The Daddy List

A Substitute Husband

Discovering her daughter is holding bank patrons hostage to interview daddy candidates sends widow Daisy Trumbo running to intervene. But when real bank robbers take advantage of the fake stickup, the hero of the day is Bass Parker—the man Daisy blames for her husband’s death. Yet duty compels her to care for him as he recovwers from his injuries.

Bass is determined to make amends to the widow and child of the fallen soldier who took his place on the battlefield. But he slowly finds himself feeling more than obligation to this independent woman and her spirited little girl. Their happiness hinges on Daisy’s forgiveness, but can she let go of the past?

Daisy smiled, happy that Bass was pleased.

Ollie moved past him and apologized. “Sorry, Bass. I must’ve left the back door open this morning. Only way Butler coulda got in the kitchen. I’ll make sure he don’t cause ya no more problems. ’Least for today.”

“I’m grateful it was only a goat. I heard somebody downstairs and thought I’d better check since I assumed I was still alone. But I couldn’t get down here fast enough to stop the initial damage. As you can see, he fought hard in the parlor until I got him roped and cornered behind the table.”

Bass brushed a hand through his dark hair, powdering it with even more flour. “But it was worth it, getting to hear your mama laugh like that.”

“You laugh pretty well yourself.” Daisy returned the compliment as his eyes studied her directly.

“That’s on my daddy list. Likes to laugh,” Ollie reminded. “Ya remember, don’tcha, Mama?”

“Yes, love. I remember.” Able to look Mama straight in the eye was on there, too.

Bass was beginning to qualify for a lot of the list’s requirements.

And Daisy wasn’t sure if she was prepared for that.

She wanted him gone, didn’t she?

* * *

“If I could only read one author this year

it would be DeWanna Pace.

Her stories always manage to touch my heart…”

—New York Times and USA TODAY

Bestselling Author Jodi Thomas

DEWANNA PACE is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author who lives in Texas with her husband and pets. She has published two dozen novels and anthologies, several of which have been chosen as book-club selections by Doubleday, Rhapsody, Book-of-the-Month, Woman’s Day and The Literary Guild. DeWanna combines her faith with her love of humor and historical romance. Let her show you the ways a heart can love.

The Daddy List

DeWanna Pace

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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In all thy ways acknowledge Him

and He shall direct thy paths.

—Proverbs 3:6

This book is dedicated to:

Jodi Thomas, Linda Broday, Phyliss Miranda and Gail Fortune.

Thanks for the years, the tears and the persistence that made this dream come true.

Most of all, thank the Lord for leading me to Shana Asaro and the crew at Love Inspired Books.

I’ll forever feel blessed.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Praise

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

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Spring, 1868

Keeping her promise would wear Daisy Trumbo out before this was all over with, but keep it she would. With long strides she hurried down the planked sidewalk that led from the mercantile, where she’d been stocking up on supplies. According to a handful of outraged citizens, her seven-year-old daughter was over at the bank holding men hostage with a gun.

Daisy had agreed to consider every man her child chose to interview in the quest to gain a new father, but holding them prisoner until each passed or failed inspection was simply taking her newfound mission too far.

Where in this wild stretch of Texas had Ollie gotten her hands on a gun?

Daisy broke into a run, the hem of her skirt threatening to tangle with her long legs. If she managed to trip she’d leave these widow’s weeds in the dust so fast she’d show up in nothing but her bloomers. That would give her neighbors something to talk about.

She reached her destination without mishap. From the number of horses hitched outside the establishment, the banker had an unusual amount of customers this morning. Saturday often brought cowhands into town to collect their pay and waste it in the saloons. She’d been so busy at the mercantile she hadn’t noticed if the overland stage had already arrived and brought in more visitors to High Plains. Just how many hostages were involved? she wondered.

“Protect my child from herself, Lord,” Daisy whispered as she forced down panic. No need to burst through the door and startle anyone. That might get someone hurt. Instead, Daisy dusted her skirt, adjusted her bonnet and squarely braced her shoulders for the trouble ahead. Her fingers shook as she reached for the doorknob.

She was tall enough to see above the curtains that covered the door and front windows. From the sight of raised palms, her daughter still had the weapon aimed at somebody.

Please make these men the forgiving sort, Daisy prayed.

“Hand that gun to the banker immediately, Olivia Jane Trumbo,” she ordered, opening the door, “or you’re going to get a good talking-to all the way ho—” She stumbled as the door swung open faster than she had pushed it.

A dark-haired, blue-eyed woman stood there, blocking Daisy’s way and flicking open a lace fan held in one hand. Two more steps corrected the awkward momentum that almost spilled Daisy, giving her a whiff of fragrance that smelled like a spring breeze dancing through a meadow of wildflowers. A pleasant surprise amid the stuffiness of too many warm bodies gathered in one place.

