The Cowboy and the Princess Read online

“Peyton’s father and I wanted her to marry the obstetrician she’d been dating, but out of nowhere she falls in love with a cutting horse cowboy.” Mrs. Messing said it like it was a dirty word. “And so here we are.”

  “Planning a wedding,” Annie said cheerfully.

  “Peyton has only known him a couple of months. It’s too fast.”

  “When something is right, what is the meaning of time?”

  “Exactly, so why not take your time?” Melinda Messing pursed her lips. “What’s the rush? If it’s real, it will wait.”

  “Does your daughter truly love this man?”

  “I suppose.” The woman sighed. “But she’s just twenty-five. What does she know about love?”

  “How old were you when you married your husband?”

  Mrs. Messing looked startled. “Twenty-two.”

  “This is the chapel.” Annie opened the door.

  They stepped inside the building. To Annie’s eyes the church was beautiful in its simplicity. Four walls. An altar. A tall steeple. Both the interior and the exterior painted pure white. The pews were pine. The floors polished maple. At the back of the altar was a single stained-glass window depicting a cowboy on one knee, hat doffed in one hand, the other hand holding the reins of his horse, his head bowed in prayer. It was both pious and touching.

  “I admit,” Mrs. Messing said begrudgingly, “it holds a certain rustic charm.”

  “This might not be your vision of your daughter’s wedding, but try to see it through her eyes,” Annie said.

  “I’m trying. Let me ask you something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Let’s say you were the one getting married.”

  I am. “All right.”

  “What would be five essential things you would want at your wedding?”

  “My father, my friends—”

  “Not people,” she corrected. “Things. What would you consider wedding must-haves?”

  Was this a trick question? Annie feared she was not going to pass the test.

  “For example, my wedding day must-haves were my Phi Theta Kappa pin, a pale blue petticoat, four-inch stilettos, Chanel No. 5, and my grandmother’s gold Longines wristwatch.”

  “Um . . .”

  “Do you know what Peyton wants for her five things? Do you have any idea?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Scarlet Old Gringo cowboy boots, a red and white checkered neckerchief, a daisy chain headband, thong underwear, and a nose ring. Can you believe that?”

  “Every generation has their conventions.” Personally, she admired Peyton’s spirit.

  Melinda Messing sighed. “I suppose.”

  Annie’s five things weren’t even her must-haves. They’d been preselected per royal protocol. The Farrington family diamond tiara; a floor-length, hand-tatted mantilla veil; white silk elbow gloves; gold shoes encrusted with diamonds; and a sapphire necklace.

  “Please allow me to show you the reception hall,” Annie said diplomatically, and escorted her over the walkway.

  Mrs. Messing curled up her lip. “This looks like a horse barn.”

  “Very perceptive. It once was a horse barn,” Annie said. “But wait until you see inside.”

  The reception hall had been gutted of horse stalls and renovated with all the modern touches, but still stayed true to its cowboy roots. There were hooks for hanging cowboy hats and boot scrapers in the entryway. But the floors, as in the chapel, were hardwood maple. The kitchen area for the caterers held commercial-grade appliances and boasted granite countertops. The dance floor was huge. Granted, the bandstand was a bit kitschy, decorated with hay bales and horse tack, but it was in perfect keeping with the theme.

  “It’s not as bad as I imagined,” Mrs. Messing admitted, “but I’m still hoping to talk my daughter into a Highland Park wedding.”

  “We would love to have your business and we will do everything in our power to make this wedding fit your standards, while still appeasing your daughter’s desire for a cowboy-style ceremony,” Annie said.

  Mrs. Messing eyed her again. “You remind me so much of someone, but I just can’t put my finger on it.”

  Annie bit her lip. “I am certain that we have never met.”

  She snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it! You’re the spitting image of Princess Annabella Farrington of Monesta, without the long blond hair of course. I met her last Friday before Echo Glover’s wedding. I was an invited guest. But the poor dear came down with mono and couldn’t attend the ceremony.”

