The Cattleman's Unsuitable Wife (Wells Cattle Company Book 1) Read online

  “You have no idea what you’re up against, Zurina. Your brother’s with a gang who murdered your sheep.”

  She stiffened. Her throat moved, and Trey knew his point had hit home.

  “Let me go instead,” he rumbled. “I’ll do this for you.”

  Zurina’s eyes latched on to his, as if she struggled to deem him worthy of her trust. Or her hate.

  She studied him so long, so hard, Trey almost forgot why they were here, behind her cabin. Hidden from the men who wanted only to protect her from those they perceived as their enemies.

  Cattlemen, at the top of their lists.

  His body took note of hers, an awareness that had always been there, he suspected. A simmering of his senses that if he wasn’t careful, if he didn’t rein his attraction in, could very easily boil over into something it shouldn’t.

  Like now.

  A slow heat stirred in his groin, and his thigh registered the feel of hers pressed against him. Their shape, slim and toned. Their warmth through her skirt. How they would feel spread and lifted and curled around his hips…

  He shouldn’t be thinking of her like this, but God help him, he was. Zurina shook up his world, for sure. Turned it crazy sideways.

  This Basque woman who had no more a part in his life than he had in hers.

  Dear Reader,

  As I set out to write The Cattleman’s Unsuitable Wife, the first book in my Wells Cattle Company trilogy, I wanted to delve into yet another layer of the Old West, and I discovered it in sheep. While there are few things more romanticized than cattle in the late 1800s, sheepherding and all it stood for presented a darker side of the era. When the woolly creatures moseyed over the range in growing numbers, cattlemen felt threatened and resentful. Violence erupted over misconceptions. Hate and fear raged on both sides.

  Most vulnerable were the Basque people who immigrated to America from the Pyrenees, a mountain range between Spain and France. Their strange language (Euskara), simple lives and clannish ways left them prone to suspicion and contempt. Yet the Basques were a frugal and hardworking people who, in their quiet way, eventually won the cattlemen over.

  And therein I found my story with Trey and Zurina.

  In The Cattleman’s Christmas Bride, a novella for the Wells Cattle Company trilogy, Mikolas and Allethaire have their own story when they come home to meet again during the blessed season of Christmas.

  Last in the Wells Cattle Company trilogy, The Lawman’s Redemption is Jack Hollister’s story.

  Pam

  Praise for Pam Crooks

  Kidnapped by the Cowboy

  “Kidnapped by the Cowboy had wonderful characters with real emotions. I love Pam Crooks' writing.”

  —BOOKBUB Reviewer

  Untamed Cowboy

  “With its intense western flavor, suspense and strong, realistic characters, this novel is vintage Crooks.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  “I was captivated from the very first page of Untamed Cowboy. Although the book’s conclusion was wonderfully satisfying, I was disappointed to see this end. Pam Crooks’ Untamed Cowboy is one of the best historical westerns I’ve read—ever!”

  —Romance Reader at Heart

  Wanted!

  “With her signature talent for setting the gritty reality of the west alongside a sweet, tender romance, Crooks entertains with a tale that satisfies as it warms the heart.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  “Wanted! was a superior historical western. Fast paced, realistic characters and a very well put together story put this at the top of the genre. Pam Crooks has been a longtime favorite and Wanted! was no exception.”

  —The Best Reviews

  The Mercenary’s Kiss

  Romantic Times BOOKreviews nomination Best Historical K.I.S.S. Hero

  “With its nonstop action and a hold-your-breath climax, Crooks’ story is unforgettable. She speaks to every woman’s heart with a powerful tale that reflects the depth of a woman’s love for her child and her man. The power that comes from the pages of this book enthralls.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  THE CATTLEMAN’S UNSUITABLE WIFE

  Copyright © 2019, 2009 by Pam Crooks

  Cover Design: Killion Group

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce or transmit this book, or a portion thereof, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This ebook may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  THE CATTLEMAN’S UNSUITABLE WIFE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by, the trademark owners.

  Version 2019.09

  59,617 words.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  About Pam

  Prologue

  Montana Territory, Spring 1883

  Woodrow Baldwin glared up at the words burned into the wooden beam above him.

  Wells Cattle Company.

  God, the sight of that name sickened him.

  The beam hung over the entrance to one of the largest ranches in the territory of Montana. And here he was, looking down the lane that led to the main house. From the outside in, just like always.

  Thanks to that no-good, womanizing father of his.

  Sutton Wells owned the WCC and paid Woodrow to keep his sorry ass out of sight. Paid right handsome, too. Month after month, year after year. For most of Woodrow’s pathetic life.

  Well, that was going to change. Woodrow had gotten real tired of being kicked aside, like shit off his father’s boots. He had as much right to the Wells’s empire as Trey did.

  Woodrow’s lip curled at the thought of his older half-brother. The son Sutton loved best.

