, probably in his early thirties. He would have towered over her by a good eight inches had she not been wearing a hat gamely designed to give her height and presence.
Gaze dropping the length of her, he visually lingered on her small waist and well-defined hips a tad too long for her peace of mind.
“Name’s Rennick,” he said, meeting her eyes. “R. B. Rennick.”
A false name if she ever heard one, but for once, she decided to hold her tongue. He was her best shot for getting back to town. He might be her only shot.
“I’m Miss Amanda Lockwood.” She offered her gloved hand, which he blithely ignored. Feeling rebuffed, she withdrew it.
The man was clearly lacking in manners, but he had offered to help her, and for that she was grateful.
Thumbs hanging from his belt, he gazed across the desolate Texas landscape. “How’d you land out here, anyway? Nothing for miles ’round.”
“I was on my way home from Austin when I…had a little run-in with the stage driver.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What kind of run-in?”
“He was driving like a maniac,” she said with an indignant toss of the head. “And I told him so.” Not once but several times, in fact.
Hanging out the stage window, she’d insisted he slow down in no uncertain terms. When that didn’t work, she resorted to banging on the coach’s ceiling with her parasol and calling him every unflattering name she could think of. Perhaps a more tactful way of voicing her complaints would have worked more in her favor, but how was she supposed to know the man had such a low threshold for criticism?
She gritted her teeth just thinking about it. “Thought he would kill us all.” He pretty near did. The nerve of him, tossing her bag and baggage out of the stage and leaving her stranded.
Mr. Rennick scratched his temple. “Hope you learned your lesson, ma’am. Men don’t like being told what to do. ’Specially when holding the reins.” It sounded like a warning.
Turning abruptly, he picked up the wooden chest and heaved it over the side of the wagon like it weighed no more than a loaf of bread. It hit the bottom of the wagon with a sickening thud.
She gasped. “Be careful.” Belatedly, she remembered his warning and tempered his order with, “It’s very old.”
The hope chest was a family heirloom. If anything happened to it, her family would never forgive her. The chest had been handed down from mother to daughter for decades. She inherited the chest after the last of her two sisters wed. Since she had no interest in marriage, she used it mostly to store books. Today, it contained the clothes needed for her nearly weeklong stay in Austin.
He brushed his hands together. “Sure is heavy. You’d have an easier time haulin’ a steer.”
“Yes, well, it’s actually a hope chest.” While packing for her trip, she discovered the latch on her steamer trunk broken. The hope chest was a convenient though not altogether satisfactory substitute. For one, it was almost too heavy for her to handle alone—the most she could do was drag it.
“Don’t know what you’re hoping for, ma’am, but you’re not likely to find it out here.”
He gazed into the distance for a moment, then suddenly spun around and climbed into the driver’s seat without offering to help her. “Well, what are you waitin’ for?” he yelled. “Get in!”
Startled by his sharp command, she reached for the grab handle and heaved herself up to the passenger side.
No sooner had she seated herself upon the wooden bench than Mr. Rennick took off hell-bent for leather.
Glued to the back of the seat, she cried out. “Oh dear. Oh my. Ohhh!”
What had looked like a perfectly calm and passive black horse had suddenly turned into a demon. With pounding hooves and flowing mane, the steed flew over potholes and dirt mounds, giving no heed to the cargo behind. The wagon rolled and pitched like a ship in stormy seas. Dust whirled in the air, and rocks hit the bottom and sides.
Holding on to her hat with one hand and the seat with the other, Amanda watched in wide-eyed horror as the scenery flew by in a blur.
The wagon sailed over a hill as if it was airborne, and she held on for dear life. The wheels hit the ground, jolting her hard and rattling her teeth. The hope chest bounced up and down like dice in a gambler’s hand. Her breath whooshed out, and it was all she could do to find her voice.
“Mr. R-Rennick!” she stammered, grabbing hold of his arm. She had to shout to be heard.
“What?” he yelled back.
She stared straight ahead, her horrified eyes searching for a soft place to land should the need arise. “Y-you sh-should s-slow down and enjoy the s-scenery.”
Her hat had tilted sideways, and he swiped the peacock feather away from his face. “Been my experience that sand and sagebrush look a whole lot better when travelin’ fast,” he shouted in his strong baritone voice.
He made a good point, but at the moment, she was more concerned with life and limb.
He urged his horse to go faster before adding, “It’s also been my experience that travelin’ fast is the best way to outrun bandits.”
“W-what do you mean? B-bandits?” It was then that she heard gunfire.
She swung around in her seat, and her jaw dropped. Three masked horsemen were giving chase—and closing in fast.