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  The Cowboy’s Love (BOOK 1)

  A WESTERN NIGHT SERIES

  By: Rosie Harper

  Introduction

  IMPORTANT MESSAGE

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  The Cowboy’s Love (BOOK 1)

  Prologue

  Melissa gazed, unseeing, out of the carriage window at the sights and sounds of the busy streets, lost in her sadness and bereft from her loss. Chicago had seemed to be such an exciting city, so full of potential when she and her dear Mama had arrived here just five short years ago. She dabbed at her eyes, and smoothed down the skirts of her tasteful black mourning gown. The Colonel sat perfectly upright on the seat opposite. He had not, as far as she was aware, shed so much as a tear for the wife he had just buried in a cheap coffin with the minimum of ceremony.

  “My dear, your Mama wanted me to care for you until you reach maturity, or of course until you find yourself a fine young man to marry,” he said in his bluff and hearty voice. “As a good Christian man I would do no less, but I am not a wealthy man, and cannot afford to have members of my household be idle. I will continue to clothe and feed you, and give you a comfortable place to call your home.”

  Melissa was sure he had intended the words to sound reassuring, but his cold stare and impatient tone, and the perpetual lie he told of his not being a man of means told her that he felt most imposed on by being left to have to provide for a child not his own. “But I shall expect you to earn your keep. I shall no longer pay for your lessons, or for you to attend society events other than when I need a companion to attend with me,” he finished sharply.

  It took a moment for his words to sink in, but when they did she turned and stared at him. She didn’t deny he had the right to do whatever he wished in his own household, but she felt sure that he could have chosen a more appropriate moment than mere seconds after the burial of her beloved Mother to make his announcement that her position in the household had now changed from that of loved daughter, to one of fully indentured servitude – if that was indeed what he was saying.

  Melissa had to admit that she had never liked him though. His eyes seemed to follow her around the house in a way that was certainly not befitting of a stepfather, and his kisses tended to linger overlong, and his caresses often too intimate. But in the beginning he had seemed to care for her Mother in his own way. They had been left penniless when her dear Papa had been killed in the Battle of Big Dry Wash in July of 1882. Melissa had been just eleven. She had barely known her soldier father. He had been so often away fighting in the Indian Wars that had taken so many lives on both sides. He had insisted that his beloved girls stay in Boston where they would be safe. But when the letter had arrived, in the hands of his commanding officer they had been left with nothing but his final quarter’s wage.

  Her Mama had taken the only route open to her, had found a second husband to provide for them as fast as she could. She had been the daughter of a soldier, and as the widow of one as well, she had searched within the world she knew. A chance meeting with Colonel Grantchester at a ball had led to a short courtship. He was lonely, having lost his own wife to disease some five years previously, and Mama was desperate - having to beg their kindly landlady for credit to keep the roof over their heads, and food in their bellies as their funds had dwindled down to nothing. He had paid their debts and shown care and occasionally even affection to both her and her Mama. The wedding ceremony had been a quiet one, as befitted a second marriage, with every expense spared, and they had joined the Colonel in his large townhouse in Chicago, leaving behind friends and everything Melissa had ever known behind.

  The cheap nuptials were the first indicator they had of the Colonel’s miserly ways and stubborn moods. He had, up until then, been generous – both of his time and his money. He had lavished gifts upon them both, and Mama had been reassured herself that she had made the right decision. But it had turned out to be a false promise, like gilt edging on a cheap wooden frame. The Colonel was indeed rich and he did have a fine home, but he was not a kind man, nor a patient one. He had expected his wife to run his huge household, with only the support of a timid scullery maid, a young boy and a Cook to assist her. Mama had not been the strongest of women, she wasn’t used to the endless and sometimes back-breaking work that cleaning and maintaining such a mansion entailed with so little assistance.

  Melissa had wanted to be her constant support and help, but Mama had been insistent that she learn her letters, to become knowledgeable in literature, music and art. In short, to have the accomplishments of a young woman of society. She had even been adamant that the Colonel fund Melissa’s Coming Out when she had turned sixteen. He had grumbled incessantly at the cost of the gowns and other expenses that a successful launch into the best of Chicago society entailed, but her Mama had stood firm. She had no intention of her daughter not having the opportunities she needed to make a good marriage.

  Sadly, she was now nineteen and no suitor had presented himself at her door, to whisk her away from the life she feared was now to be hers. She would be wife in all but name. She just prayed that the Colonel would be able to keep his hands to himself, now there would be nobody else around to protect her from his advances. She had nowhere else to go, but she knew that if he so much as laid a finger on her that she would have to find a way to escape him. No man would ever want to marry her if she came to them as soiled goods.