  His belly tightened with hate for both of them. He delved into a shirt pocket, found a match and lit himself a quirley to get through it. While blowing out the flame, he caught sight of a rider heading toward him.

  He tensed. Strange time for callers. The sun had almost set for the day. The rider wouldn’t be out this way if he didn’t intend to turn into the lane leading toward the Wells’s home.

  Sure enough, seeing Woodrow, the man reined in. Woodrow took his time exhaling and decided the rider wasn’t one of his father’s cowboys. He dressed different, wore a flat-brimmed hat, and rode a mangy-looking roan.

  “Howdy,” Woodrow said, relaxing.

  The stranger inclined his head. “This where Sutton Wells lives?”

  A faint accent laced the low-spoken query, and Woodrow wondered where the rider was from.

  “Yep,” he said.

  “Is he home?”

  Woodrow’s gl
ance swung to the square window in the distance, on the far left side of the house. A light shone through the glass, which glowed brighter the darker the night got.

  Sutton’s office. The only room Woodrow had ever been in. The old man had refused to let him step foot anywhere else inside that big house of his.

  “He’s there,” Woodrow said, nursing another round of resentment.

  “You have business with him?” the stranger asked.

  “Yep.”

  “So do I.”

  Woodrow regarded the man and noted how his skin seemed a tad darker than most folks ’round these parts.

  “What kind of business?” he demanded.

  For a long moment, the stranger didn’t respond. Then, he straightened, squared his shoulders and jerked his chin up.

  “I’m his son,” he said.

  Stunned, Woodrow stared.

  “But I don’t think he knows I am,” the rider added.

  “What the hell are you talking about, mister? How come he don’t know you’re his son?”

  “That’s one of the things I intend to ask him. I only found out myself a short time ago.”

  In the dusk, Woodrow could see the flare of the man’s nostrils, the fury—or was it pain?—that shimmered from him, like heat off simmering tar.

  Another son for Sutton Wells.

  Well, well, well. Now wasn’t that just too rich?

  Seemed the old man had a hard time keeping his pants up around the ladies. Which got Woodrow to wondering just how many other little Wells bastards were out there, populating God’s green earth.

  Suddenly the ludicrousness of it all hit him. He threw back his head and guffawed.

  “Why are you laughing?” the stranger demanded, his fist clenched on the reins.

  Took Woodrow a spell before he could catch his breath. Once he managed it, he leaned from the saddle and extended his hand.

  “Name’s Woodrow Baldwin,” he said through his grin. “The old man is my father, too.”

  The dark shape didn’t move.

  “That’s not funny,” the stranger snapped.

  “It’s the truth.” Woodrow kept his arm outstretched. “Reckon I’m entitled to know your name, seeing’s we’re brothers and all.”

  “Brothers.”

  “That’s right. You and me.”

  The stranger appeared to struggle with incredulity. Finally, he muttered an oath and reached out; their hands met and clasped.

  “Mikolas Vasco,” he said.

  “Mikolas.” Woodrow tested the unusual word on his tongue and drew back. Since his quirley had burned down to his fingers, he took a last puff and tossed the stub aside. “Glad to meet you, Mikolas. Smoke?”

  “Thanks.”

  Woodrow rooted inside his shirt pocket again and withdrew two cigarettes. Lighting one, he handed it over and lit the second for himself.

  Both drew in long drags. Questions buzzed in Woodrow’s head, curiosity about his newfound sibling’s past, his intentions for the future, for the meeting ahead with the man whose parentage they shared.

  But Woodrow figured there’d be plenty of time to ask questions later. For now, they just needed to get used to the idea that the same blood ran in their veins. At least, half of it.

  They smoked in silence, and in the passing minutes, he sensed the tension growing in Mikolas. Curiosity got the best of Woodrow, after all. He squinted an eye through the veil of smoke.

  “You plan on letting ol’ Sutton know you’re alive and kicking?” he asked.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  They both turned and studied the imposing shape of the house silhouetted on the horizon. And the light burning in that window on the far left.

  “You’re going to talk to him, too?” Mikolas asked.

  Woodrow intended to talk all right. Whatever it took to get Sutton Wells to listen.

  “Yep,” he said.

  “Then why are you sitting out here, on the road?” Mikolas asked.

  “Just waiting until it’s dark.”

  “Why?”

  “Easier that way.”

  “How?”

  Impatience flitted through Woodrow at the stream of questions.

  “It just is, that’s all,” he snapped.

  Over the years, he’d learned the hard way what it took to get Sutton Wells to listen to him. He’d learned, too, the depth of the shame, the contempt, the man felt at having Woodrow for a son.

  “How old are you?” Woodrow demanded.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-five?” He drew back in surprise. “Well, hell. So am I.”

  Mikolas grunted with his own glowering surprise. “Selfish bastard cared nothing for our mothers except to use them for his pleasure.”