“Your name, please?” asked the lady in a cultured voice sounding younger than her appearance. Dressed in a tea gown the blue of her eyes, her hair swept up in some fancy do, she seemed overdressed for a simple visit to the bank. “That little hoodlum told me not to let anyone in here but her mother.”

“That would be me,” Daisy informed her, wishing she had taken a little more time with her appearance this morning, “and she’s no hoodlum. Olivia just sometimes goes about things different from most folks.”

This was as much her fault as Ollie’s. She’d wanted Ollie to be older before she learned about the death of her father, but Ollie had started asking questions about Knox several months ago. Someone had obviously opened the subject of his death up for discussion. Her child finally asked why she still wore widow’s weeds since Old Miz Jenkins said the proper mourning period should be only two years, not three. Daisy simply replied that the material was still sturdy and they didn’t need to be wasteful.

Since finding out about her daddy, Ollie had a burr under her saddle, insisting she didn’t want to be hugged on too much. Daisy tended to give her daughter time on her own so she wouldn’t feel overprotected or smothered with attention. Too much time this morning had allowed the seven-year-old to get her hands on a gun and arrive at this crazy hostage scheme.

“Olivia Jane, where did you get that gun?” Daisy demanded.

“Better step aside and let her in,” Ollie warned, nodding her honey-colored head. “She used my gettin’-in-trouble name.”

Daisy moved past the beautiful lady and around some baggage next to the door.

“Did you say her last name is Trumbo? Were the two of you related to Knox Trumbo?” asked the stern-faced man who stood by himself to the left of the teller’s cage. He started to edge closer, his forehead furrowed as his gaze swept Daisy from hem to bonnet.

On a different day, she might have taken the time to study him closer, admiring his good grooming and such, but all she could do was concentrate on reaching her daughter’s side rather than answering him.

“They’re his widow and child,” informed the banker behind the teller’s cage. “Daisy and Olivia.”

Ollie waved the gun at the woman with the fan. “Don’t move any closer, mister, or I might accidentally hurt your lady friend here. It won’t take Mama but a minute to make up her mind about all you fellas then I’ll let’cha go. If she likes you, you can talk to her plenty in a minute.”

The seven-year-old’s head rose then fell as she took in the sight of him from hat to boot tip. “She’s got a real fondness for clean people, though. I should know. I got dirty bathwater to prove it all the time.” Ollie nodded toward the cowboys standing to the right of the cage. “And since you’re the only fella wearing Sunday clean, ’cept Sam, you got a pretty good chance out of all of ya to get on my list. Sam don’t count, though. He’s the banker. He’s got to dress good.”

Daisy cringed at her daughter’s outspokenness.

The clean-looking man didn’t back up the few steps he’d gained but seemed willing to wait her out. Cautious, Daisy decided. A wise man.

“Take a quick look, Mama, then I’ll be ready for some sense.” Ollie’s gaze locked with Daisy’s and confirmed that she understood totally the kind of talking-to she was about to get from her mother.

Daisy realized Ollie was deliberately avoiding an answer about the gun, so she went ahead and studied the well-groomed stranger long enough to make sure he meant no harm to Ollie. He dressed like a businessman and clearly spent more of his hours indoors than out, but broad shoulders and his muscular frame appeared strong enough to handle himself if someone wronged him. She hoped to end this situation before anything such as that took place.

“The sooner you and your daughter are finished, ma’am—” his voice held a timbre deep and resonant, making her wonder from what part of the country it had been cultivated “—the sooner my sister can return to my side and we can go about our business.”

That put a whole new light on his intentions. Daisy couldn’t fault him for wanting to protect his own. She respected such a man and would have shown him a friendlier disposition if they weren’t in such tense circumstances.

“I’m sure these fine gentlemen mean me no harm at all,” cooed his sister, flashing the cowboys a smile and fanning her face. “Please, take your time, Mrs. Trumbo.”

Ollie’s hands started to shake just from the sheer weight of the gun. Daisy faced the lineup of cowhands, deciding it best to get on with her daughter’s ploy so this could be ended as quickly as possible. Though one or two cowboys focused intently on Ollie, none appeared too worried about their safety. A red-haired cowhand in the front of the line was actually grinning.

“How about me?” the banker asked. “Can I move now that your mother’s here, Ollie?” Sweat stained his thinning hairline and darkened his shirt near the armpits.

Daisy didn’t give Ollie time to answer. “You go about your business, Sam. We apologize for this and promise it won’t happen again, will it, Olivia?”