  Chapter One

  The kitchen was finally warming and the fire was building nicely as Melissa sat at the old pine table, her head in her hands. She still missed her Mama every single day, but the Colonel had certainly stuck to his word. He had even surpassed her expectations of his miserliness and lack of empathy for the plight of others - had dismissed Mrs. Braithwaite, the cook, and Emily the scullery maid as soon as they had returned from her Mama’s funeral. She stared at her red, raw knuckles and the dry skin on her hands. Her back ached constantly. Nothing she did was ever good enough for him; despite the fact she was up before dawn every single day and did not fall into her bed in the servant’s quarters in the attic until past midnight every night.

  She stared at the newspaper that lay on the table in front of her. She was supposed to press it, to ensure it had nary a wrinkle before it headed upstairs to be placed beside Colonel Grantchester’s breakfast tray. She never had the time to read any more or to practice the pianoforte, and had lost any inclination to sing, but as she glanced up at the large kitchen clock she saw she had, for once, plenty of time before she had to deliver it upstairs. She began to flick through the pages, marvelling at the advertisements for gadgets and potions that would make life perfect, aghast at the news of the continuing wars in the West and the many men and women who continue to lose their lives in numerous raids and battles.


  But she stopped in her tracks when she came across a column that spoke eloquently of a happiness and joy that had surpassed the writer’s wildest imaginings. The words were those of a Mail Order Bride, a woman who had taken a risk and moved to South Dakota – despite her fear of the local Sioux tribes, and the hardships she knew that would lie ahead. It seemed that the woman had indeed been blessed. The unknown miner she had responded to sounded good and kind and Melissa found herself envious of this lucky woman and her brood of three children, and her happy home.

  A number of advertisements surrounded the column, of men who were looking for wives themselves. A year ago Melissa would barely have read the article, let alone considered the strange men who shopped for a bride in such a way, but she figured no amount of hardship could surpass her life now. Even if her husband had bad breath and was ugly as sin, she would at least be in charge of her own home, would be able to have children, and have someone to love. Here, she had no free time, no freedom to even find a husband, and a further five years until she came of age and would be able to make decisions about her own life. If she wanted to escape, marriage was her only chance.

  She looked at the advertisements carefully, trying desperately to read between the lines. She so wanted to have a proper marriage, and to be as happy as the woman in the article despite her pragmatism. Finally, she whittled them down to one:

  Matrimonial – A gentleman of Texas, wishes to open a correspondence with a young lady with a wish of holy matrimony; she must be warm and caring, a fine cook, and would value and desire a contented and happy home and the attentions of a fine and upstanding man above the excitement of society. The subscriber is a gentleman of some wealth and taste, and though widowed, believes that he would have qualities that would make him attractive to such a woman as described above. Address in sincerity E.T.C., Box No 7038

  Melissa was a little concerned that he sounded somewhat like the Colonel, in that he wanted a wife to prize her home and please her man over herself, but she figured that most men probably wished for that in a wife. It didn’t automatically mean that they wouldn’t offer the same qualities in return. She wondered what this mystery gentleman did out there in the wilds of Texas, and decided that the only way to answer her questions was to write to him. She pulled out a piece of paper, pen and ink from the drawer, and began to compose her response.

  When the bell rang to alert her that the Colonel was waiting in the dining room for his breakfast she jumped out of her skin. She had gotten so lost in the moment, and not even the kettle was on for the blasted man’s morning coffee. She bustled around, her haste making her clumsy as she spilled over the jar of jam onto the newspaper, and slopped coffee all over the tray. Thankfully, she missed the toast, so she carefully wiped everything down, tucked the un-ironed newspaper under her arm and rushed up the stairs as the bell continued to clang loudly every minute.

  The Colonel’s face was puce red by the time she reached the dining room. “I don’t see what could possibly have taken you so long,” he bellowed. “I have a meeting at the Club, and I shall now be late because of your incompetency.” Melissa simply nodded and laid out his things just as he liked them. She moved swiftly to the door. “And what the hell do you call this?” he demanded, as he brandished the wrinkled newspaper at her. She sighed and turned on her heel.

  “I am sorry Sir, but the newspaper arrived late this morning. I decided that you would probably rather have it a little rumpled than not at all,” she decided to try to avoid the subject of the jam that he would find when he opened its pages. If she could convince him that it wasn’t her fault that the newspaper was not in pristine condition, then maybe he would blame the jam on somebody else as well.

  “Harrumph,” he trumpeted disbelievingly. “Don’t blame others for your own incompetency my girl. Take it away. I shall read at the Club instead. Do not let it happen again!”

  “Certainly not Sir, I have already spoken quite sternly to the delivery boy.” Relieved beyond measure, she gathered the newspaper and rushed back down stairs.

  “Well,” she said to the plump, black cat that had made her kitchen its home. “I think that makes up any vestiges of my mind. I shall mail this to the newspaper immediately and will pray so very hard that whoever this man may be that he responds to me quickly and I can leave this place forever.” The cat stared at her, purring loudly. She ruffled its head affectionately. “Don’t worry Puss, I won’t leave you here. I shall take you with me, that way I know I will have at least one friend when I begin my new life.”

