Montana Cowboy Daddy

The Rancher’s Ready-Made Family

With a little girl to raise, widowed single father Dawson Marshall could sure use some help—he just didn’t expect it to come from city girl Isabelle Redfield. Dawson has encountered city women before. He even married one. What if his little girl grows attached to Isabelle and the woman tires of ranch life just like his late wife did?

For heiress Isabelle, the fledgling Western town of Bella Creek, Montana, offers something more meaningful than her wealth: a chance to forge a useful life. But if she wants the townsfolk to value her for more than her money, she has to keep her identity hidden. A difficult feat, especially when it comes to the cynical cowboy whose sweet daughter she cares for after school. But will hiding the truth ruin her chance of earning Dawson’s love?

“Can you sing to me, like your mama did?” Mattie asked.

With a half-apologetic glance at Dawson, Isabelle sat on the edge of the bed.

Why should she feel sorry? To his regret, he admitted he’d given her every reason to feel he didn’t want her spending time with his daughter. To his shame, he’d even suggested she was unsuitable simply because she was...what? A city woman? A newcomer? Beautiful?

All those things could mean danger. Or they could mean nothing.

He wasn’t sure he had changed his mind, but it became harder and harder to remember his reasons.

Isabelle crooned a song in Spanish.

He sat as mesmerized by her sweet voice as Mattie. In the distant corner of his brain, a warning voice called, reminding him how caring for Isabelle could end in disappointment and wrenching pain. The voice was drowned out by the sound of her voice and by the blossoming of his distant dreams.

Mattie’s eyes drifted shut.

Isabelle leaned close and kissed each cheek. “Sweet dreams, little princess.”

The word jolted clear through Dawson. Princess. Was that how Isabelle saw his child? His throat tightened. His eyes burned. So many people loved and cared for Mattie, but something about Isabelle’s tender touch and sweet words felt different.

LINDA FORD lives on a ranch in Alberta, Canada, near enough to the Rocky Mountains that she can enjoy them on a daily basis. She and her husband raised fourteen children—four homemade, ten adopted. She currently shares her home and life with her husband, a grown son, a live-in paraplegic client and a continual (and welcome) stream of kids, kids-in-law, grandkids, and assorted friends and relatives.

Montana Cowboy Daddy

Linda Ford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round about His people from henceforth even for ever.

—Psalms 125:2

This book is dedicated to my dear friends. You know who you are. Thanks to each of you for keeping in touch over the years, for sharing the ups and downs of my life and for always standing with me. Without you my life would lack color and depth and joy. Thank you and God bless.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Bella Creek, Montana, 1890

Weary from the long journey and tired of the cramped quarters, Isabelle Redfield was the first to step from the stagecoach to the dirt street of Bella Creek, Montana. A group of people stood about as if waiting for the arrival of the travelers.

Isabelle glanced around at the fledgling Western town where she hoped to start a new life—one of purpose and acceptance. Before her was a wooden-structured hotel, to her left, a wide street with bare-limbed trees and a welcoming bench. Past the hotel to her right, a café, Miss Daisy’s Eatery. Her gaze went farther. Her heart slammed into her ribs at what she saw.

“No.” She couldn’t tell if the word left her mouth or stayed trapped in her mind as she watched a little girl, blond hair flying about her head, dash across the street. Did no one notice her? Or see the freight wagon bearing down on her, the horses’ huge hooves ready to trample the child? Were they all too interested in looking over those who had traveled to their town?

She lifted her skirts, intending to run toward the child. Instead, her petticoats caught and she stumbled. Righting herself, she reached toward the child but she was too far away. Could she do nothing to prevent the disaster she saw coming? Must she watch helplessly...uselessly?

In a clatter of racing hooves, a horseman galloped into the scene. The rider reached down and snatched up the little girl and thundered out of the way.

Isabelle breathed a prayer of thanks for the rescue of the child.

The wagon driver shouted, “Whoa.” The horses reared and pawed the air and the wagon careened to a stop farther down the street.

Isabelle stared at the big man who had rescued the girl and was clutching her to his chest, his expression fierce.

She couldn’t hear his words as he spoke to the child, couldn’t see his face, hidden as it was beneath the brim of his hat, but from the defensive look on the little one’s face, she guessed he scolded her.

“Yes, Papa. I’m sorry.”

What kind of place had she arrived in where children played untended in the street? Then were scolded for the neglect of the adults? It should not be.

Indignation burned through her veins as she continued on her way, closing the distance between herself and the pair seated upon the horse. She didn’t slow until she reached their side. The warmth and smell of horseflesh greeted her as she reached up and ran her hands along the girl’s arms. “Are you hurt?”

The child shook her head, still looking frightened.

“You’re safe so long as you don’t play in the street.” Her smile seemed to encourage the girl. But how safe could she be if no one watched her?