  Woodrow’s mama had told him how Sutton’s wife had died a couple of years after Trey was born. Sutton had never remarried, but after his wife’s death, the tomcat had gone prowling, adding kittens to his litter. Instead of doing right by them, as a good father should, he’d sauntered away and left them to fend for themselves.

  Woodrow figured he and Mikolas were the same age, but Woodrow had more experience. And that put him in charge.

  “Listen up, Mikolas. It’s dark now, and that’s the best way to ride up to the house. When no one can see us.”

  “I don’t care if anyone sees us.”

  “You would if one of his damned outfit starts shooting at us. Or the old man throws us out himself.”

  Mikolas appeared taken aback. “He wouldn’t do that. We’re his sons. His family.”

  “Family don’t have nothing to do with it. I’m telling you, he’ll throw us out.” Woodrow knew it firsthand, and he had the scars to prove it. “That’s why we’re going up there my way. Let me do the talking, y’hear?”

  “I don’t need you—”

  “The hell you don’t. The old man never took well to having me as his son, and he sure as hell won’t take to having you for one, either.”

  “But Trey is different, isn’t he?” Mikolas said, a sneer creeping into his voice.

  “Now you’re getting it.” Hate gurgled again, a jealousy so thick and rampant Woodrow near choked from it. “Trey has always been different.”

  The favorite.

  Everyone knew the Wells Cattle Company would be Trey’s one day. Sutton Wells’s firstborn son. Groomed to hold the reins to the family empire.

  A family of two.

  One father. One son.

  Well, that was going to change. And time was a-wastin’.

  “Let’s go,” Woodrow ordered, throwing the last of his cigarette into the weeds. His hand grasped the butt of the Colt slung to his hips. “And keep your mouth shut, y’hear? I’ll let you know when you can talk.”

  This time, Mikolas didn’t argue. Woodrow nudged his mount through the darkness, a slow, steady pace down the road toward that window with the glowing light.

  Farther away on the ranch grounds, the indecipherable sound of laughter and voices drifted from a low-lying structure. The WCC bunkhouse. The cowboys would be turning in soon, in readiness for a dawn rising. They wouldn’t be out to notice anything out of the ordinary, and Woodrow dismissed them.

  He channeled his concentration on that office window instead. Gesturing to Mikolas, he pulled up beside bushes growing down the length of the house. The shadows were deeper here. Black as pitch. They dismounted and tied the leathers to branches.

  Somewhere, a coyote howled, but a quick check revealed no one about. Woodrow kept his hand on his weapon, but he felt no fear. No apprehension. He knew what to do. What to expect.

  Their boot soles scraped softly on the wooden porch. Woodrow withdrew his Colt from his holster with one hand, noiselessly turned the front doorknob with the other. He didn’t bother knocking, and Mikolas’s breathing quickened behind him. Clearly the man had never broken into someone’s house before.

  Woodrow smirked and stole inside. A gentle click indicated Mikolas pulled the door carefully
closed. Woodrow turned to the left, toward the light spilling out of Sutton Wells’s office and onto the thick, crimson floral rug.

  The old man sat at his big, polished desk, his head bent over a rectangular-shaped ledger. He made notations with a pencil, his work absorbing him so deeply he had no idea two of his sons were standing there. Watching him.

  Despising him.

  Mounted on the wall, a set of longhorns took prominence, their wide breadth a symbol of Sutton’s fortune. Nearby, a huge map depicted the boundaries of the Wells Cattle Company within the territory of Montana. On another wall, in neat rows, framed pictures hung from their wires. Photographs of prized bulls and fine-blooded horses. Some with a young boy, staring into the camera. And still more of him all grown-up.

  Trey. It was always Trey.

  Woodrow’s jealousy burned, and his glance slid back to Sutton. The man tended to wear his hair long, just past the collar of his shirt, the sides swept back. The strands glinted thick and golden in the lamplight.

  As thick and golden as Woodrow’s.

  Mama always said he had hair just like his daddy. Funny how they each tended to wear it the same way, too. Past the collar of their shirt and swept back at the sides.

  Woodrow gritted his teeth.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, Pop,” he said in a tone slathered with mockery.

  Sutton’s head jerked up. Slowly he set down his pencil and straightened in his chair.

  “Don’t call me that,” he said.

  “Tsk, tsk.” The words shouldn’t have stung, but they did. Damn him. “Is that any way to talk to your own flesh and blood?” he taunted.

  Sutton’s glance dropped to the Colt pointed at him. He stood carefully. Lifted his glance again. “What do you want, Woodrow?”

  A plethora of things he wanted, needed, jumped onto his tongue. But he swallowed them all.

  “There’s someone here you ought to meet,” he said.

  Mikolas took the cue and stepped forward. Sutton’s glance swung toward him.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “My name is Mikolas Vasco.”

  “That supposed to mean something to me?”

  Mikolas flinched, and Woodrow couldn’t help feeling sorry for him some. No one knew better than Woodrow Baldwin how much Sutton’s rejection hurt, and now Mikolas was getting a taste of it, too.