Here Comes the Bride

She melted against him, into him, her face turned up to meet his. His lips were warm and sweet against hers, gently coaxing a response from her.

Tess floated away on that dream, knowing on more than one level it was simply that—a dream—but refusing to give it up yet. Her mouth curved into an unconscious smile. If dreaming were the only way she could have Gabriel, then she would dream forever.

And that was how Gabe found her a short while later—a beautiful angel lying in a bed of flowers, her only cover the huge blanket of stars above. His heart ached to look at her. It would be so easy to scoop her up and take her home, to give her anything and everything she wanted, to love her, to make love to her.

To love her.

ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

This book is dedicated to Wendy Evans who inspired, encouraged, and, when necessary, administered perfectly aimed swift kicks. And to Ron. Always.

 

The author would like to acknowledge with thanks:

 

My husband, Ron, and our three boys, Thomas, Michael and John, for giving me the space and time to dream.

 

My editor, Hilary Sares, for giving wings to the dream.

 

My agent, Jenny Bent, and her assistant, Michelle, for keeping the dreamer focused.

 

My mom, Arlene, for instilling in me a love of books and Abu Ben Adam; my dad, Doug for keeping the stories
he
could tell to himself; Annie, Don, and Sooze for letting me be the youngest and enjoying all the perks that go with that.

 

The best group of writers I could hope to be part of. Your honesty is always appreciated (maybe not right when you say it, but certainly after enough time has passed and enough chocolate eaten).

 

And to the debs who offered an unending supply of guidance, wisdom and apple turnovers.

 

Tess Kinley wanted to die. Six days on the stage, driven by the devil himself, was more than a body could be expected to endure. There wasn’t a single pothole or creek bed between Butte and Porter Creek she had not been jolted through; not a single filthy station missed; not a single decent meal eaten. She had not bathed in a week, nor had she washed or changed her clothes. Her weakened stomach had long since revolted against the onslaught of such offenses, and although she had not disgraced herself in front of anyone else yet, she would not have cared one little bit if she had.

The stage turned over on two separate occasions, and one of the poor old horses was shot when its left hind leg snapped after becoming entwined in the wreckage. They’d been stuck up to the axles in mud after a three-day downpour, and during this time Tess’s vocabulary became significantly extended through the teachings of Mr. Forbes, the stage driver.

She could have gotten off the stage at any point along the way, and probably should have, but with every mile she was able to endure, she had one less mile to go; one mile farther from her nightmare; one mile closer to her dream.

Bumped, bruised, scraped and scratched, she had, by some small miracle, lived through it and arrived at the Porter Creek station in one piece—sicker than she ever would have imagined, but alive nonetheless. Her stomach continued to roll for hours afterward, bile threatening with every intake of breath. At one point Tess was certain she had in fact died and gone to hell, but the elusive peace that comes only with death continued to taunt from within her scattered dreams. A dear old woman bundled Tess in a thin gray blanket and took her to El Cielo where she helped Tess up the stairs and into a huge soft bed.

With filtered sunshine bathing the room in a heavenly glow, Tess’s angel appeared. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined an angel dressed in a beat-up black Stetson or a past-faded chambray shirt, yet there he was, larger than life and more beautiful than any being, human
or
spiritual, had any right to be. For a moment she thought perhaps he was a dream, a figment of her worn-out, defenseless imagination. But then his mouth opened and what came out was certainly not anything one would expect from a guardian of the soul.

“What the hell d’you mean ‘it’s a girl’? I can see that!” His voice was thunder, beginning as a low rumble and ending in an earth quaking roar that rattled the plate glass windows. “What the hell’s she doing here?”

“You no curse to me, Gabe Calloway! Le debo tomar sobre mi rodilla y le da una azotaina buena.”

If she hadn’t been so tired, Tess would have laughed, or at least offered something to the conversation. But even the thought took too much energy, so she remained as she was, tucked up under the blankets, her amber eyes peering undetected at the huge man-angel and the much shorter, much older woman.

Gabe Calloway, to all outward appearances, seemed the epitome of masculine authority. His solid, six-foot-plus frame fairly filled the doorway when he entered the room—a room he managed to cross in two easy, yet loud, strides. He towered above Tess, his back as straight as could be and his arms, bare to the elbow, crossed over his massive chest. Harsh slate-colored eyes studied her for a moment, his tightened lips paled almost white against sun bronzed skin.

“Why’s she here?”

“How I know?” the woman snapped back. “Amos Hubbard say she friend of Bart Calloway and I take home.”