Ollie’s twin braids swung back and forth as she shook her head. “I better not promise, Mama, ’cause I might be lying. Sometimes I do that ’fore I know what comes over me. Old Miz Jenkins says that’s ’cause I’m young and still got a bunch’a sins to sow. I don’t know what that means, but when she says it everybody around her pew gives her an ‘Amen, sister.’ You don’t want me breaking one of them commandments if I can help it, do ya?”

“I most certainly do not.” Daisy frowned, though several of the cowhands laughed and she noticed a grin flash across the brother’s face.

She should have been happy most were taking this with such good humor, but Daisy couldn’t until she had control of the gun.

Ollie took a deep breath and finished her discussion with Banker Cardwell. “Besides, you don’t have to worry no more anyway, Sam. Mama said all your whiskers would give her burns if you was a kissing kind of man. And you know that’s one of them things on my list. A new daddy’s got to be good at kissin’ Mama, and I don’t want it hurtin’ her none when he does it.”

She seemed to remember where she should be targeting and adjusted her aim. The tiny crooked last finger she’d inherited from her daddy’s side of the family stuck out as if she were balancing a teacup. “Just gonna see if any of these fellas over here will do.”

“First time I’ve ever been held at gunpoint to prove I’m a good kisser,” one of the cowboys joked.

Heat blazed in Daisy’s cheeks as she dismissed him and her daughter’s demand, instantly moving on to the three men who had been hanging around High Plains on weekends the past month. She had heard they were helping out at the old Rafford place during branding season. The others were probably looking for work. Dressed in work shirts, bandannas, vests and chaps to cover their denims, they didn’t appear any different than most cowboys who rode the circuit of ranches come spring.

Despite Ollie’s earlier comments about the more finely dressed man, most of the cowboys had shaved and cleaned up before riding into town. That showed respect, one of the requirements Daisy had added to her daughter’s list. She appreciated a respectful man of clean ways who traveled a good path. As she tried to do herself, though she failed at times.

If she ever did choose to remarry, not that she thought she actually would, the man must honor all of God’s ways and love her and Ollie as his own. He must put no one else but God before them. She would offer her heart to no one less. She would give Ollie no less than the best of fathers this time. Until that ever came about, she intended to be and provide everything her daughter needed. No matter how hard the struggle.

Daisy moved on to the cowboys’ faces and whether or not they could stare her straight in the eyes. Every one of them looked away before she finished, a couple of them edging their hats down low as if not wanting to be seen too closely. That made no points with her. Anyone she allowed to enter her and Ollie’s lives she needed to trust, and eyes spoke volumes about a person.

The rest of the men’s features ranged from passably pleasing to make-you-look-twice, but she put little value in appearances these days. Each of them would be a suitable match to some woman in the world somewhere, just not her.

Daisy supposed she should have never told Ollie that Knox had been the handsomest man in the county when she’d married him. Her daughter now believed having uncommon good looks was an important requirement for a would-be daddy. As Daisy had learned the hard way, a man needed something more than pleasant features to be a good husband or a father. He needed a heart filled with sincere love and kindness and a soul full of truth. She’d discovered too late that Knox had fallen short of that expectation and she hadn’t known how to help him improve.

Ollie knew only that her father had the reputation of a hero. What purpose would it serve to let her or others believe any different of him? It would only hurt Ollie in the end. Daisy decided it was better to keep the sad truth hidden away in her own heart than to crush Ollie’s.

Though she allowed Ollie to have her fun with the future-daddy list, Daisy doubted any man could ever really measure up and be able to heal the depth of that hurt in Knox and disappointment in herself. Instead, she set about proving to herself and every other member of the Trumbo clan in this community that she could make a decent living for her and Ollie and didn’t need anyone else to make them happy or earn their keep.

“Let these men go, Olivia,” Daisy said quietly, her tone filled with the pain of memories. “We’ve delayed them long enough.”

Ollie shrugged. “I wasn’t much stuck on none of ’em, either, Mama. Not a one knows a thing about threading your machine or making a shoe, so they won’t be no help with the biz’ness. They just shoo cows and keep ’em rounded up. How ’bout their eyes? Any of them got that special look you want?”

The cowboy in front thumbed back his hat and winked at Daisy. He had one of the priorities Ollie had written on the list. Taller than Mama. A lot of men fell short of matching Daisy’s height. Six feet in widow-black daunted more men than it didn’t.

“You got a real rooter-tooter on your hands there, Widow.” The winker’s grin broadened. “I might be willing to stick around to change your opinion.” His voice lowered into a husky tone that implied more than Daisy needed or wanted to know about the kind of man he was.

The lady with the fan tapped Daisy with it and gave a low throaty laugh. “I wouldn’t turn that one down, ma’am. He looks like quite a charmer.”

“Leave the dear widow to her business, Petula,” warned her brother, his gaze locking with his sister’s. “I’ve already told you, we won’t be here long enough to make any proper acquaintances.”

