A Cowboy Unmatched Read online

  © 2014 by Karen Witemeyer

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6337-7

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Excerpt from Full Steam Ahead

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  About the Author

  Books by Karen Witemeyer

  Back Ads

  Chapter 1

  TEXAS PANHANDLE

  SUMMER 1893

  Neill Archer sighed and slouched a bit in the saddle when he caught his first glimpse of Dry Gulch. Another dusty, dirt-colored town in the middle of nowhere. And to think when he first left his family’s ranch two years ago, he’d hungered for wide-open spaces. What he wouldn’t give to be hemmed in by those big, beautiful Archer pines right about now. But he hadn’t earned his right to return to them. Not yet.

  Straightening his spine, he clicked his tongue and urged his sturdy roan forward. A new town—no matter how dusty—meant new opportunities and the possibility of work. He’d left home with a goal, and he’d not falter in his pursuit of it—not when he was so close to his target.

  The deep bong of a church bell reverberated through the crisp morning air, drawing Neill down Dry Gulch’s main street. Townsfolk trudged along boardwalks on either side of him, past a general store, a bank, and even a diner. Maybe Dry Gulch had more to offer than he’d first thought.

  A wagon, its bed overflowing with a passel of young’uns spit shined and Sunday ready, rolled ahead of him. The oldest girl smiled shyly up at him as he came alongside. Neill tipped his hat in response, which set the boys to hootin’ and hollerin’ and the younger girls to gigglin’. The poor gal turned apple red and tried to hide beneath the brim of her bonnet. Yet she managed a bit of well-aimed retribution when the toe of her shoe collided rather squarely with the length of the loudest boy’s thigh.

  Neill hid his grin and nudged Mo into a trot, taking him past the wagon before the squabble escalated to a level that required parental interference. He and his brothers used to tease and tussle like that, too. Of course, there hadn’t been any parents to interfere, so there’d been more than one occasion when a good-natured wrestling match spiraled into a fistfight. But even in those cases, the family bond never wavered. They were brothers—brothers who would stand together no matter what trouble came calling.

  He missed that security, the assurance that someone always had his back. But then, that was part of the reason he’d left. He needed to prove to himself, and to his brothers, that he was his own man, able to make his way in the world without them breaking everything in for him first.

  Crossing into the churchyard, Neill guided Mo over to where the other horses stood tethered near some cedar shrubs, nibbling at the few tufts of grass that thrust up from the hard-packed earth. He dismounted, pulled his Bible from his saddlebag, and gave Mo a fond pat on the neck before striding toward the church steps.

  It was still early, so people were milling around outside, visiting with friends and neighbors while children ran circles around the periphery, releasing their excess energy before they were confined to a pew. Neill inserted himself among a group of men and quickly made an introduction.

  “Neill Archer,” he said, offering each man his hand in turn. “Fine town you got here. Gives a man hope he might find work with so many folks about.”

  A portly gentleman in a fine gray suit eyed him speculatively, though not unkindly. “What kind of work you looking for, son?”

  Son? Neill bit back his distaste for the term. Son, kid, boy—he’d been defined by those terms all his life. He was twenty-eight years old, for crying out loud. Shouldn’t he have outgrown such monikers by now?

  But getting riled wouldn’t help him find work, so Neill shrugged off his pique and addressed the man who’d offered the question. “I’ve done a bit of everything, really. Ranch hand, cattle drover . . . I’ve laid track for the railroad, put up windmills, built barns, repaired roofs, dug wells.”

  The sound of an indrawn breath behind him drew Neill’s head around. A willowy blond woman jerked her head away the instant his gaze landed on her, but he’d caught a glimpse of interest lurking in her light blue eyes before she’d shuttered them.

  He turned back to the men and grinned. “I’m open to any honest labor with a decent wage attached.”

  The men returned his grin with genuine warmth and nods of understanding.

  “Old man Johnson might need some help around his place,” one of the men suggested. “His gout’s been acting up, and he ain’t been able to finish fencin’ off that back pasture like he wanted.”

  Neill’s spirits lifted, only to plummet when a third man shook his head. “Naw. His boys rode in from Amarillo last week and finished stringing the wire. Good boys, Thomas and Grant. Wish mine helped out half as much around our homestead.”

  “They got their own farms to tend, Yancy. You know that. You can’t expect them to work both your spread and their own.”

  Apparently Yancy could, and that was all it took to veer the conversation off course. Neill held his tongue while the men debated the level of involvement sons owed their fathers. Maybe he’d have a chance to bring the issue up again later. Besides, the parson had started waving people into the building.

