Promises Kept Read online

  A COWBOY’S KISS

  He pinned Victoria with his black eyes. “Has he kissed you?”

  She waited too long to respond, and Colt said, “So you have encouraged him.”

  “I have not!” She turned away from him. “And this is none of your business. And besides that, he’s not a . . . cowboy,” she blurted out.

  Colt couldn’t believe she’d said that. “And what’s wrong with cowboys?”

  “Let’s just say they are only interested in . . . let’s just say I’m not interested in cowboys and leave it at that,” she said with finality.

  “Let’s not leave it at that!” he said louder than he intended. “I want to know what’s wrong with cowboys.”

  “I’ve seen enough cowboys in my life that I know I don’t want one for a husband.”

  “Every good man I know is a cowboy. Are you telling me you would rather have a man like that skunk Wallace?”

  “I’m not telling you anything. As I said, it is none of your business what happens between Mr. Wallace and me,” she said stubbornly.

  “Maybe not, but I’m making it my business.” He rose from his chair, took her by the shoulders and pulled her from her chair.

  Holding her firmly by the shoulders, he lowered his head. When his mouth covered hers she didn’t push him away. Considering that a good sign, he pulled her into his embrace and deepened his kiss . . .

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  Promises Kept

  SCARLETT DUNN

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  A COWBOY’S KISS

  BOOK YOUR PLACE ON OUR WEBSITE AND MAKE THE READING CONNECTION!

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  FINDING PROMISE,

  Copyright Page

  Dedicated with love to Hercules,

  my faithful companion.

  You defined courage and perseverance,

  and I miss you every day.

  Wait for me,

  big guy,

  and keep Apollo and Andjing busy.

  I will see you again one day.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A big thank you to the following people that bless my life:

  Michael—Much love to you, and thank you for always being on my team.

  Mary Ann Morgan—The greatest cheerleader, and the very BEST person I know.

  Jim Morgan—My inspiration to persevere. Never give up!

  Mary Sue Seymour—You are a joy to work with, and a lovely person.

  John Scognamiglio—It’s a real pleasure to work with you. Better than fine.

  Prologue

  Dear Miss Victoria,

  My name is Chet Barlow. I read your need of a husband as writ in the Daily Telegraph. I thought I would tell you something about myself. I own a farm here in Wyoming that was passed down to me from my father. It’s just me and old Bartholomew working the farm now. I won’t spin a tale and say this is an easy life. My land is surrounded on all sides by cattlemen who want my land for the fair amount of water that runs through it, and that causes some problems. I can give myself a recommend by saying I work hard from sunup to sundown, and I’m honest. I don’t have a formal education, but my dear mother was an educated woman and taught me reading, writing, and numbers. Her well-to-do family thought she married beneath her station, but my father was a decent, hardworking man, and he took good care of her. I expect I’ve forgotten a fair amount of what she tried so hard to teach me, but I remember the important things like how to treat a lady proper. I swear by all that’s holy that I will treat you kindly if you decide to come to Wyoming.

  I read the Bible daily and Shakespeare when time permits. In good weather I try to make it to church on Sunday. I’m not much in the way of cooking, and I can tell you it’d be a real pleasure for me and Bartholomew to have a decent meal now and again. My father taught me all I know about working the land and I will pass that down to your boys. I make you a solemn promise I will be good to you and the boys, provide a home, and make sure you never go hungry.

  More than likely you will have several replies as there are few women in this territory who didn’t come here with their men. My mother always said to prepare for what you want to happen, so I am sending you fare for the stagecoach and necessaries along the way. Once you get to Promise, go see Bob at the livery stable. He will see that you make it to the farm.

  Chet Barlow

  P.S. It don’t matter none to me if you are not a handsome woman. No one ever accused me of turning heads, but I don’t recollect anyone losing their breakfast at first sight of me. I’ve drawn a map of the stagecoach route and the stops from Missouri to Wyoming so you will know where you are going. This will be a hard trip and not one without possible danger. If you know how to shoot a pistol, it would be wise to have one on your person.

  Chapter One

  Action is eloquence.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  St. Louis, Missouri

  Holding the small leather-bound parcel at arm’s length, Mrs. Wellington squinted at the neat printing. Arms flapping like the wings of a ruffled goose, she was a flurry of silk motion as she burst through the boardinghouse door as fast as her legs would carry her. Scurrying the length of the hall toward the kitchen, she was met by the familiar popping and crackling hisses of a fryer hitting hot grease. Waving the parcel in her hand, she hustled to the young woman hovering over the stove.

