The Cowboy Takes a Wife - Davalynn Spencer

The Cowboy Takes a Wife

“Spencer takes the reader into the 19th century and we can smell the coal stove, the mercantile, the barn.”  -K. Parsons

“The Cowboy is definitely a knock-your-boots-off awesome story! I highly recommend it to anyone liking the western-based romance genre.” R. Smith

~Book 1 in the Canon City collection~

1860

Prologue: Annie Whitaker clenched her jaw and wrapped her fingers around the arms of the front-porch rocking chair. It was better than wrapping them around her older sister’s throat.

Of course Edna thought heading for the Rocky Mountains was a bad idea. Everything was a bad idea unless she’d thought of it first.

Perspiration gathered at the nape of Annie’s neck. She uncurled her fingers and relaxed her jaw. Using her sweetest voice, she shifted to Edna’s favorite topic. “Do you have your eye on any particular fella who’s been calling lately?”

Edna batted a silk fan through the heavy air and lowered her gaze. The porch swing creaked as she toed it back and forth. “Maybe,” she said.

Annie rolled her eyes, grateful that Edna couldn’t see out the side of her head like a mule. She rubbed her cheek to hide her smile at the joke.

Annie guessed Jonathan Mitchell topped Edna’s list. He was financially successful, well-bred and handsome in a soft sort of way. And she fully expected Daddy to turn the mercantile over to Mr. Mitchell when he left next month.

When they left.

Annie planned to be on that stagecoach with her father come he—. She stopped at the forbidden word and glanced at  her sister who always managed to read Annie’s improper thoughts.

But why shouldn’t she say that word? It was in the Bible. And it certainly applied to Omaha at the moment, which was heavy and hot as an unbroken fever.

Heat waves rolled over their aunt Harriet’s vast lawns and rippled the distant trees into a surreal horizon. Annie unfastened the top button on her thin blouse. She detested summer—particularly July—almost as much as she disliked Edna’s propensity for being coy.

“Annabelle May.” Edna glared. “Don’t be indecent.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Annie  released the second button out of spite. “It’s unbearably hot, and there’s no one to see besides you and Aunt Harriett. And she’s half-blind.” So much for her “sweet” voice.

“Well, I never.” Edna’s eyelashes whipped up the humidity even more than her fan.

Annie pushed out of the rocker and leaned over the porch railing. Even the copper daylilies bordering the Victorian home struggled to hold their heads up in the afternoon heat.

Edna’s brow glistened with perspiration. “A little warmth does not give a lady license for indecency.”

Tired of the heat as well as Edna’s attitude, Annie stomped her foot and spun toward her sister.

“Daddy wants to go to Cañon City, and I’m going with him. You can stay here in Omaha with all your beaus and Aunt Harriett if you like, but I’m not letting our father go alone.” Annie reset a loose pin in her unruly hair, then fisted her hands on her hips. “It will be an adventure. ‘Pikes Peak or Bust,’ they say. All those gold seekers need to get their supplies from someone. Why not Whitaker’s Mercantile?”

“Humph.” Edna expertly flicked her wrist, folding the hand-painted silk fan for emphasis. “That’s all you think about—adventure. You and Father both.” She palmed damp ringlets off her pale forehead, then reopened the fan for a fresh attack. “I can’t believe he’s willing to pull up and take off for those ragged mountains at his age. He should stay here and increase his holdings. The mercantile is doing quite well. Why start over someplace else and risk losing everything?” Edna fluttered furiously and aimed a guilt-inducing glare at Annie. “Including his life and yours.”

Annie folded her arms. Edna’s threat echoed their aunt’s  petulant scolding. Aunt Harriet was bound by tradition and the social constraints of widowhood, and she dripped resentment over her brother’s freedom to do as he pleased.

Well that was Aunt Harriett’s choice, not Annie’s. Annie preferred to experience all she could, even if it meant risking her life in the Rocky Mountains. Zebulon Pike, John C. Frémont and others had conquered those peaks. Why not Daniel Whitaker and his youngest daughter?