  As he passed through the doorway into the sanctuary, he scanned the crowd for the woman he’d seen outside. Perhaps she knew of some work in the area. He spotted a woman with pale blond hair and a dress that looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t have said for sure that it was the same one he’d seen outside. She was already seated in a pew, so all he could see were her shoulders and the back of her head, but he decided it wouldn’t hurt to look for a place to sit in her vicinity. He spotted a vacant seat in the row in front of her, so he slipped into it and turned to introduce himself—only to find her immersed in a whispered conversation with the child seated next to her. Not wanting to intrude, Neill twisted to face the front and bit back an impatient sigh. He’d just have to wait until worship concluded to speak to her.

  Except when worship concluded, she’d disappeared again.

  It was probably his fault he’d missed her. Feeling a tug on his heart, he had kept his head bowed for an extra moment or two after the preacher’s amen rang through the church. He’d add a few thoughts of his own to the prayer before rising—requests for patience and greater trust in the Lord’s provision. He guessed he shouldn’t be surprised then to find himself in particular need of those qualities when his one hope for an employment lead had
vanished.

  Neill shook his head and smiled at the irony. Well, Lord, the Good Book says you know what we need before we ask. Guess I just proved that, huh?

  He visited a bit with the people around him, then reached for the Bible he’d left sitting on the pew. Odd. He didn’t recall that piece of paper protruding from the pages. He pulled it free and turned it over to find a message written in an elegant hand.

  Roofer needed to repair widow’s home. Salary to be paid half up front to cover supplies, half when job is completed. Only men of upstanding character need apply.

  Interested parties should meet at the schoolhouse at 7:00 p.m. Monday evening for more details.

  Neill jerked his head up and scoured the chapel for anyone who might have left the note. Had it been the mysterious vanishing woman? The note’s script certainly appeared feminine. And refined. But she was nowhere in sight.

  He turned back to the scrap of paper in his hand. It was worded like a newspaper ad. Perhaps whoever had placed the ad in the paper had heard that he was looking for work and stuck the original copy in his Bible to make sure he saw it. Or maybe God’s provision moved faster than he’d anticipated.

  Neill grinned as he stuffed the note into his coat pocket. He needed to see about a hotel room for the night. He had a job interview tomorrow.

  A dim light was flickering inside the schoolhouse when Neill arrived promptly at seven o’clock the following night. At the door, he pulled off his hat and took a minute to smooth his hair before entering. The door swung in easily at his push, the hinges well oiled. But when he crossed the threshold, he frowned.

  The place was empty.

  Where were the other applicants? Neill’s gaze swept over the empty student desks to the front of the room, where a lantern sat on a table, its muted glow casting shadows on the floor and into the corners. Had the man doing the hiring been called away unexpectedly?

  Neill took a tentative step down the deserted aisle. Should he wait? See if the man returned? Setting his hat atop one of the student desks, Neill glanced back out the door standing open behind him. He saw no one. He half expected some kid to slam the door shut and lock him in, then run off laughing with a wild tale to tell his friends about the prank he played on the stranger.

  But that wouldn’t fit with the handwriting on the note. It had been anything but juvenile.

  He took out his watch and checked the time: 7:05. Might as well wait. Someone had left that lantern, after all. The student desks were too small for his long, lanky frame, so he strode to the front of the room, thinking to borrow the teacher’s chair. That’s when he saw the envelope.

  It lay on the table, a few inches in front of the lantern. His name, slightly misspelled—people often left off the second l in Neill when they didn’t know him—was scrawled across the front. He picked it up and glanced inside. A twenty-dollar banknote and directions to the home of a widow Danvers.

  Who would leave twenty dollars just lying around like this? Anyone could simply take it and leave the widow high and dry. Or wet, he supposed, since the woman needed a new roof.

  Neill had never known his mother, but his best friend’s mother had filled that role for him later in life, not caring a whit that his skin was white where Myra’s was brown. What if she were in the widow Danvers’s position? Aged and frail, no husband or sons to take care of her? Neill would go to the ends of the earth to see she was provided for. Apparently this Danvers woman had no menfolk around to fill that need.

  Well, the envelope was addressed to him, which meant the widow and her leaky roof were his responsibility now. And Archers never shirked their responsibilities. Neill slipped the envelope into a pocket in the lining of his coat and turned down the wick of the lantern until it sputtered and went out.

  Whoever had put this little scheme in motion had handpicked him for the job, and he aimed to see it through.

  Chapter 2

  Neill took the third turnoff as instructed and guided the rented team over a narrow bridge that spanned one of the waterless gullies that must have inspired the town’s name. Spotting the widow Danvers’s windmill, Neill flicked the reins over the horses’ backs and urged them to a quicker pace. Harness jangled and wheels creaked, adding harmony to the rhythmic clacking of the windmill’s spinning blades as the house came into view.

  Shack might be a better term. The weathered building listed to one side, like a sapling buffeted by constant wind. The thing didn’t need a new roof. It needed to be torn down and completely rebuilt.