  “
Victoria, you have a post from Wyoming that came by way of the noon stage.” Gasping breathlessly, her ample bosom was heaving up and down from exertion, but she didn’t wait for a response. Sucking in more air, she chattered on. “The print is small, but neat”—pant . . . pant—“I’d say written by a man”—pant . . . pant—“Isn’t this the tenth post you’ve received? Do you have family out West?”

  Victoria whirled around to see what Mrs. Wellington was carrying on about. When the woman was excited or nervous her high-pitched British accent became more pronounced and she was difficult to understand. Eyeing the pouch fluttering like a flag in Mrs. Wellington’s hand, Victoria knew she had received another letter. Snatching the parcel from her employer’s grip, she quickly shoved it in her apron pocket. “I . . . I was expecting this.” She felt guilty lying to Mrs. Wellington, since she was the first person who had been truly kind to her, but it wasn’t the first lie she had told her. The lies had started the very first day she showed up on Mrs. Wellington’s doorstep with Cade and Cody in tow. She’d told Mrs. Wellington the boys were her brothers instead of trusting her with the truth. She justified her lie out of fear the boys would be taken from her if anyone found out they weren’t even related. Four years ago she’d taken the boys with her when she left that saloon in Abilene to save them from a certain future in an orphan’s home. She continued the lie to protect them from that fate now. While she couldn’t say Mrs. Wellington was particularly nosy or judgmental, she had learned it was wise to keep her own counsel and not trust anyone with the lurid details of her life.

  “Aren’t you going to open it now?” It hadn’t escaped Mrs. Wellington’s notice that until the last few weeks Victoria had never received mail in the two years she had worked at the boardinghouse. She was more than curious to learn the reason for the sudden influx of correspondence.

  Victoria forked more floured chicken slowly into the sizzling grease, saying over her shoulder, “It’s nothing that can’t wait until later when my work is done for the night.”

  “I can turn the chicken for you while you peek inside,” Mrs. Wellington eagerly offered.

  Victoria was anxious to tear into the letter, but she knew Mrs. Wellington would press her for details. “No, thank you. I would rather wait until later.”

  Disappointment evident on her face, Mrs. Wellington turned toward the dining room. “Well . . . then . . . I’ll go prepare the dining room for the dinner hour.”

  Colt McBride sat in the dining room across from George Milford, the banker and executor of his uncle’s estate. It was Colt’s last night in St. Louis, and he was anxious to head back to Wyoming. He’d made the arduous trip to St. Louis after receiving a telegram from his uncle saying that he was dying and wanted to see him. Though Colt didn’t question his decision to come to St. Louis, it was difficult for him to be away from the ranch for any length of time, particularly with the problems he was having lately. The way he saw it, he didn’t have a choice. He’d only seen his father’s brother a handful of times, but he felt it was his duty to come. Arriving in St. Louis just in time to spend a few short hours with his uncle before he died, Colt’s intention was to be on the next stage back to Wyoming after the funeral. Upon learning from banker Milford that he had inherited his uncle’s estate, he was forced to change his plans. Working with Milford, they’d managed to have the details of his uncle’s estate settled within a week.

  “Have you eaten here this week?” Milford asked.

  “No, I’ve only eaten at the hotel,” Colt replied. He scanned the well-appointed dining room, thinking it was homey and inviting. The aromas wafting from the kitchen already had his stomach growling.

  “You’re in for a treat then. Mrs. Wellington, the owner, has employed a cook with exceptional culinary skills. I daresay you’ll not taste better desserts in the finest restaurants in New York.”

  Mrs. Wellington was making her rounds with fresh coffee, and stopped by their table. “George, it’s nice to see you again,” she said. She recognized the tall cowboy sitting across from George as the man she’d seen at Edward McBride’s funeral.

  “Mrs. Wellington, I was just telling Mr. McBride about your delicious food,” George said. “Mr. McBride is the nephew of Edward McBride.”

  “Mr. McBride, I saw you at the funeral. My condolences, sir,” she said.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “George is correct. If you’ve been dining at the hotel, then you will soon make a change once you eat Victoria’s fine fare,” Mrs. Wellington assured him.

  “Then I’m sure sorry this is my last night in St. Louis, since I appreciate a fine meal,” Colt answered politely.

  “I’m sorry to say that Mr. McBride is headed back to Wyoming in the morning,” George offered.

  Mrs. Wellington shook her finger at the banker. “Shame on you for not bringing him to dine before now! You know how bad the food is at that hotel.”

