The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) Read Free

with possible profits or losses on paper. But when it came to his personal life, the list was usually stored in the back of his mind. That's where he kept the considerably lopsided ledger regarding his friend and mentor, Caleb Weatherspoon.
    The man had taken him in as a young boy, taught him the tricks of the trapping trade, and even more important, how to survive on his own whether in the wild or among "civilized" citizens. When it became apparent that trapping could no longer earn a man a decent wage, Caleb took up cattle ranching, leaving Hawke to pursue his life's dream—the building of a horse ranch. He'd always figured that he owed his good friend a lot, so much in fact, he was sure he'd never be able to repay him.
    Until today.
    Hawke took a sideways glance at the women beside him on the bouncing buckboard, and felt the weight of that one-sided list shift toward a more equal balance. Not only did Miss Quinlin view him as somehow less than human, she hadn't stopped complaining about the hard wooden seat or failed tip groan aloud each time the wagon bumped and thumped on its way out of town and onto the long stretch of rolling prairie which lead to the foothills of the Snowy Range Mountains. What had Caleb been thinking of to offer himself to a woman he'd never met? And which of his neighbors had been fool enough to do the same with the younger gal?
    Except for an occasional inquiry as to the types of trees they passed along the way, Miss O'Carroll had been silent. Hawke liked that in anyone, female or male, even though something in this female's voice was compelling, almost musical in its effect upon him. It was probably that Irish lilt of hers, he decided, the delicate sprinkling of an accent which tickled his ears in a way the heavy Gaelic brogue spoken by Miss Quinlin could not. The sound was new and pleasant. A morning's diversion.
    Judging Miss O'Carroll by those standards alone—quiet, but possessed of a pleasant speaking voice—Hawke decided that she automatically made the better choice between the two mail-order brides. Even so, the young Irishwoman left a lot to be desired as the wife of any rancher in the rugged, unforgiving mountains of Wyoming. Not only did she appear to be too delicate and meek to winter here, but she behaved as if she'd never been in the great outdoors before, much less the wilderness.
    She'd been twisting this way and that throughout the entire journey, studying the clumps of sage and vast meadows with open awe. When a small group of antelope bounded across the path just ahead of the wagon a few miles back, she'd let out a squeal as if terrified to have been so close to such odd beasts. Didn't they have elk, deer, or something close to antelope in Ireland? If prey frightened her, what would she do when faced with a predator?—say a wolf, a bear, or a mountain lion? He almost laughed at the thought, something of a rarity for a man who didn't even feel the need to smile, then thought of Caleb and his impulsive decision to advertise for a bride.
    Hawke knew why his friend thought he needed a wife—pure loneliness—and why he decided he had to have one of Irish extraction—to remind him of his dear, faithful mother—but it was crazy to bring women such as these up into these hills, sheer, unmitigated lunacy, no matter how long the winters might be or how lonely the nights. Pure idiocy.
    After some eight uncomfortable hours riding beside the Irish ladies, Hawke guided the buckskins down a road that ran parallel to the Little Laramie River. Situated just below the tiny town of Centennial, the river's relatively straight banks were crowded with mountain mahogany and cottonwood trees, a colorful background for Caleb's Three Elk Ranch.
    After tying the team to the hitching post out in front of the house, Hawke helped the ladies down off the wagon and hoisted the trunk on his shoulder. Then without so much as a "follow me," again he bid the women to handle the traveling bag themselves, and