She lifted her head to face the man. “You’re this child’s father?” Having heard the child call him Papa, she knew he was. She only meant to remind the man of his responsibility.

His gaze hit her with such force she pressed her hand to her throat as if she could calm the rapid beating of her heart...caused, she reminded herself, from marching across the street. Certainly not from the power of piercing blue eyes in a tanned face.

She didn’t wait for his reply. Nor did she heed a sense of warning that this was not a man accustomed to having someone suggest he was wrong. “I advise you to take better care of her before she is injured.”

His blue eyes grew glacial. His lips pressed into a frown. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you nor you of meeting me. I would think that makes you quite incapable of having a knowledgeable opinion of what I should or shouldn’t be doing.” His gaze bored straight through her.

She lifted her chin another inch. She was Isabelle Redfield and her opinion was generally considered worth taking note of. With a little sigh, she released her anger. He didn’t know who she was nor did she want him to. “I would be remiss not to point out the child was in grave danger. Surely you could see that.”

“I saw her.” His clipped words warned her to drop the subject.

She lowered her gaze to the child and, not wanting to upset her, chose to let it go.

Her traveling companions had left the stagecoach and watched the proceedings from the hotel veranda. She climbed the three wooden steps to join them. Isabelle’s friend and fellow traveler, Kate, rushed to her side. “That was too close for comfort. Quite an introduction to Bella Creek.” Kate’s father, Dr. Baker, joined his daughter. Sadie Young, the new teacher for the community, stood nearby.

A white-haired old man leaning on two canes stood in the forefront of the gathered townsfolk, as if the official greeter. Each of those who had traveled with her introduced themselves and spoke of their plans. Dr. Baker and his daughter to help the ill and injured, Sadie Young to teach the children. And Isabelle to—

Well, she wasn’t sure what she could do, but she’d find something that mattered.

Praying no one in this group would recognize her name, Isabelle brushed her skirts, smoothing them as best she could before she introduced herself. “Miss Isabelle Redfield.” She adjusted her gloves. “I’m here to help, as well.” Please don’t ask me what I plan to do. The breeze tugged at her silk scarf, whipping the ends about.

Kate pulled her to her side. “Isabelle is my friend. She’s with us.”

When Kate said she would go with her father to the mining town, Isabelle had asked if she could accompany them. She’d grown weary of life in St. Louis, where for the past eleven and a half years, since her parents died when she was twelve, she’d shared the home of her second cousin by marriage, Augusta. Not that her home life was unacceptable, but everyone knew Isabelle was the sole beneficiary of both the Redfield and Castellano fortunes. It seemed most people sought her out, pretended friendship, even asked for her hand in marriage, simply because of her inheritance. Kate was the rare exception.

Perhaps she could start over here without that knowledge classifying her. As they’d approached their destination, she’d asked Kate not to tell anyone she was an heiress, which had brought a smile to Kate’s lips as her gaze skimmed Isabelle’s dress. “You should have taken that into consideration when choosing your gowns. Even your traveling outfit shouts money.”

Isabelle had glanced dismissively at her sapphire-blue suit and long protective matching coat lined with warm wool. Her bonnet matched, as well, but the long silk scarf holding her bonnet in place was bright and cheerful with pink poppies all over. Clothes meant far less to her than they did to Cousin Augusta, who saw every occasion as an excuse to bring in a seamstress or two and discuss the latest styles.

“This is all I have, though I suppose I could have ordered different things.” The gowns in her trunk were mostly new—suitable for a trip, according to Cousin Augusta. It had never crossed Isabelle’s mind to suggest otherwise. She smiled as she thought of the fine silk and crisp satin of her gowns. It had been rather exciting to help select the fabrics and then watch them be transformed into beautiful outfits. She loved beauty wherever she saw it.

It was too late to prepare simpler clothes. Hopefully she would not be judged by what she wore.

“Good to see you all,” the white-haired man said. “We need all the help we can get. I’m Allan Marshall, the one who sent for you. Welcome to Bella Creek.” He shifted to lean on one cane in order to shake hands with the doctor and bend over each of the ladies’ hands.

Many in the small crowd called out their greetings.

“Most people call me Grandfather Marshall, seeing as there are so many Marshalls around. Like my grandson here. Dawson, get down and say hello to these folks.”

The man Isabelle had recently scolded lowered the girl to the ground, swung off his horse and joined the older man. Tall and broad, so upright and strong looking...a marked contrast to his stooped grandfather.

“This is Dawson Marshall.” The elder Marshall man chuckled softly. “You’ll have to forgive him his manners. Sometimes he forgets he’s not out with a bunch of rough cowboys.”

Isabelle raised her head to meet the gaze of the man before her. She stilled herself to reveal none of her trepidation. Only a few minutes in town and already she’d managed to step on the toes of what appeared to be the biggest family in Bella Creek. Not that knowing would have stopped her from speaking her mind.