  Chapter Two

  Caleb stared out over the plains. He loved the bright orange of the earth, the majestic mountains that seemed to rise out of nowhere in the distance, and the wide Bosque River, the bright blue skies and even the bustling town of Stephenville, that wasn’t far from his new home. He had come out here, like so many men, wanting to make his fortune in the gold rush in Burnet County. He had set up his claim on the Colorado, and had panned daily in the creek beds. But unlike so many of his fellow gold hounds, he had saved his findings.

  He had watched so many of them find gold, then spend their earnings on women and booze, then have to start all over again when they had nothing left. They sneered at him for not knowing how to enjoy life, but Caleb knew that to enjoy life, you needed money. Money bought you land and stability. He came out West with a purpose, and that purpose was to be able to set himself up with enough money to see him through the tough times. He had been disciplined enough to do it too. He had always saved at least half of everything he found, using the rest to eat well and enjoy a little nightlife when the urge took him. He was a man of simple tastes, and so it had been no hardship to live frugally.

  Now he had his reward. He jumped onto the back of his gelding, Sam, and rode around the huge herd of cattle his prudence had purchased, along with huge swathes of land on which they could graze and get fat. He watched them carefully, checking each and every one for any signs of disease and sickness. He spotted a young calf limping awkwardly and took out his rope, quickly lassoing the animal. “There, there little fella,” he crooned as he took the calf in his arms, stroking his velvety soft head. “Let’s get you checked out so you can run and play with all your friends.”

  He ran his hand down the calf’s legs, feeling for breaks and tears in the muscles. He found nothing he would expect when an animal showed such signs of lameness. “Well, looks like I had better take you home with me little one. I’m going to need to keep an eye on you.” The calf looked at him trustingly with its liquid brown eyes. Caleb hoisted the animal up onto his horse, and with a final circled around the herd headed back to his cabin.

  He wanted to build himself a big ranch house one day, to match those of some of his neighbors. He also wanted to get himself a wife and raise a whole lot of babies. But there was time enough for that. While he was young and able, he wanted to focus on building up his herd. His cabin was small, only a single room. But it had enough room for a bed, a solid table and a good chair. It was all he needed and still seemed like quite the luxury after three years of living under a canvas out by the river. What he did have was a huge barn, large enough to house his entire herd if need be, a good stable block for Sam, an old cart horse called Blackie and the grey pony, Harry, that he kept to drive his only extravagance – a small wagon to fetch supplies and to attend church on Sundays.

  He plonked the calf down, and lit himself a fire. He fixed some warm milk and fed it to the calf using a rag, dipping it in the milk and then letting the calf suck hungrily. “If you’re going to live inside I guess you deserve a name,” he said earnestly to the calf. “How about Essie?” he asked her. She continued to suckle contentedly, so he presumed she approved. “Essie it is.” Once she was fed, Caleb put her down, and let her doze by the fire while he fixed himself a supper of ham and beans.

  His belly full, and his calf settled, he sat back in his chair and read the book he had borrowed from the Lending Library Service. He had five books delivered to him every
month. His favorite was a novel by Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. He enjoyed the tales of the rapscallion Tom Sawyer and his friend very much, usually borrowed one or the other book each month along with a selection of new titles. But this evening’s fare was a Dickens tale, Hard Times. He loved Dickens, was determined to read everything the illustrious man had ever written, but he found them hard sometimes after a tough day out on his land.

  “Caleb, you in there?” the harsh voice of his neighbor, Bartlett Greive called, as a loud bang rattled the door.

  “Sure Bartlett, come on in,” Caleb said, knowing it was often best to just let the insufferable man get whatever it was that was bothering him off his chest, and then usher him back on his miserable way. A tall, dirty man filled the small doorway. Caleb could smell the stench of stale garlic and beer even from the other side of the cabin. “What can I do for you neighbor?” he asked, trying to sound friendly. He didn’t like Bartlett. He was lazy and feckless, and seemed to think that he could get away with doing the bare minimum when it came to work, yet expected huge returns. Unfortunately for Caleb this meant that he did nothing to take care of his land, and as they abutted his own it made things tough at times when things needed to be done.

  “Can you write? I mean nice writing, like if you wanted to send a letter to a woman?” he asked, blushing furiously. Caleb wanted to laugh, the man looked so uncomfortable.

  “Why, what’d you do, go and advertise for a bride?” he teased. Bartlett’s face gave him his answer. The damn fool had. No woman would ever want to marry such a man. She’d have to be more than desperate to even consider it. He doubted that even Mr. Dickens, or Mr. Twain would be able to find sufficient words to make him appear attractive.