  Fear stirred a stew in Annie’s stomach. This was it. She was about to be caught in her lie. “Yes, I have been compared to the princess before,” she said, surprised to hear how cool and smooth she sounded.

  “I bet.” Mrs. Messing shook her head. “You look enough like Annabella to be her sister.”

  They stepped back outside to see a cowboy riding up on a horse and leading a second horse behind him. It was Brady with Trampas trotting beside him. Annie’s heart did a somersault. She’d never been so grateful to see anyone in her life.

  Brady tipped his hat, smiled. “Mornin’, ladies.”

  “My goodness,” Mrs. Messing said, a gleam in her eye. She put a hand over her heart. “Is he part of the backdrop? If so, I’m beginning to see the appeal of the cowboy mystique.”

  Chapter Eleven

  You might be a princess if . . . you’ve never seen a jackrabbit.

  “Hi,” Brady said to Annie after Mrs. Messing had departed.

  “Hello yourself.” Annie stood shading her eyes from the dappled sunlight with the flat of her hand and glanced up at him. She felt a bit peevish that he hadn’t called her and she wanted to ask him where he had been, but she did not want to sound anxious or clingy. This was supposed to be a casual relationship, after all. Clinging was the exact opposite of what she should be doing.

  “Mariah told me you’d be home today.”

  “Great timing. You impressed Mrs. Messing and she’s not a fan of cowboys by and large.”

  “I thought today might be a good one for your riding lesson.”

  “Riding lesson?”

  “Sure. You said you loved horses, but you didn’t know how to ride. You’re in cutting horse country. It would be a shame if you left without learning how to ride.”

  She gestured toward the cabin. “I need to change clothes.”

  “Trampas and I will be waiting right here.” He swung down off his horse.

  Annie hurried into the house, happy to shed the dress suit and high heels for boots and jeans. “You ready for another adventure?” she asked Lady Astor.

  The Yorkie danced.

  She stepped back outside, Lady Astor raced ahead of her to run past Trampas. The mutt gave chase, barking playfully.

  Annie turned her attention to Brady. In that moment, seeing him backlit by the sun, his face cloaked in the shadow of his Stetson, every millimeter of air in her lungs escaped. He wore a red, short-sleeved Western-style shirt with a yoke and snaps instead of buttons. The color accentuated his tan and when he smiled, his teeth seemed impossibly white. She met his eyes and discovered he’d been studying her as closely as she’d been scrutinizing him.

  A mockingbird trilled from the peach tree in the front yard, stretching its vocal range from chickadee to flycatcher to blue jay. Brady sauntered over and gazed down at Annie with those languid chocolate eyes. His fingers wrapped around her wrists. “This way, Buttercup.”

  He led her over to an older mare, already saddled and ready to ride. “C’mon over here and let me show you how to get on your mount.”

  Tentatively, Annie edged closer to the horse.

  “This here is Pickles. She used to be a barrel racing champion, but she’s getting on up there in years and she’s not as spry as she used to be, but she prefers female riders.”

  Annie petted the horse’s long neck. Pickles swung her head around to sniff at Annie’s skin, her lips dry and tickly. “Oh, she is lovely.”

  “Here,” Brady said.
“Hold the reins in your left hand.” He draped the slack over the mare’s right side. “You want to be self-assured when you get on, because a good mount immediately lets Pickles know that you know what you’re doing and it will create a bond between you.”

  “Except that I do not know what I’m doing.”

  “But I do, so listen to me. While you take hold of the reins, grab hold of the base of her mane as well.” He paused to demonstrate. “Now, using your right hand, take hold of the stirrup iron and put your left foot in the stirrup.”

  Feeling nervous, but anxious to prove her mettle, Annie took hold of the reins and managed to slip her left boot into the stirrup. She had one leg on the ground, the other suspended in the air.

  Pickles shifted, moved.

  Panic washed over Annie. “Whoa, whoa.”

  “I’ve got her,” Brady said.

  Annie slid a glance over and saw that Brady did indeed have a solid grip on the bridle.

