The Mail-Order Bride Who Fell for the Outlaw

Chapter 1

“And just where do you think you’re headin’ at this time of the evening, Stephen McDowell?”

The way the big man reacted to the woman's chiding voice from the kitchen doorway made it seem as if she were his mother rather than his housekeeper.

She seemed a little uncertain about the limits of her role, too; or at least, she believed she had none.

She stood on the threshold with her arms akimbo and her narrow, beaky face set in a stern frown.

McDowell, for his part, dropped his head as he turned to face her, feeling sheepish.

Anyone would, he reasoned, if they had heard Sarah Dalby use that tone of voice.

Not for nothing had she raised three children of her own and a passel of grandchildren, too.

Not for nothing was she the undisputed ruler of the sprawling ranch house at McDowell Acres.

And not for nothing, he reminded himself, was he headed out to the barn at nine o’clock at night.

“Now, Sarah, I know your intentions are good…”

“Don’t you ‘now, Sarah’ me,” she sniffed, folding her arms and lifting her beaky nose into the air. “Just because you’re the boss of the biggest ranch in Coleman County.”

He shook his head, grinning despite himself.

“It’s got nothin’ to do with me bein’ the boss. Anyway, just about everyone knows that I’m not—and you are. But I’ve got to do my part, Sarah. Ridin’ the range is what keeps me young.”

At forty-five years old, he wasn’t sure that riding the range was doing as much as it once had.

And Sarah Dalby couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen years older than he was, even if she acted as though she were his disapproving parent half the time.

Sometimes folks asked him why he hired the former schoolteacher from West Hope as his housekeeper.

In return, he always asked them wryly whether they’d ever had a chance to get out to his ranch.

Sarah kept the whole thing running like a well-oiled machine.

If she knew how to rope a steer, he reckoned she’d have taken that out of his hands, too.

“Ridin’ the range isn’t the issue,” Sarah said tartly. “I know you’re headin’ out to spy on those cattle rustlers.”

“And you know why it’s got to be done,” he said reasonably. “Those rascals have been bleeding all of us dry, little by little. Why, if the men and I don’t make our rounds every night, men like Rhett Hammond are liable to siphon off enough cattle to start their own ranch.”

“Oh, I’m not concerned about Rhett Hammond—at least everyone knows he wouldn’t hurt a fly if it landed on him.” Sarah waved a hand briskly, as though plagued by a fly herself. “But there are worse men out there, true criminals and bandits. And you’re no spring chicken, Stephen.”

Stephen bit back the first reply that came to his lips—It takes one to know one, Sarah Dalby!—and held back.

“Be that as it may,” he said, “I’ve got to do my part. The men rely on me as much as I rely on them. I’ll only be out for a few hours, anyhow. I’ll be back before you turn in for the night.”

She looked very much as though she doubted every word that was coming from his mouth, but he was already later than he had anticipated; the cook’s very excellent dinner had drawn him into lingering over the supper table longer than usual.

Taking advantage of her momentary silence, no doubt caused by her thinking up something devastating to reply, he turned on his heel and fled.

Would anyone believe that Stephen McDowell, the biggest rancher in central California and the wealthiest as well, a forty-five-year-old self-made man, would run away from his own housekeeper?

Only those who knew Sarah, he thought with a wry grin.

Maybe it was odd for a man his age to have his housekeeper as the primary influence in his life.

But he had lost his own parents many years earlier, back when he was still striving to build up McDowell Acres into the juggernaut that it was today.

He hadn’t been able to spare the time to think about marrying, let alone raising a family.

And so here he was, at the time in life when most other men were starting to attend their children’s weddings and welcome grandchildren—here he was, setting out to ride the range in search of cattle rustlers after getting in an argument with his housekeeper.

Despite Sarah’s loud opinion, it was really necessary to keep an eye on the ranch’s borders in the evening.

Over the last few months, it seemed that an entire contingent of cattle rustlers had descended on the twenty-three ranches operating in and around West Hope, California.