A derisive snort sounded from Tess’s angel. “Well, you were with her the entire way home. Did she say anything?”

The woman’s head shook slowly. “
Nada
.
La niña
no feel good.”

“I can see that, Rosa. Didn’t Amos tell you anything else?”

Another head shake. “Amos Hubbard say she friend of Bart Call—”

“You already said that,” he interrupted. “Where did she come from?”

“Amos Hubbard say Sherman Forbes say Butte.”

“Butte?” Gabe repeated, then muttered, “I don’t know anyone in Butte.”

“Si,” Rosa corrected as she gathered Tess’s dirty clothes from the floor. “Bart Calloway in Butte.”

“Bart’s in Butte?”

“Why you keep say what I say?”

Gabe ignored her. “How do you know where he is?”

“Bart Calloway send letter.”

“When?” Honest surprise filled Gabe’s voice.

Rosa shrugged indifferently as she turned to leave the room.

“Rosa!” he called after her. “What did it say?”

Tess squeezed her eyes tight to fight back the tears of laughter. So maybe he, the beautiful Angel Gabriel, wasn’t the one who reined supreme over all that was Calloway.

“How I know?” Rosa said. “I no read it.”

“Then how the hell d’you know he’s in Butte?”

“You no curse to me, Gabe Calloway! Le debo tomar . . .” Rosa’s reprimand trailed down the stairs behind her.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, okay,” he interrupted again, stomping after her.

 

 

Tess slept the rest of the day, her dreams filled with fanciful imagery of her Stetson-wearing angel with not awing or halo in sight. When she awoke, the sun was low in the western sky, leaving her room basking in the brilliance of the last light of day. The distant horizon was almost too perfect to look at, with its contrasting shades of flaming magentas against the cerulean heavens. This was exactly how she had pictured it; exactly how it had been described in all those books she had read, tucked up alone in her room, before her father . . .

“You’re awake.” Her angel spoke from the open doorway. His voice was so deep, so strong, yet so soft, it sent shivers down her spine.

“Yes,” she answered, suddenly overcome by a wave of panic. What on earth was she doing? She didn’t even know this man, yet here she was, lying half-naked in the most comfortable bed she could remember, with the full intent of making herself indispensable to the Calloway ranch and everyone who lived there.

If Gabe noticed her discomfort, or the way she slowly tightened the blankets around her, he kept it to himself. He carried in a silver tray loaded down with more food than could feed six people, never mind a lone girl.

“Rosa thought you might be hungry,” he stated, avoiding her gaze.

“Thank you.” Tess smiled weakly. “I believe I could eat.”

She carefully adjusted the blanket, managing, somehow, to hold it with one hand and push herself up with the other. She cringed at the sight of her own skin, still gray with grimy road dust. She could only imagine what the rest of her looked like. Tess Kinley prided herself on always looking her best; her ginger-colored hair had never known a dirty day nor had it ever hung in tatters around her shoulders as it did now. She was under no false illusion that she was a beautiful woman, for she knew she was not, but she was clean and, if nothing else, she was a lady. And to Tess Kinley, that was much more important.

Gabe set the tray on the end of the bed and turned to leave.

“Won’t you stay?” The words were out before she realized her mouth was open.

He hesitated but a moment, straightened slightly, then strode to the rocking chair under the window. His long legs stretched out in front of him, boots crossed at the ankles, his hands folded loosely across his belt buckle. His eyes looked everywhere except at her, the muscle in his jaw alternately flexing and relaxing. Tess smiled to herself. He was nervous. Big Gabriel Calloway, master of the house, was uncomfortable sitting in the same room as she. Good.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked, biting into a thick slab of warm buttered bread.

“What?” There was a forced gruffness to his voice, but still he avoided her eyes.

“The sunset,” she answered. “It’s absolutely breathtaking.”

“Yeah.” Gabe shrugged.

A long moment of silence followed in which Tess could feel his eyes watching her, yet every time she looked over, his face was turned away.

“Rosa’s going to want to know your name.”

“Oh yes.” She smiled, wondering if he felt the faint flush that crept up from beneath his collar. “I suppose that would help, wouldn’t it?”

Gabe’s only response was to arch his brow impatiently.

“Tess Kinley,” she said. “And you are Gabriel Calloway.”

At the sound of his name, she watched the fierceness fade from his eyes and the tightness of his jaw relax. What caused him to take in such a huge breath, blink slowly, and exhale in a long, low whistle? The whole episode took but a few heartbeats before his face clouded over again.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

It was certainly not a question, and even though she’d had over a week to perfect her explanation, she knew he would probably laugh her right back to Butte.