Grandfather Marshall continued. “Dawson’s a widower in need of a woman to settle him down.”

“Grandfather, I am not in need of a woman.” The protesting words rumbled from the man’s lips.

Isabelle managed not to show any sign of her alarm at the way the older man eyed her, then slowly—almost reluctantly—let his gaze slip toward the other two women. She dared not look at them to see their reaction. Would either of them be interested in the prospect?

From behind Dawson peeked out the little blonde girl, her blue-green eyes wide.

“Papa, she’s beautiful,” the child whispered, as she stared at Isabelle.

Amusement tickled Isabelle’s insides but she decided it was wise to disguise it in view of the frown on Mr. Marshall’s face.

“Welcome to Bella Creek.” Dawson greeted each of them. His expression cooled considerably when he met Isabelle’s gaze. “Thank you for coming in answer to our appeal for help.”

His latent displeasure didn’t bother her except to refuel her indignation that a child had been in danger.

The various trunks and crates had been unloaded from the stage and with a “Hey, there” from the driver, the horses pulled away, leaving a clear view to the sight on the other side of the street.

Isabelle stared. The whole of the block had been burned to the ground. Blackened timbers and a brick chimney stood like mute, angry survivors. One section had been scraped bare except for remnants of spring snow clinging to the corners. And in the midst of it stood a new building, so fresh and out of place amid the rubble on each side that it looked naked. Shock chilled Isabelle’s veins at the sight. She pulled her scarf closer around her neck.

Dawson Marshall strode over to stand nearby as they both studied the scene. “This winter a fire destroyed the dry-goods store, the lawyer’s office, the barbershop, the doctor’s office and residence, and the school. We’re grateful it didn’t jump the street and burn the church.”

She’d read the news of the fire. Knew it to be the reason they needed a doctor and a schoolteacher, but to see the stark evidence gave it a whole different meaning. “Was anyone hurt?” She shuddered at the thought.

Kate and Sadie joined Isabelle at the edge of the veranda, crowding her closer to Dawson and his daughter.

He answered her question though he addressed the entire group. “Doc burned his hands trying to save his equipment. It will be some time before he can resume his duties, if he ever does. He said it was time to retire. He and his wife moved to California. The teacher wept profusely at the loss of her precious books and left town on the next stage, saying she would never return.”

“Hence your need for replacements.” Her scarf was tugged. She reached to contain it but stilled her hand when she saw the little girl behind Dawson fingering it.

She bent and smiled at the child. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Mattie. I’m six.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mattie.”

Mattie’s face lit with a smile.

Dawson moved away to speak to the doctor, Mattie firmly in hand.

Isabelle watched him. A big man with a strong face. Raising a child on his own. How did he manage?

Not that it concerned her.

Shifting her attention away, she met Grandfather Marshall’s eyes. He grinned at her, his gaze darting to Dawson and back.

Goodness. Did he think she had an interest in his grandson? If only he knew she had no interest in men at all. No, she’d learned her lesson. They never saw beyond her inheritance. She’d allowed herself to believe Jamieson Grieve cared for her. After all, he had no need of her money. His father owned a successful bank. But then had come talk of how he’d invest Isabelle’s inheritance in establishing more banks. Once started on the topic of Isabelle’s money, it seemed he could talk of nothing else. She’d broken off with him, wanting to be seen as more than the source of a large bank account.

It had taken one more failure in the shape of Andy Anderson for the lesson to be embedded. A humble store clerk who daily espoused the evils of money as the root of all vices, he’d said a man ought to work for what he had and take pride in doing so. Believing he loved her for herself, she’d agreed to a betrothal. That was when she felt she must tell him about her inheritance.

Turned out he’d always known—why should she have believed otherwise? The man would have to be blind and deaf not to know. After their betrothal, he had wanted her to contact her lawyer and, as her future husband, have himself named as trustee of her estate. He said he knew how to put the money to good use.

That was when she’d said goodbye, a sadder but much wiser woman. From now on, she would not trust that a man’s affections were not influenced by her inheritance. Perhaps by hiding the truth about herself, she could learn the real meaning of a person’s interest in her.

“Doctor.” Dawson’s voice brought her back to the present situation. “You have patients waiting. Three men were injured by falling machinery. Which of these are yours?” He indicated the stack of crates and trunks.

“I’ll need those and those right away,” the doctor answered, pointing to several crates.

Dawson waved at the nearby men. “Let’s get these over to the doctor’s office.” He turned to Sadie. “Miss Young, I’m afraid I don’t have time to see you settled right now. Nor do we have your quarters ready. You’ll be staying in the hotel until we do. If you don’t mind going in and introducing yourself...”

“I’ll manage just fine,” Sadie said and made her way to the hotel entrance.