And since his ranch was the biggest, it was most likely that he would be targeted more often.

He’d lost a few dozen head of cattle just three weeks before, and he was determined that he wasn’t going to lose a single cow more.

What would the folks in West Hope think of him if his cows ended up being sold by some unscrupulous trader? Why, he’d be the laughingstock of Coleman County, unable to keep his stock safe even though he boasted of having more hired hands than anyone else.

It was these damned rustlers who were the problem.

Well, that and the competition.

It made him want to grind his teeth at the thought of how Bartholomew Starkey, his nearest neighbor and top competitor, might be spreading stories about the McDowell ranch being bested by simple rascals just because Stephen himself didn’t care enough to make sure the meadows were watched.

And Garrett Winlow, on the other side of the valley, would have a few choice remarks, too, if Stephen gave him an inch of room to make them.

No, it was far better to have Sarah muttering behind his back—and telling him off to his face—than to allow the competition any sort of leg up on him.

“It’s the game, McDowell,” he murmured to himself as he rode out to the farthest meadow. “It’s the old, old game.”

And he was getting tired of it, too.

Not for the first time, he wondered how he’d come to this point in his life. Oh, he thanked the good Lord every day that his business had grown as he’d hoped. He couldn’t ask for more, as far as that went. But it was so darned hard to keep on top once a man had gotten there!

As he rode the range that late summer evening, his thoughts kept turning the situation over and over, as though seeking a way out. But there was none he could see. He couldn’t very well give up.

He’d never been the sort of man to do that, and the proof was all around him.

A full moon rose over the landscape, illuminating the golden spread of late-summer hay, faintly luminescent in the ethereal light.

Far away in the distance, the mountain ranges of the northern part of the new state bit at the sky with black teeth.

Why, sometimes he forgot how young and wild it all was, outside the fences that outlined his property.

The valley was beautiful at any time of day or night, but Stephen saw it with the eye of an owner, a proprietor, rather than the appreciation that others might have had.

The trouble with having such a vast area of land was keeping it all in check.

The split-rail fences on one end of the acreage would be just mended at the same time they started falling down on the other end.

And sometimes they had a little help from the hand of man.

He knew it as soon as he saw it. No happenstance this; the rails had been struck down by a heavy blow, likely a hammer.

It was no easy task; the hand that had dealt the blow must have been vigorous, serious about the job ahead.

But it was only the first top two rails that had been knocked loose, and the nearby cattle were still clustered several yards away, lowing a little in apparent confusion.

He had interrupted the varmint in the midst of the rustle. Which meant he wasn’t too far away…

He wouldn’t have caught the sound of the footsteps at all had the man not stepped on a branch beneath the nearby oak. It broke with a sharp crack. Stephen’s head lifted, and he gave a shout.

“Hey, there!”

The fellow didn’t bother to respond, of course.

He was half hidden in the shadow of the tree; if he hadn’t tried to creep away, he might well have gone undiscovered.

An amateur sort of trick, Stephen thought grimly.

But where there was one rustler, there were likely others; those bandits worked in packs like wild dogs.

He spurred his horse toward the shadowy shape, only to hear the crack and whistle of a bullet whizzing close by over his head.

He turned abruptly and spotted another shape in the dimness of a farther tree.

“Two against one, eh?” he yelled. “You crawlin’ cowards!”

“Don’t shoot, Grady!” shouted the first.

“I won’t hit ‘im!” called his companion.

“You might hit me!”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Rhett!”

Riding toward the one with a gun would undoubtedly be a bad idea—and yet Stephen found himself turning his horse’s head and heading grimly for the second man.

He expected another shot, bending low over the horse’s neck, but none came.

He reached the tree and lifted his head, hauling back on the reins.

The horse, well trained by Stephen himself, stopped abruptly; both mount and man stood still for a vital second, chests heaving.

But the shadow of the tree was empty. Somehow, somewhere, the second man had gotten away.

He whirled around, ready to nudge his horse into a gallop again in the opposite direction.