  “I feel so guilty that I’m buying his dinner to make up for my bad manners, so make those steaks extra special tonight,” George responded, looking appropriately repentant.

  Curious about the handsome stranger, Mrs. Wellington lingered at the table. “Would you like cream, sugar?” She’d only seen him at a distance at the funeral, but up close he was even more striking with his impressive size and square-jawed good looks. When he walked into the dining room with that large black Stetson on his head, every patron turned to stare at him.

  “No, ma’am, black is fine,” Colt replied, still smiling at how the Englishwoman had dressed down the banker.

  Mrs. Wellington excused herself to hurry to the kitchen. She simply couldn’t wait another second to tell Victoria about the handsome cowboy. “Victoria! Oh mercy! You should see the cowboy in the dining room. He is the biggest man I have ever seen, his shoulders are so wide he barely fit through the doorway. A stunning man. He is the nephew of Edward McBride, the owner of the sawmill, who died recently. His eyes are actually black, I’ve never seen anyone with black eyes, but his are as black as sin . . .” She drew in a deep breath and continued, “His hair is black as coal too, wavy and shiny, and though a bit too long in my opinion, it is quite attractive on him.”

  Mrs. Wellington was still prattling on, but Victoria paid little attention; she was busy preparing the orders and she didn’t want to make a mistake. “Hmm,” was her only response.

  “George Milford—you know, banker Milford—said Mr. McBride was from Wyoming. Perhaps he knows some of your relatives. That would be an excellent way to start a conversation with him. It helps to have something in common,” Mrs. Wellington added just in case the young woman had forgotten how to converse with a man. She rarely had interactions with men, other than to take their orders in the dining room.

  Ignoring her running commentary, Victoria thrust two platters filled with steaks sizzling and a mountain of mashed potatoes into her hands. “This is the order for table six.”

  Mrs. Wellington hesitated, and pushed the platters back toward Victoria. “Why don’t you take these out so you can get a look at that cowboy? Mercy me, he is so handsome. You simply must go take a peek! It’s not often a woman gets the chance to see a man like that!”

  Disregarding the proffered plates, as well as Mrs. Wellington’s excitement over the cowboy in the dining room, Victoria turned back to the stove. “We have a lot of orders, Mrs. Wellington, and I need to get them done.” She didn’t have time to waste; she had more steaks to cook and two pies in the oven that she needed to watch. Besides that, if she never saw another cowboy in her life it would be fine with her.

  They’d had similar conversations before, and Mrs. Wellington knew what was on Victoria’s mind. “I know what you are thinking, dear. Not all men are like some of the no-account cowboys that come in here from time to time being a nuisance. Some men are decent men who may actually want a wife.” She pointed a finger in the direction of the dining room. “That cowboy out there seems particularly well mannered.”

  “I’ve seen enough cowbo
ys to know what they are like,” Victoria countered. Her thoughts drifted back to that night in Abilene when a drunken cowboy had nearly raped her in her room. She was just fifteen at the time. After the hardships she’d faced in her young life, not much frightened her. Yet she hadn’t overcome her fear of most men . . . cowboys in particular. No, she didn’t have an interest in any cowboy. She hoped the letter in her apron pocket was from anyone but a cowboy. “No cowboy I want to meet will walk through that door,” she said with conviction.

  Mrs. Wellington released an indignant huff of air. “You never know who will walk through that door. Just think how I was blessed when you and your brothers showed up on my doorstep.” Seeing she wasn’t going to change Victoria’s mind, and not wanting the food to get cold, she took the platters and turned to the door, muttering to herself, “The Good Lord can get them in the door, but you need to help Him out once in a while and show yourself.” It wasn’t that she didn’t understand Victoria’s hesitancy to meet men. Many times she was forced to intervene when men were behaving badly toward Victoria, so her caution was well-founded. The girl drew attention simply because she was so lovely and men naturally gravitated to her.

  When the dinner rush was over, Victoria set about cleaning the kitchen. Once she finished washing the pots and pans, she walked to the dining room to help Mrs. Wellington clear the tables. It was a relief to see the dining room nearly empty; there were only three tables with diners left. After clearing off several tables, Victoria moved to a table next to one occupied by four rough-looking cowboys.

  Colt spotted Victoria as soon as she walked into the room, as did the four cowboys across the room. The foursome were difficult to ignore; they had been loud and obnoxious since they’d entered the dining room. Right now their full attention was on the lovely woman in the yellow dress as she moved around the room collecting dishes.