“I’ll take you to your new office and your patients.” Dawson nodded to the doctor, scooped Mattie into his arms and strode across the street.

Isabelle followed Kate and Dr. Baker. She didn’t mean to miss this opportunity to prove she was an ordinary, everyday, useful sort of woman. Would she ever truly know acceptance as such rather than as a rich woman? Yes, she’d been blessed with it and unfettered love when her parents lived. Her mother, especially, lavished it on her. Isabelle didn’t doubt Cousin Augusta’s affection was genuine. But apart from Kate, every other friendship had been tainted by the color of her money.

They crossed the rutted street and Isabelle had to concentrate on where she put her feet. It helped her avoid thinking of the fact that she meant to step into a doctor’s office...something she’d managed to avoid since her parents’ deaths. They entered a narrow room with benches on either side. A couple of dusty men sat clutching their hats and sprang to their feet as Dawson entered.

“He’s here? The new doc?” one asked.

Dr. Baker stepped forward. “I’m the doctor. Where are the injured men?”

Two heads tipped in the direction of another door. Dr. Baker and Kate crossed toward it.

Isabelle followed. The wood of the place being new, there were no sickroom odors. Nothing to remind her of when her parents were ill.

She crossed the threshold into the other room, and after a fleeting glance at a mangled hand on one man and the blood-soaked rag around the head of a second, she averted her eyes from the third man stretched out on the examining table. Every muscle in her body tensed, just as they had back then. Perhaps if she concentrated on the supplies, she could manage to forget the sights and smells and fears she recalled from watching her parents die.

She went to Kate’s side as her friend pried open one crate and quickly arranged an array of bottles and instruments on the shelves as Dr. Baker bent over the man on the examining table.

Isabelle didn’t hear what the doctor said to Kate or if Kate knew what he needed without words. Kate uncorked a bottle and poured some liquid on a cloth and handed it to her father.

The odor assailed Isabelle with revolting familiarity. The smell of sickness and death.

The room tilted. Her stomach churned. Clasping a hand to her mouth, she fled back to the waiting room and sank to the nearest empty spot on a bench. She sucked in a deep breath to calm her stomach and slowly righted her head to meet the challenging look of Dawson Marshall. He’d removed his hat to reveal thick blond hair. A fine-looking man but one who—if she was to guess from the way his pale eyebrows knotted together—wondered at her sudden exit from the examining room.

Unable to explain herself, she lowered her gaze to Mattie, who offered her wide-eyed wonder and then a shy smile.

Isabelle armed herself with that sliver of a welcome.

There must be something useful she could do in this town that didn’t require her presence in the doctor’s office. Something to prove to herself and everyone else that she was more than a rich heiress.

A moan came from the doctor’s office and she bolted out the door.

* * *

Dawson stared after the woman. Had she taken such a dislike to him she couldn’t bear to be in the same room? He leaned his head back against the wall, ignoring the two miners who watched him, their eyes wide with curiosity. She had no right to scold him about Mattie’s safety. He’d seen the wagon bearing down and would have died before he let his daughter be hurt. He’d gently admonished her to look both ways before she dashed across the street...exactly what a good parent should do.

Isabelle’s criticism of him reminded him sharply of Violet. She, too, had picked holes in everything he did. His now-deceased wife, a city woman who thought to find adventure and satisfaction on the Marshall Five Ranch, had instead found boredom and disappointment. A fact she never ceased to bemoan, saying she should have remained in the city. He totally agreed.

Isabelle’s clothes and manners screamed the fact she, too, was a city woman. Her words had accused him of being a blundering father. Violet had called him a bumbling cowboy. He guessed one was pretty much the same as the other.

“Papa, she sure is pretty but why is she afraid?”

He ground down on his molars. The last thing this town or Dawson Marshall or his daughter needed was another woman like Violet—a fancy city woman who couldn’t or wouldn’t accept the demands of life in the West. He should never have married Violet. But he’d been a dewy-eyed nineteen-year-old. When she learned life on a ranch was hard work, she’d sought excitement elsewhere and ended up dying in a reckless horse race against some cowboys from Wolf Hollow, the nearby mining town, leaving him with a three-year-old daughter to raise.

Now a wiser twenty-six-year-old, he knew enough not to be blinded by a woman’s beauty. Nor her gentle manner. Not even her concern for his daughter’s safety.

Such a woman was not equipped to live out here.

“Come on, Papa.” Mattie tugged on his arm.

“Where are we going?”

“After her.”

“I expect she is about her own business.” He could only hope and pray that business, whatever it was, would not attract any more of Mattie’s interest.

Mattie got up and tugged at Dawson.

He didn’t budge as Mattie did her best to pull him to his feet. She tugged. She jerked. She turned her back to him and leaned into his outstretched arm like a stubborn mule, grunting under the strain.