September 28, 1874
Bowie Hart eased into the foyer of El Regalo and leaned his rifle against the hall tree, his chest heavy and mind preoccupied. Perla, the housekeeper, flashed him a smile as she disappeared through a doorway into the back of the house. She’d been in her element, what with all the recent engagement parties and weddings in the Hart family. The place had been in an uproar for months.
Bowie missed the quiet rhythm of the days before Pa’s ultimatum.
Stonewall nosed his way past the front door, his nails clicking on the hardwood, tail wagging. Bowie rubbed the dog’s head, making his ears flop. Perla always frowned on Bowie letting one of his cow dogs into the house, but she had a soft spot for Stonewall. Bowie had found the pup nearly drowned when his cruel owner had tossed him into a burlap bag and thrown him into the Sabinal River, and Perla had helped Bowie nurse the sodden pup back to health.
“Stay here, and don’t chew on anything.” Stonewall dropped to his belly and rested his chin on his outstretched paws. For such a large and athletic dog, the Catahoula leopard obeyed well, trained to voice and hand signals into the best cow dog in Texas. Bowie bent and gave him another pat before heading toward Pa’s office. It was well past the time he and Pa had a talk.
Five weddings so far, and Austin’s most likely not far away. All six of his brothers married, taking up their inheritance just as their father wished. Ha, wished? Commanded was more like. Marry or be disinherited. Bowie’s gut tightened every time he thought about it
That would leave Bowie as the sole remaining bachelor … and likely to stay that way.
He moved down the hallway, the thick carpet muffling his steps. As he approached the heavy pocket doors, male voices drifted through the slight opening, and Bowie stilled, not wanting to interrupt.
“This year’s worked out even better than I could’ve hoped. All you boys toppling like bowling pins. Five in nine months, and I expect you have a plan to find yourself a bride?”
Pa. Bowie closed his eyes, picturing his father leaning back in his office chair, propping his boots up on the corner of his immense desk. Satisfaction colored his every word. And why shouldn’t it? His sons had lined up and marched to his tune right on the beat.
“I’ll admit, I was sore when you rolled out this plan on New Year’s Day, but I can’t argue with the results.”
Bowie’s older brother, Austin. He’d confided to Bowie that he had been kicking around the risky idea of sending off for a mail-order bride, a notion Bowie had considered for himself and discarded … quickly. Still, Austin would get something worked out before the end of the year. Another party for Perla to plan. Seems they’d hardly gotten any ranching done around these parts all year. Bowie took a step toward the door but stopped when Austin spoke again.
“Pa, the boys and I have been talking it over, and we think you should let Bowie out of the marriage requirement.”
Bowie sucked in a slow breath, and feathers of unease rippled across his chest. His brothers had been talking about him? His muscles tensed, and he discovered his hands had fisted at his sides.
“I mean, it’s already near October, and he hasn’t found a wife, and I don’t think he’s even going to try. Are you really going to take his part of the ranch away from him? Hasn’t he been through enough?”
Bowie wanted to leave, but his boots stuck to the rug. Twin flames burned in the pit of his stomach, one of shame and one of hope. Shame that even his brothers recognized no woman would ever marry the likes of him, and hope that perhaps his pa would renege and let him out of the marry-or-be-disinherited clause of the will.
Pa’s chair creaked. Bowie could picture him rubbing his chin, his eyes sharp as flint. “I’ll admit, the thought has crossed my mind, but”—his hand smacked the desk—“he’s got to at least try. Otherwise he’s going to spend his life alone.”
“Maybe that’s what he wants. And where is he going to find someone to marry him? If his battle scars don’t put the ladies off, his surly disposition will. I heard in town that someone suggested starting a betting pool. Which of your sons would marry in what order, and they were offering some pretty tall odds on Bowie, but there weren’t even any takers. I doubt there’s a woman in the county who can even look him in the face to talk to, much less walk down the aisle with him. And it’s nearly too late for a mail-order bride.”
Bowie’s skin prickled, and anger speared through him. Anger at the ignorant townsfolk who were looking on his family’s private business as sport, at himself for caring at all what anyone thought, and anger at God for not letting him die on the battlefield at Gettysburg or in Elmira prison where he’d sat out the duration of the War. Anything would be better than being the object of his brothers’ pity or the ridicule of the good people of Hartville, Texas.