Texas Brides: The Rancher and the Runaway Bride & The Bluest Eyes in Texas. Joan Johnston

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      THE NEXT MORNING, Garth and Faron met in the kitchen, as they always did, just before dawn. Charlie One Horse, the part-Indian codger who had been chief cook and bottle washer at Hawk’s Way since their mother had died, had coffee perking and breakfast on the table. Only this morning there was something—someone—missing.

      “Where’s Tate?” Garth asked as he sat down at the head of the table.

      “Ain’t seen her,” Charlie said.

      Garth grimaced. “I suppose she’s sulking in her room.”

      “You drink your coffee, and I’ll go upstairs and check on her,” Faron offered.

      A moment later Faron came bounding into the kitchen. “She’s not there! She’s gone!”

      Garth sprang up from his chair so fast it fell over backward. “What? Gone where?”

      Faron grabbed Garth by the shoulders and said in a fierce voice, “She’s not in her room. Her bed hasn’t been slept in!”

      Garth freed himself and took the stairs two at a time to see for himself. Sure enough, the antique brass double bed was made up with its nubby-weave spread. That alone was an ominous sign. Tate wasn’t known for her neatness, and if she had made up the bed, she had done it to make a statement.

      Garth headed for the closet, his heart in his throat. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw Tate’s few dresses still hanging there. Surely she wouldn’t have left Hawk’s Way for good without them.

      Garth turned and found Faron standing in the doorway to Tate’s room. “She probably spent the night sleeping out somewhere on the ranch. She’ll turn up when she gets hungry.”

      “I’m going looking for her,” Faron said.

      Garth shoved a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “Hell and the devil! I guess there’ll be no peace around here until we find her. When I get hold of her, I’ll—”

      “When we find her, I’ll do the talking,” Faron said. “You’ve caused enough trouble.”

      “Me? This isn’t my fault!”

      “Like hell! You’re the one who told her to go to her room and stay there.”

      “Looks like she didn’t pay a whole helluva lot of attention to me, did she?” Garth retorted.

      At that moment Charlie arrived, puffing from exertion, and said, “You two gonna go look for that girl, or stand here arguin’?”

      Faron and Garth glared at each other for another moment before Faron turned and pressed his way past Charlie and down the stairs.

      Charlie put a hand out to stop Garth. “Don’t think you’re gonna find her, boy. Knew this was bound to happen sooner or later.”

      “What do you mean, old man?”

      “Knew you had too tight a rein on that little filly. Figured she had too much spirit to stay in them fences you set up to hold her in.”

      “It was for her own good!”

      Charlie shook his head. “Did it as much for yourself as for her. Knowin’ your ma like you did, it’s no wonder you’d want to keep your sister close. Prob’ly fearful she’d take after your ma, steppin’ out on your pa like she did and—”

      “Leave Mother out of this. What she did has nothing to do with the way I’ve treated Tate.”

      Charlie tightened the beaded rawhide thong that held one of his long braids, but said nothing.

      Garth scowled. “I can see there’s no sense arguing with a stone wall. I’m going after Tate, and I’m going to bring her back. This time she’ll stay put!”

      Garth and Faron searched canyons and mesas, ridges and gullies on their northwest Texas ranch, but not a sign did they find of their sister on Hawk’s Way.

      It was Charlie One Horse who discovered that the old ’51 Chevy pickup, the one with the rusty radiator and the skipping carburetor, was missing from the barn where it was stored.

      Another check of Tate’s room revealed that her underwear drawer was empty, that her brush and comb and toothpaste were gone, and that several of her favorite T-shirts and jeans had also been packed.

      By sunset, the truth could not be denied. At the age of twenty-three, Tate Whitelaw had run away from home.

      Chapter 2

      ADAM PHILIPS NORMALLY DIDN’T stop to pick up hitchhikers. But there was no way he could drive past the woman sitting on the front fender of a ’51 Chevy pickup, its hood raised and its radiator steaming, her thumb outstretched to bum a ride. He pulled his late-model truck up behind her and put on his Stetson as he stepped out into the heat of a south Texas midsummer afternoon.

      She was wearing form-fitting jeans and an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse that exposed a lush female figure. But the heart-shaped face, with its huge hazel eyes and wide mouth framed by breeze-ruffled, short-cropped black hair, was innocence itself. He was stunned by her beauty and appalled at her youth. What was this female doing all alone on an isolated stretch of southwest Texas highway in an old rattletrap truck?

      She beamed a trusting smile at him, and he felt his heart do a flipflop. She slipped off the rusty fender and lazily sauntered toward him. He felt his groin tighten with desire and scowled. She stopped in her tracks. About time she thought to be wary! Adam was all too conscious of the dangers a stranger presented to a young woman alone. Grim-lipped, he strode the short distance between the two vehicles.

      Tate had been so relieved to see someone show up on the deserted rural route that the danger of the situation didn’t immediately occur to her. She got only a glimpse of wavy blond hair and striking blue eyes before her rescuer had slipped on a Stetson that put his face in shadow.

      He was broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, with a stride that ate up the distance between the two trucks. It was a fair assumption, from his dusty boots, worn jeans and sweat-stained Western shirt, that he was a working cowboy. Tate saw no reason to suspect he meant her any harm.

      But instead of a pleasant “May I help you?” the first words out of his mouth were, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

      Tate was alarmed by the animosity in the stranger’s voice and frightened by the intensity of his stare. But his attitude was so similar to what she had recently gone through with her brothers that she lifted her chin and retorted, “Hitching a ride back to the nearest gas station. In case you hadn’t noticed, my truck’s broken down.”

      The scowl deepened but he said, “Get in my pickup.”

      Tate had only taken two steps when the tall cowboy grabbed her arm and pulled her up short.

      “Aren’t СКАЧАТЬ