  “Just be calm and you’ll be fine. Take a big deep breath if you need to.”

  “I am all right. Just knowing you have a hold on her makes all the difference.”

  “Now, grab the cantle with your right hand.”

  “Cantle?”

  “The back of the saddle.”

  “Done.”

  “Now, bounce on the ball of your right foot.” He placed a hand to her back. Instantly, she felt more secure and in control. “Push off with your right foot as you put your weight on your stirrup foot, simultaneously pulling on the saddle and the horse’s mane.”

  “Oh dear, I fear I am not coordinated enough for this.”

  “Sure you are.” His deep, reassuring voice rushed over her eardrum. “Ups-a-Buttercup,” he said instead of ups-a-daisy as one might say when hefting a child.

  That made her laugh, and with his guidance, the next thing she knew, Annie was in the saddle. Brady took the reins and showed her how to hold them with her thumbs up to give her more control.

  “Ready to give it a shot?”

  Annie nodded.

  “Now pull on the reins lightly to turn her just like I showed you.”

  Annie tugged to the right. Pickles didn’t move.

  “Firmer.”

  She increased the pressure. Pickles moved.

  “Oh, oh,” she exclaimed. “Will you look at that? It worked.”

  “Of course it worked. Understand that horses are very sensitive creatures and they pick up on your moods. They’re prone to nervousness, so be gentle, but they can also be stubborn, so sometimes you have to show them who’s boss.”

  Pickles loped forward.

  Brady whistled for Trampas and Lady Astor to follow them and they started off across the pasture, riding side by side, the dogs frolicking behind. Annie clung nervously to the reins. If Brady hadn’t been with her, she wouldn’t have had enough courage to do this.

  An animal leaped from the high grass.

  “Look.” She pointed. “A rabbit. It is quite large.”

  Trampas and Lady Astor spotted it simultaneously and took off after it.

  “That’s a jackrabbit, Annie,” Brady said as the oversized bunny outran the dogs.

  “Really? I have read about jackrabbits, but I have never seen one. This is so exciting.”

  Brady chuckled. “You’re really easy to impress.”

  “I just do not want to take anything for granted. I might never again see another jackrabbit in my life.”

  “Live in the now, huh?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s a philosophy I can get behind,” he said.

  “We are a good match on that score. Live in the moment, because at any moment it can all change.”

  “That’s right.” He cocked his head, glanced over at her.

  Her skin itched from the heat of his stare and she shifted nervously in the saddle.

  “Who are you really, Annie Coste?” he murmured.

  The question took her breath. It had been brewing under the surface since she had met him but she kept hoping he would never come right out and ask.

  She shrugged, struggled to appear casual. “Just a girl.”

  He shook his head. “Oh no. You’re not just anything. I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

  “I feel the same about you,” she said.

  An awkward pause strung between them like beads on a chain. A honeybee winged past them, headed for a patch of sweet-smelling red flowers carpeting the ground.

  “What are those flowers called?” Annie asked, eager to fill the anxious gap in conversation.

  “Indian paintbrush,” he said. “Or that’s what they called them when I was growing up. These days it’s more politically correct to call them prairie-fire.”

  “I have read about them. They are even prettier in person than in description.”

  Trampas and Lady Astor came trotting back to them, tongues lolling, on the lookout for more jackrabbits to chase. Their horses were walking side by side and Annie could feel Brady watching her. The heat of his gaze made her tingle and blush.

  She looked at the reins in her hands, smelled dark leather. Who was this man? She did not know him any more than he knew her. What was she doing here?

  Before she could reiterate her motivations, Brady trotted ahead of her and glanced back over his shoulder. He wore a short-sleeved green plaid snap-down shirt and faded button-fly Wranglers, his straw Stetson cocked back on his head. “You’re doing a darn good job of riding that horse.”

  “I am?” Pride lifted her chin.

  “Yep.” He offered a mischievous smile.

  “Where shall we go now?” she asked.