“Cañon City isn’t even established. It’s an upstart supply town, Annie, on Kansas Territory’s farthest edge.”

Annie rested against the railing and focused on the window’s beveled edge behind the swing. “I know what and where it is.”

“What it is is uncivilized.” Edna slowed her silken assault, tempered her tone. “You know what that means. They have no law yet, and probably even less order with all those gold-hungry miners and speculators and wild, drunken cowboys.”

“And bank clerks and preachers and storekeepers.” Annie pressed her open neckline flat against her collarbone. “Be reasonable.”

An unreasonable request when it came to her sister.

Predictably, Edna stiffened and assumed a superior posture. “And Indians. You know wild savages live there, as well as all along the way. Don’t forget what the Utes did at Fort Pueblo just six years ago.”

Annie gritted her teeth, barring hateful words that fought for release. She and her sister had waged this verbal war about the West more times than she cared to count. She refused to chew that piece of meat again.

A rare breeze suddenly swept the wide front porch, and Annie imagined mountain air whispering along high canyons. She braced her hands against the railing, closed her eyes and recalled what she’d read about the Arkansas River falling from the Rockies, cold and full-bellied with snowmelt. A marvelously deep gorge squeezed the river into raging white water and shot it onto the high plains through a wedge-shaped valley. And guarding the mountain gateway, that brand-new town—Cañon City.

Oh, to be part of something new and unpredictable. To see that canyon, and hear the water’s roar…

Edna’s lofty tsk interrupted the daydream. “I know the stories, too.” Annie’s eyes flew open to see her sister’s shaking head and mirthless lips. Edna read her mind as easily as a dime novel.

“Do you know that at last count, Cañon City had only 720 residents?” Edna said.

Annie raised her chin. “Daddy and I have discussed it.”

The fan snapped shut. “Do you know that out of that number, six hundred are men?” Edna shuddered.

“They’re men, Edna. Not animals.”

“Don’t be so sure, dear sister. With numbers like that, I dare say those men are hard-pressed to maintain their humanity.”

“This is 1860, not the Dark Ages.” Annie stepped away from the railing, tempted to undo a third button just to see how fast Edna could flail her fan. “We are going, and we are leaving in three weeks with or without your approval—or Aunt Harriet’s.”

Annie marched into the house and down the hall to the kitchen, where she retrieved the lemonade pitcher from the icebox. No doubt she’d not have such a modern luxury in Cañon City. She poured a glass, let it chill with the cold drink and then held it against her forehead and neck.

The shocking relief conjured images of clear mountain snowmelt. Goose bumps rippled down her spine. The Arkansas must be delightfully cold, nothing like the Big Muddy slogging along dark and murky on its unhurried journey to the Mississippi.

At nearly a mile high, Cañon City was close to Denver City’s famous claim. That in itself had to present a cooler climate. Much more pleasant, even in the summer. She figured Edna didn’t know that.

Guilt knifed between her thoughts, and she regretted her snippy attitude. But Edna infuriated her so. How had they both come from the same parents?

Annie felt a familiar ache. That was one thing Edna did know that Annie did not—their mother’s comforting arms.

She doused the pain with a sweetly sour gulp of lemonade that quite reflected the two Whitaker sisters. Annie fingered the corners of her mouth, certain that she was not the “sweet” one. She and Edna were no more alike than the dresses they wore.  .

Edna was polished satin. Annie, plain calico.

Was that the real reason behind her determination to go west with Daddy?

She slumped into a kitchen chair and traced the delicate needlework on the tablecloth. Several eligible young men called on the fair-haired Edna. But no one called for the wild-maned Annie.

She pushed a loose strand from her forehead as tears stung her eyes. Swallowing the dregs of jealousy, she whispered, “Forgive me, Lord. Help me love my sister. Even if I don’t like her very much sometimes.”

The screen door slammed against its frame, and Edna’s full skirts rustled toward the kitchen.

Annie rushed to the icebox and filled a second glass with lemonade for her sister.

It was the least she could do.

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