But the first man, too, had vanished into the darkness.

Stephen always kept his property clear, but the same could not be said about the lands beyond.

They were dotted with oaks and firs, with thick clumps of underbrush between them.

The two rustlers had found shelter in the tangle.

His mouth set grimly. He could only hope that there was a good amount of poison oak.

He thought he caught the sound of laughter somewhere in the darkness.

Grinding his teeth, he headed back to the ranch house.

It was the work of a moment to stop at the bunks where the hands stayed; the work of a few more moments to roust them from their beds and order them to the far west field to keep watch until morning, when the fence could be repaired.

Still infuriated by the attempt, even though it had been foiled, he made his way back home at last and found Sarah Dalby waiting for him, as he had suspected she might.

The whole story came out, with barely a squint-eyed look from his housekeeper.

“Oh, what a pity the varmints got away,” she said at last, when his ire had spilled its last drops. “Though I don’t reckon the sheriff would have held them for long, anyhow, even if you had caught ‘em. There’s not enough room in that little jailhouse for all the rustlers in the county.”

“It was that Rhett Hammond and one of his cronies; I didn’t recognize the other man’s voice.”

“I figured as much, since he didn’t want anyone to get shot.”

“I reckon that was more about savin’ his own skin than mine.

” Stephen rubbed his face with both hands.

“Sometimes I wonder what the point of it all is, Sarah. We keep ridin’, and the rustlers keep rustlin’—and all along, the rest of the ranchers are just waitin’ for me to let my guard down so they can steal my customers or my cattle, or both.

Say, maybe one of them is behind all the rustlers these days. ”

“You needn’t go looking for conspiracies and secrets, Stephen McDowell. It’s enough that there’s money in cattle—big money. A man is bound to try to figure out a way to get a piece of the pie for himself, whether that’s through ranching or rustling.”

“I guess so.” Another sigh. He felt tired tonight—more tired than usual. He feared he was getting old. “Sarah, I’m just about ready to hand this ranch over to you and the hands and let you get on with it. You’ll run it better’n I ever could.”

She tsk-tsked at him, but he could tell she was pleased.

“You’re at the age when a man wants to train his son to take over for him when he’s too old to work,” she said. “That’s all.”

“But I haven’t a son.”

“Whose fault is that, Stephen McDowell?”

He looked at her from over his fingertips, narrowing his eyes.

“Need to find a wife, first.”

“Who’s stopping you?” she said tartly.

Well, for starters, the girl would have to not be afraid of my housekeeper…

“There are few enough girls around here in West Hope,” he said. “And just about all of ‘em are the daughters of other ranchers. I can’t marry into another ranching family, Sarah, knowing it’s likely her pa’s plan to get their hands on my money.”

“You’re an awful cynic, Stephen.”

“You ain’t tellin’ me I’m wrong, though.”

She was quiet for a moment. “No,” she admitted. “I don’t think you’re wrong, but there are plenty of young women elsewhere, Stephen, if marriage and a family are what you truly want.”

He sighed and shrugged.

“I guess I do,” he said. “I want somethin’—and I don’t know what else it might be.”

They sat in silence for a time, and then Sarah Dalby drew herself up briskly.

“Well, then,” she said. “You’ve always been a great one for settin’ your mind to somethin’ and goin’ after it, Stephen. I wouldn’t remain in your employ if you were any less determined. I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

She stood from the kitchen table. He half expected her to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder as she went past him—but of course she didn’t.

She was far too stoic for such displays of feeling.

The only reason he knew she had any affection for him at all was her outspokenness—and the fact that, as she said, she remained in his employ.

He was the sort of man, it seemed, who attracted respect rather than attachment.

Ruefully, he wondered what that might mean for his marriage prospects.

Of course, there were no marriage prospects if he didn’t look beyond West Hope…

Sarah had every confidence that he would find a way. He sat up straight, his mind busily unknotting the problem. After all, he couldn’t let her down.

If he couldn’t marry a girl from West Hope, why, he’d just have to find one somewhere else.