  “Let’s find a nice picnic spot.”

  “A picnic? We are going on a picnic?” She hadn’t been on a picnic since she was a child. Rosalind would take her into the woods on the grounds of Farrington Palace where they would salt hard-boiled eggs and eat potato salad and little cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, made by the palace chef. “You have prepared a picnic lunch for us?”

  “I cheated. I bought submarine sandwiches in Jubilee.”

  “What are submarine sandwiches?”

  “Same as hoagies.”

  “I have never heard of them.”

  “Grinders?”

  “No.”

  “Heroes?”

  “Not in relationship to sandwiches.”

  “Po’-boys?”

  Annie shook her head. She could not imagine any sandwich with those names being served at the palace. “What whimsical language.”

  “You’ve never eaten any of those either?”

  “No, I do not think so. If I did, no one called them by those names.”

  “Buttercup, you have been so sheltered. My theory that you escaped from a nunnery is taking lead supposition.”

  Annie pressed her lips together. She wanted so badly to tell him the truth, but she knew it would ruin everything. He would be shocked, then disbelieving, and then finally surprised, impressed, and intimidated. And that would be the end of rodeos and riding lessons and picnics.

  “You’re not going to confirm or deny?”

  He was persistent, but she was equally determined. “I thought we agreed I could keep my secrets.”

  “You’re right, but you can’t blame me for trying. The mystery just makes you that much more intriguing.”

  “What better reason to stay an enigma,” she said. “If you learned everything there was to know about me, you’d lose interest.”

  He raked a sultry gaze over her body. “I very much doubt that.”

  He had a way of making her feel naked. “Let us just enjoy the day.”

  “How about here.” Brady pointed to a small creek running through the property. “Underneath that old chinaberry tree. Looks like a good spot for a picnic.”

  They tied the horses to an elm sapling while the dogs romped in the creek. Brady took a light blanket from his saddlebag and spread it on the ground. Then he removed the sandwiches, wrapped in wax paper, from
the bag along with two bottles of water. He hung his cowboy hat over a tree limb and they sat down on the blanket. Trampas and Lady Astor came running up.

  “I can see we’re going to have to split these sandwiches four ways.” He laughed, broke off a chunk of bread from each sandwich, and gave one bite to Trampas, one to Lady Astor.

  It moved Annie to see how affectionate he was with the dogs. He would make a great father someday. Too bad she would not be around to see Brady fully come into his own. He was good-looking, yes, and his muscular body was quite impressive, but sexiness alone wasn’t what made a man appealing to her. Intelligence was what drew her attention; common sense caught her notice. But the number one quality that touched her heart was compassion. A man who was gentle with animals and kind to people, well, that was a man you wanted to hold on to.

  Annie saw that in Brady—compassion, kindness, thoughtfulness. Was it a natural trait born into him? Or had it come through trial and error? From living a hard life and learning how to bounce back up when you got knocked down?

  The way he lowered his lashes over dark brown eyes made her long to let go and tell him everything. Confess all. Ask for his lips to give her penance.

  She took a nibble of the sandwich. It was quite good. Lots of flavor and ingredients—salami, ham, turkey, lettuce, tomatoes, green peppers, cucumbers, black olives, oil and vinegar on hearty whole wheat bread.

  “Oops,” Brady said. “Almost forgot the ’tater chips.” He rummaged in the saddlebag again and tossed her a bag of potato chips.

  “We call them crisps where I am from.”

  “Isn’t that what they call them in England?”

  “I believe so.”

  “So you’re from England?”

  “Do I sound British?”

  “No.”

  “That is your evidence.”

  “You enjoy being cryptic,” he observed, his eyelids sensual at half mast.

  Lady Astor sat up to beg for a chip. Annie gave her a chiding look and the Yorkie slunk down and covered her eyes with her paws.

  Brady laughed. “How do you get her to do that?”

  “She knows better than to beg for food. It is behavior unbecoming a lady.”

  “Unbecoming, huh?”

  “She’s been taught the correct way to act.”