Petula’s lower lip pouted. Daisy took note of the undercurrent of emotion layering his tone and his stoic expression. His features were similar to but more angular than his flirting sister’s. His eyes, though, were incomparable to any others she’d ever seen. The blue-violet of the lake water in her back pasture after a spring thaw, they were layered with fathoms so clear nothing could be hidden in their depths. The kind of eyes that one might trust, she wondered, unsettled that they had stirred such a curiosity within her.

Daisy quickly pushed the question aside. He was someone just passing through. She’d had enough of trying to trust a man to settle down. To make herself important enough in his life he would prefer to stay.

The expression that now thinned the stranger’s lips and chiseled his jaw held no softness, no gentleness, only command for his sister’s obedience. He didn’t appear a man to be taken lightly.

“Proper wasn’t exactly on your sister’s mind, mister,” the winker dared.

“What are you implying?” demanded Petula’s protector, his legs firmly planting themselves apart. Massive fists rose to defend his sister’s honor. “Ladies, please step out of the way.”

His knuckles looked scarred and broken, certainly not the hands of a duded-up gentleman. This would not be his first fight or the first defense of Petula, Daisy noted.

Time to get this under control.

“Excuse them, sir,” she apologized for the cowboy’s rudeness, hoping to play peacemaker, “you’re new to these parts. Men around here love a good Saturday fight just so they can sit in church the next morning and have something to ask forgiveness for. Don’t you, fellows?”

She hoped she could make the defender see reason and not let this escalate into a brawl. “They sometimes deliberately rile somebody just to get a rise out of them. It’s a source for bragging rights so they can confess the most amount of wrongdoing and need for redemption come Sunday. That lets them enjoy the women who want to sit beside them and tame the bad boys.” She shrugged. “Just a Texan’s way of courting, so to speak.”

“Yeah, that’s what we’re doing—” Winker elbowed the cowhand next to him “—courting. What you gonna do about it, partner?”

* * *

Bass Parker didn’t want to fight and wasn’t sure if he could take them all on, but he’d go down trying if forced. Maybe the mouthy winker would be man enough to meet him one-on-one instead of making this a brawl.

He appreciated the widow’s attempt to defuse the situation, but he wasn’t about to let the man’s coarse implications stand without letting him know of his disapproval.

Defending Petula’s honor had become a habit Bass hoped wouldn’t follow them West, but it seemed to be a daily occurrence now. Long before their parents’ deaths, he made a vow he would look after his younger sister and see her raised right. But the more men Petula met, the more determined she was to flirt. The more situations and comments like this could not be left unchallenged.

It might be a thrill to her to have men pursue her, but he feared Petula would take her need to experience what she thought was love one step too far someday and get into more trouble than the scandal she’d left behind or his defense of her could handle.

Bass hoped to find them a place to call home where she would want to straighten up her wayward thinking and become the lady he knew she could be. They both needed to put their troubled pasts behind them and find a way to turn their lives around for the better.

If only he hadn’t decided to stop in and try to make things right with Widow Trumbo one last time before heading on to California. The money he’d sent her years ago remained untouched in the High Plains Bank, despite several failed attempts in writing to persuade her to use it for a memorial for Knox. He’d expected continued resistance but not with this woman calling herself Knox Trumbo’s widow. She looked nothing like the woman Knox had introduced to him as his wife after signing the papers of conscription.

“I said, what are you gonna do about it, partner?” Challenge echoed deeper in the redhead’s voice. “Just stand there and think about it or actually do something before you moss over?”

“If you insist. Let the ladies be on their way and we’ll finish this.” Bass prepared himself for the inevitable. “Petula, take our bags and wait for me at the livery.”

“But—” Petula argued.

“Listen carefully. Do exactly as I say and you won’t get hurt.” Bass’s attention remained on his challengers but his words targeted the widow now. “Ma’am, it’s wise if you do the same. Take your little one and leave, please.”

The widow grabbed the gun away from her distracted daughter and moved in front of the child. “Mister, put your fists down. Nobody’s going to fight anybody. I apologize for everything that’s happened or been said.” She aimed the gun at each man including Bass. “We all say things when we’re on the edge and don’t mean them.”

Her amber-colored eyes widened with apology. “I’ve let my daughter go too far with this. It’s about to cause more trouble than she meant it to, isn’t it, Ollie?”

Ollie peeked around the widow’s skirt. “I guess so, but that sure looked like it was gonna be a great fight.”

The tyke’s humor caused a few chuckles, and Widow Trumbo’s efforts to quell the tension was admirable, but Bass didn’t drop his fists.

Ollie pointed a small finger at the rest of the cowboys in line. “Anyways, I learned plenty about these ones before ya got here, Mama. So I wrote one or two on my maybe-daddy list.”