“I’m, uh, a . . . friend . . . of Bart’s.” Not really a lie, but not exactly the truth either.

“I gathered as much,” he snipped. “Are you carrying his child?”

Tess choked on her mouthful of bread and took a full two minutes to recover with no help from Gabe.

“Am I
what
?” she cried, wiping her mouth with the blue-checked napkin. “Of all the—”

“Are you?”

“I most certainly am not!” She pushed the tray back and sat up, barely remembering to grab the blanket. “What gives you the right to come in here and—”

“I’ll tell you what gives me the right,” Gabe stormed, heaving himself out of the chair so he towered over her once again. “You show up at my ranch, eat my food, sleep in my house and I don’t—”

“Okay!” she snapped back. “Quit yelling.”

“I’m not yelling!” he roared, then again, only slightly lower, “I’m not yelling.”

“I’d hate to hear what you sound like when you
are
yelling,” she muttered, forcing several deep breaths into her lungs.

“What?” He grasped the footboard and leaned over, menacingly close.

“Nothing.” She should be frightened of this hulking man, but there was something about him that just made her want to hug him.

“Don’t mutter then if you don’t want me to hear what you’re saying.”

“Then don’t yell at me.”

“I’m not yelling!”

The corners of Tess’s eyes began to crinkle, her mouth turning up in an increasing smile. It would only make him more angry, but she just couldn’t help herself. She started to laugh, a giggle at first, and was soon doubled over holding her aching sides as the tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she laughed. “It’s just . . . I . . . Bart . . .”

Gabe crossed his arms over his chest as he straightened.

“Bart,” he snorted. “Tell me how you know him.”

Tess’s laughter faded. This was the tricky part. How to explain her connection to Bart without being tossed out on her ear. It wasn’t hard to see Gabe had little use for his younger brother.

She wiped her eyes and cleared her throat before she started. “I recently became acquainted with Bart when he came to Butte to . . . attend to some business.”

Another snort. “He’s a bounty hunter, lady, not a banker.”

“Yes, well, in any case, that’s how we met.”

“You’re an outlaw?”

“No!”

“But you just said . . .”

“If you’d let me finish,” she muttered. Too late. Most likely he already thought her to be nothing more than a common hoodlum or, worse yet, some kind of tawdry young harlot.

“Speak up.”

“Quit interrupting.”

She thought she saw the beginnings of a smirk flash across his face before he turned away to take his place in the rocking chair.

“As it turned out,” she continued, with more than a little umbrage, “I just so happen to know the man your brother was looking for.”

“Who was it?” His steel gaze fixed on her. The look had probably made more than one person squirm, but she was too incensed to let it bother her.

“His name is Barclay Simms.”

“How do you know him?”

“Does it really matter?” she shot back.

“You tell me.”

“I’m not carrying
his
child either, if that’s what you think.” Not that he hadn’t tried, she shuddered inwardly.

Gabe shrugged. “So?”

“So that’s how I met Bart. He was very kind to me.”

“Of course he was—you’re female!”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Calloway,” she huffed, “but your brother was . . . is . . . every bit the gentleman.”

It was Gabe’s turn to laugh—a deep, rich sound that floated up from his throat. “Bart—a gentleman? I’ve heard him called a lot of things, but a gentleman sure as hell ain’t one of them.”

Tess lost her train of thought the moment he laughed. He was truly beautiful when he wasn’t scowling.

“So if he was so honorable, why are you here instead of with him?”

Tess took a deep breath and released it slowly.

“I’ve always wanted to come out west, to work the land, to really live instead of just being.”

Gabe’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where are you from?”

“Boston originally,” she said and instantly regretted it. His eyes widened in horror and his head shook slowly back and forth.

“A city girl,” he spat out. “Probably come from money, too, don’t you?”

Tess straightened. “My father is an attorney, yes.”

His blatant disgust almost made her feel guilty. Almost.

“I’ll never understand you city folk. What the hell do you think you’re doing out here anyway?”

“I want to be here.”

“Why? Have you ever done a day’s work in your life?” Before Tess could answer, he continued on his rampage. “It’s not what you think it is, city girl. This is real life out here. This is hard work, every minute of every day. There’s no cotillions or fancy socials out here. You’re lucky to see a neighbor once a month, even luckier to get into town to buy supplies every two months. The summers are hotter than hell, and the winters are colder than a witch’s . . .”