Seven Brides for Seven Texans Romance Collection
Amanda Barratt
Prologue
by Erica Vetsch
New Year’s Day, 1874
7 Heart Ranch, Hartville, Texas
Quiet down, now.” George Washington Hart put his hands flat on the dining room table and levered himself upright. “I have something to say.”
Deep voices stilled and masculine laughter died.
Looking down the long expanse of walnut laid out in china, silver, and crystal, he surveyed five of his seven sons. Dark-haired, with either blue eyes or brown, depending on whether they took after his late wife or himself, intelligent, strong, capable, God-fearing. Ranging in age from thirty-four down to twenty-three, they were strapping examples of Texan manhood. Everything a man could ask for in his progeny.
Except for one thing.
Not a one of them had seen fit to marry and give him some grandchildren.
But all that was going to change or his name wasn’t George Washington Hart. After all, he wasn’t getting any younger, and the doc over in San Antonio said the sand might be trickling through his hourglass faster than he thought.
“You boys have made me proud, and that’s a fact. And like my father before me, I always planned to give my sons their inheritance while I was still around to watch them enjoy it.”
Eyebrows rose, and the boys looked at one another and then back at him. GW turned to the portrait over the fireplace behind him. Victoria’s lovely brown eyes stared down at him, and his heart jerked, the way it always did when he thought of his bride, gone from them more than a decade now. “Your mother, God rest her soul, would agree with what I’m about to do.”
“What’s that, Pa?” Hays, his youngest, asked from the far end of the table.
Crockett shoved Hays with his elbow. “If you’ll keep your tater trap shut for a minute, he’ll tell us.”
“My tater trap? You’ve been talking flat stick through the whole meal. My ears are worn out listening to you,” Hays shot back.
“Knock it off, both of you.” Austin, the eldest, leaned forward from his seat at GW’s left hand and sent them his best glare. “Go ahead, Pa.”
“Thank you. Hey, Perla,” GW called out into the hallway. “Bring our guest in.”
The housekeeper led Harley P. Burton through the doors. The arrival of the lawyer had all the boys sitting up straighter, with the exception of Bowie, who scowled and leaned forward so his hair fell over his face. His shoulders hunched, and he put his elbows on the table, bringing his hands up and lacing his fingers. He pressed his lips against his thumbs and went still.
GW shook his head over his second born’s insecurities. Wounded and captured at Gettysburg, Bowie had never gotten over the loss of his left eye or the black-powder burns that colored the left side of his neck and face. Always a taciturn kid, he’d become even more so over the years. Bowie was the one GW worried about the most once his announcement was made, though none of them would be particularly happy with his decision.
“Harley.” GW motioned him over.
“Happy New Year, GW.” The lawyer, rotund and jolly, shifted his satchel and held out his hand.
“And to you. Did you bring them? Any trouble at the courthouse?”
“No, it’s all done.” Harley looked around for a place to sit, and Austin hopped up.
“Take my seat, sir.”
Harley nodded and eased his bulk into the walnut high-backed chair. The letters SAH had been carved into the wood by a master craftsman.
Stephen Austin Hart.
Each of his sons, named after famous residents of the Great State of Texas, had their own monogrammed chair and place at the table. His wife’s idea when they finished building the house known as El Regalo, carrying on the tradition of naming Hart sons after famous Americans.
Now her chair and Houston’s and Chisholm’s were empty. Houston had left home years ago to make his fortune in California, and Chisholm was a Texas Ranger, chasing down outlaws, preserving the peace, and returning to El Regalo and the 7 Heart whenever he could. The last time they had all been together had been before the War, which was another reason for GW’s decision. It was high time his sons remembered their roots.
Austin moved down the table and dropped into Houston’s chair. The lawyer fussed with his bag, digging out paperwork and seven sealed envelopes. “Here you are, GW.”
Now that the moment was upon him, GW paused. This was going to be like throwing a stick of dynamite into a chicken coop. It might rain feathers for a long time. He strengthened his resolve. In the weeks since the doctor had given him the long face, he’d been planning this. If his sons wouldn’t get up off their pockets and see to their futures, then he would.
Fanning the seven envelopes out, he cleared his throat. “What I’m holding here are the deeds to seven parcels of the 7 Heart Ranch. One for each of you.”