Spotlight & Giveaway: The Cowboy’s Marriage of Convenience by Elizabeth Jane Adams

Chapter One

Early October 1873

Don’t borrow trouble. The thought came to Andie in her mother’s east Texas drawl. Mama used to give her that advice whenever she was worried about something. These days she didn’t have time to borrow trouble. She was too busy working the farm alone.

She sighed and looked at the sky. The wind smelled like rain, and she didn’t like the strange grayish green of the churning clouds. Fixing the leaking roof couldn’t be put off another hour. The sun still hung low on the eastern horizon, but she’d already completed most of the barn chores and had fed the chickens. Gathering eggs would have to wait.

Andie climbed the last few rungs of the ladder and dumped the bag of tools and supplies onto the roof. She scanned the farm. It appeared different from this vantage point. The chickens looked minuscule scratching in the yard. Branches from her mother’s beloved pecan trees obscured some of her view, but beyond them her eyes were drawn to the live oak at the crest of the hill and the three wooden crosses beneath it. She closed her eyes and sucked in a sharp breath. Sometimes it hit her like a fist to her stomach … they were all gone. A strong gust of wind rattled the trees and lifted George’s hat from her head, breaking her reflection. With a yelp, she grabbed the hat and jammed it down around her ears. She needed to quit dawdling and get to work.

She knelt and ran her hand over the uneven wooden sheathing and the worn tar paper beneath it. Biting her lip, she considered how to start. Why did it seem at least once a day she encountered something she didn’t know how to do, despite the fact she’d been her father’s shadow and he was always teaching her? Oh, how she missed him. His no-nonsense manner. His easy smile. His ready advice. What do I do now, Dad? Her father’s voice clipped in her head. Just do the next thing.

With a sigh, she picked up a slab of wood and tried to fit it over the gaping crack. It was too thick. She chose a handsaw and placed the block on end, but before she could begin the cut, the dogs began to bark. What now?

Biscuit, the little white and black terrier mix, leapt off the porch and tore down the path toward the property line. Tater, the red-tick coonhound, was right behind him stirring up dust. Andie stood to get a better look at what they were after. Tarnation! In the distance, a man was headed toward her homestead. He was on foot and leading a horse. She couldn’t tell much about him, except he appeared to be tall and dressed as a cowhand. His Stetson shadowed his face, tan chaps covered long legs, and a pistol hung low on his hip. She knew all the locals and their horses, and she definitely didn’t know him or the buckskin he was leading. A heavy weight settled in the pit of her stomach and her heart hammered. Don’t borrow trouble, she reminded herself.

She picked up the rifle her father taught her to never be without and considered her situation. She was a woman alone in the middle of nowhere. Drifters had come by the homestead many times before, but Dad had always handled them. Her hands shook a little as she double-checked the .44 Winchester’s chamber. It was loaded, as she knew it would be. What use is an unloaded gun? her father had always said. Satisfied, she closed the rifle and cocked it. A bead of sweat slid down her brow and she wiped it away.

The man was now to the post that marked the edge of the property, which made him within rifle range. Tater stopped several feet in front of the stranger, threw his head back, and bayed loud and deep. Biscuit darted forward, causing the horse to shy and pull back on his lead.

“Biscuit, Tater, halt! Halt, boys!” The dogs moved away from the man and his horse but continued to bark. Andie raised the rifle to her shoulder. “You there!” she shouted. “What’s your business?” She hoped he couldn’t hear the quaver in her voice.

The man turned back from calming his horse and removed his hat in a display of good will. With a horse lead in one hand and a hat in the other, he showed he didn’t have a gun ready. “I’m just passin’ through. My horse is lame and needs a few days to rest up.” He took a couple of steps forward. “Is your pa around?”

Andie lowered the rifle a bit and studied the stranger. He’d been on the trail awhile. His dark hair was too long and his clothing was dusty. The most intense eyes she’d ever seen regarded her, making her aware of how she must look in her brother’s oversize clothes. Self-consciously, she hiked up the baggy britches where they sagged at her waist. “He’s gone huntin’. I expect ’im anytime,” she lied. Her mouth was as dry as week-old bread.

The man nodded. “What’s your name?”

“Andie. What’s yours?”

“John David Morrison, at your service.” He gestured cordially with his hat and placed it back on his head. “Folks call me JD.”

Andie watched the man as he surveyed the homestead. “This sure is a pretty, little spread. Your pa must be proud you’re such a hard worker. Not every man can leave for a spell and know his boy will keep workin’ while he’s gone.”

JD’s remark took Andie by surprise, and she felt a stab of embarrassment. She’d never considered he might think she was a boy. Her mother would have been appalled to see her dressed like this to receive a guest. George had been taller and broader than her, and his clothes hung on her slender frame, his britches cinched with a rope. Then the nickname her father had given her was decidedly masculine. Her mother had always called her Andrea, but Dad and George had never called her anything but Andie. With a start, she realized he was waiting for an answer with one black eyebrow raised. Should she tell him she’s a grown woman? He was bigger than most of the men she knew from town, muscular from physical labor, and he was armed. Best to let him think I’m a boy.

“I reckon he’s proud.” She tried to make her voice sound deeper.

“I was hopin’ to ask him if I can work in exchange for a couple days’ lodgin’. Ol’ Pistol here needs to mend up. He’s got a stone bruise, and there’s a storm brewin’.” The wind lifted his gray hat off his head as if to emphasize the imminent weather change. His dark hair ruffled as he grabbed his Stetson and jammed it back on his head. “Maybe I can help you with the roof while we wait for his return. I know a bit about carpentry and roofin’.”

Andie chewed her lip and considered her options. She didn’t want this scruffy cowpoke to stay. No one needed to know she was out here alone. On the other hand, she did need help with the roof. In the end, the approaching storm and the injured horse pricked her conscience. It would be inhospitable to turn them away, and her mother taught her better. As long as this JD feller thought she was a boy and left in a couple of days, it should be okay.

“Put your horse in the barn,” she directed. “My dad has some salve that works real good. I’ll bring you some in a few minutes.”

JD dipped his chin in agreement, then squatted and held out his fist toward the dogs. Biscuit sidled up and sniffed it, his tail low. She could hear the man murmuring encouragement to the dogs as they came forward to investigate. Tater, ever the hound dog and all nose, snuffled his legs, back, and hat. JD remained still for his inspection. Finally, the dogs were satisfied and moved away from him, tails wagging. Only then did he stand and begin leading his horse toward the barn, Biscuit following in his wake.

From her vantage point on the roof, Andie watched his distinctive rolling gait as he sauntered away. Now you’re in a fix, girl. She slung the rifle over her shoulder and began to climb down the ladder. What’re you gonna tell him when your dad doesn’t come home from huntin’? How long do you think he’s gonna believe you’re a boy? He can’t stay more than a couple of days, that’s for sure. Andie sighed. Trouble seemed to come whether she borrowed it or not.