  Too bad there weren’t any trees around. He might have been able to shore the thing up a bit with some chinked logs, but all his wagon carried by way of supplies were shingles, a keg of barbed nails, a few rolls of roofing felt, cement paste, and a handful of tools. Somehow he doubted he’d be able to do much with a hammer, jackknife, and cement brush. Maybe the late Mr. Danvers had some tools or scrap lumber Neill could put to use. He hated to think of some frail gray-haired lady putting her foot through a rotted step or having part of a wall collapse on her. He wouldn’t mind spending an extra day or two making sure the place was habitable before he left.

  Neill pulled the wagon to a halt and set the brake. “Hello, in the house!” he called as he climbed down from the bench. “I’m here to fix your roof.”

  The door inched open far enough to allow the twin barrels of a shotgun to emerge through the crack.

  “I don’t know who you are, stranger,” a feminine voice rang out, “but I made no arrangements for any roofing to be done. I’ll thank you to get back in your wagon and leave the way you came.”

  Neill stilled. Mrs. Danvers sure held that gun with a steady grip for a widow lady. And that voice sounded none too frail, either. Neill raised his hands, the leather work gloves itching against his empty palms. He took one step back toward the wagon—and the rifle waiting beneath the driver’s seat.

  “I was hired by someone in town, ma’am,” he explained. “They paid up front for the supplies and gave me instructions on how to get to your place. Unless you’re not Widow Danvers.”

  The implied question hung in the air for several tense heartbeats. Finally, the shotgun lowered and the door opened wide enough to give the widow room to step through.

  “I’m Clara Danvers.”

  Three things registered in Neill’s mind simultaneously. The widow Danvers wasn’t old. She wasn’t frail. And she sure as shootin’ hadn’t been a widow very long.

  Clara maintained her grip on Matthew’s old shotgun while she took the stranger’s measure. Tall, lanky, a friendly enough smile. The few lines he sported around his eyes from years of squinting against the sun were the only indication of his age. Well, that and the way his stance radiated readiness. This was a man who’d seen trouble and had learned to be wary. Strong of spirit as well as body. But could he be trusted? What if her father-in-law had hired a new hand? It would be just like Mack Danvers to send the man to prod her into agreeing to his demands.

  Her hand instinctively lifted to cradle her rounded belly. She’d die before she gave up her child.

  Swinging the shotgun up in front of her, Clara caught the barrels in her free hand. She didn’t take aim at the stranger, simply held the weapon across her body, letting him know she wasn’t a helpless female. “You tell Mack Danvers that my answer hasn’t changed since the last time he visited. I’ll not be taking him up on his offer. Now, be on your way.”

  The stranger cocked his head, furrows etching his brow. “I don’t know any Mack Danvers, ma’am. A lady in town wrote out instructions on how to find your place and gave me funds to purchase supplies. Here, I’ll show you.” He reached inside his coat.

  Clara tensed and had both barrels pointed at his gut faster than he could blink. “Keep your hands where I can see ’em, mister.”

  He eased his hand back out. “I don’t mean you any harm, Mrs. Danvers. Tell you what. Why don’t I step a few paces over here”—he nodded toward an area an equal distance from the wagon and the house—“and yo
u can come take a look at what’s in the wagon. See the roofing supplies for yourself. Then if you want to see the note, I’ll give that to you, as well.”

  Clara hesitated. It could be some kind of trick. Yet the man had no weapon on him that she could discern. If she kept an eye on him, she should be able to check out his story safely enough. She nodded her agreement.

  With hands lifted in the air, the man took four long strides away from the wagon. Clara adjusted her position as he moved, keeping the shotgun trained on him until she reached the porch steps. Her overlarge belly made navigating the three stairs awkward since she couldn’t grasp the railing for support, but she took her time and made it to the ground without incident.

  Once at the wagon, she flashed a quick glance into the bed. Roofing supplies. Just like he’d said.

  “Who’d you say hired you?” Her grip on the shotgun relaxed. She lowered the weapon, then reached around with her left hand to rub at the sore spot on her lower back. Tension was taking its toll.

  “I don’t rightly know, ma’am.” The stranger made no attempt to approach her, and she found her suspicions waning despite his lack of clear answers. “I rode into Dry Gulch on Sunday and attended worship. I let it be known that I was looking for work, and after services, I found a note regarding a roofing job stuck in my Bible. I followed the instructions, and the next evening found an envelope with your name and directions inside, along with enough funds to buy supplies and the promise of further payment when the job is complete.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I think your benefactor wants to remain anonymous.”

  Clara leaned against the side of the wagon, hope struggling to find purchase in her battered heart. For the last month she’d been slaving over the worthless pile of sticks her wastrel of a husband had left her, trying to make it safe for her baby. She’d patched cracks with sod to keep the wind and vermin out, repaired the broken step with a scrap from the busted barn door, and scoured the place from top to bottom. Twice.

  If she’d learned nothing else over her twenty years of life, she’d learned that a woman carrying Comanche blood in her veins couldn’t depend on neighbors to lend a helping hand. Or husbands. Or men who were supposed to be family.