Not the Marrying Kind Read online

  NOT THE MARRYING KIND

  Christina Cole

  Historical Romance

  Secret Cravings Publishing

  www.secretcravingspublishing.com

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2014 © Christina Cole

  ABOUT THE Ebook YOU HAVE PURCHASED: Your non-refundable purchase of this ebook allows you to only ONE LEGAL copy for your own personal reading on your own personal computer or device. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee, or as a prize in any contest. Such action is illegal and in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law. Distribution of this ebook, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden. If you do not want this book anymore, you must delete it from your computer.

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  If you find a Secret Cravings Publishing ebook being sold or shared illegally, please let us know at [email protected]

  A Secret Cravings Publishing Book

  Sensual Romance

  Not the Marrying Kind

  Copyright © 2014 Christina Cole

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63105-069-5

  First Ebook Publication: January 2014

  Cover design by Dawné Dominique

  Edited by Julie Reilly

  Proofread by Rene Flowers

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2014 by Secret Cravings Publishing

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Secret Cravings Publishing

  www.secretcravingspublishing.com

  Dedication

  To my husband, Ken, with love.

  The Cravings Ebook Club

  The Cravings Paranormal Ebook Club

  Have you heard about the newest idea in ebooks, the ebook club? Secret Cravings Publishing has two ebook clubs, The Cravings Ebook Club or the Cravings Paranormal Ebook Club, and we invite you to become a member.

  As a new member, you will receive Trouble With a Cowboy* by Sandy Sullivan and Forget Me Not** by Jaden Sinclair FREE, just for joining!

  You’ll also receive 4 BRAND-NEW EBOOKS, specially selected by our Editorial Director, every month in a variety of genres for a total price of only $9.99 for all 4. This comes out to barely $2.50 per book, much less than the retail price and you’ll be able to enjoy your books even before they are uploaded to the popular sales sites. One of several privileges of club membership.

  *Trouble With a Cowboy, a western, erotic romance:

  Can some slashed tires and an ornery bull bring two hard-headed people together for some fun in the sun and a little more?

  **Forget Me Not, paranormal erotic romance:

  A war is brewing, a war that could destroy an entire vampire race if left unchecked, and Julian Marino has been requested to participate in it. He stops his search for a long time friend to go home and discovers there is more at stake than just his wants.

  We will try to match your books to your preferences, however, if you’re a major paranormal fan, we suggest you join the Cravings Paranormal Club. Everything is the same except that three of your four books will be paranormal. The remaining book will be of a different genre.

  As a club member, you will also receive:

  our monthly newsletter

  sneak previews of new books

  exclusive interviews with your favorite authors

  special offers not available to the general public

  To join, visit the Secret Cravings Publishing website. At the bottom of the page you’ll see a button for the club. You can sign up there and share your preferences for genre, format and heat level with us. You will be charged, automatically, through PayPal, only $9.99 every month. Your books will be shipped within 1 day after PayPal payment has cleared. You may cancel at any time by clicking on the “unsubscribe” button located on the Cravings Club tab at the bottom of our website and keep the FREE BOOKS as our gift.

  We hope our Secret Cravings books will delight you each and every month.

  Best wishes,

  Beth Walker

  NOT THE MARRYING KIND

  Christina Cole

  Copyright © 2014

  Chapter One

  Sunset, Colorado, 1872

  “That’s not the way Mama does it.”

  Mischief danced in the little girl’s blue eyes. Her cheeks were flushed—a sure sign she was up to something—but her angelic face and strawberry-blonde ringlets gave the appearance of innocence. She clasped her hands in front of her and smiled sweetly at her older sister.

  Kat Phillips stood in front of the oven. Heat spilled through the tiny kitchen, making it hard to breathe in the stifling air. The tightly-cinched corset she wore didn’t help either. She was in no mood for any of Emily Sue’s pranks.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said with an air of confidence. “Mama’s not here, and this is the way I do it.”

  The kitchen was not her domain, and the confidence was a sham. Dressed as she was in a ruffled gingham gown with frilly petticoats beneath the long skirts and a hideous bustle accentuating her behind, Kat felt as out of place as she looked, a silly goose among a flock of chickens, pretending to be a hen.

  She knew little about cooking, less about baking, and most likely her twelve-year-old sister was playing tricks again…wasn’t she?

  Emily’s ringlets bobbed as she frowned and shook her head.

  “You’re supposed to add sugar.”

  “Sugar?” Kat glanced toward the tin canister, unsure. “I don’t think so. These apples are sweet enough the way they are. Now, scoot.” She shooed her little sister away. “I’ve got to get this pie in the oven, and I’d say the biscuits should be about ready to come out.”

  Her stubborn sister didn’t budge.

  “Mama says you’ll never get a husband unless you learn to cook.”

  “Well, Miss Smarty-pants, it so happens I don’t want a husband.” Kat pushed a lock of sweat-damp red hair away from her cheek. Earlier, she’d braided it, coiled it, and plaited it atop her head in what were intended to be fashionable loops. Already she was coming undone and her hair along with it.

  “Liar.” Emily folded her arms. “Every woman wants a husband.”

  “That’s nonsense. Now, step back.” With her patience growing thinner moment by moment, Kat’s words were a clear warning. She grabbed a dishrag and reached for the oven door.

  “That won’t work. You’ll burn yourself. You better put those on.” Emily pointed to a pair of thick, quilted mitts.

  “Scat!” Kat snapped the dishrag and chased her annoying little sister from the room. She headed for the stove, then stopped, picked up the mitts, and slipped her hands inside. Slowly, she opened the oven door. Heat rushed at her, nearly knocking her across the cluttered kitchen. Her mother would scold her for making such a mess, but Kat was doing the best she could under the circumstances. She staggered backward, tripped on the spindly legs of a chair, and went down, lan
ding on the hard wooden floor with a thump of her bustled bottom and a whoosh of her long skirts and petticoats.

  Clumsy, awkward clothes! She hated fancy dresses, but it was Thursday night, company was coming, and Pa insisted she gussy up for dinner.

  Muttering under her breath, Kat scrambled to her feet. She cast a cautious look over her shoulder and groaned. Earlier, she’d dropped an egg while beating up her batch of biscuits. Yep. She’d managed to fall in the exact same spot, and now she’d have a most unattractive stain in a most embarrassing place.

  Had she been the sort of woman who cried, she would have done so, but cursing was more Kat’s style.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered. “And double damn,” she threw in for good measure, grateful Emily was no longer close by, and grateful, too, that her father’s room was far enough away he couldn’t hear the expletives pouring from her mouth.

  She’d never had a civilized tongue. Growing up, she’d spent most of her time with her brother, Robb—God rest his soul—and together they’d hung out with the ranch hands, emulating their casual, laid-back manner and their colorful use of language.

  A simple damn—even a double damn—was a mild expression compared to some of the oaths she knew.

  Kat eyed the stove again. Her wary gaze focused on the oven door. With careful steps, she edged closer.

  After re-adjusting the mitts, she reached out, opened the door once more and peeked inside, disappointed by the burnt, misshapen lumps of dough that were supposed to be biscuits.

  Damn it to hell! If her mother expected her to cook a decent meal, she should have at least left some instructions instead of hoping Kat would somehow figure it out on her own.

  But that’s how Amanda Phillips was. Folks learned best by doing, she believed. But no matter how many meals Kat tried to cook, the results always came out the same. In a word, disastrous. She got flustered and clumsy, couldn’t keep herself or her ingredients organized, and she never could wrangle the right temperature out of that confounded wood stove.

  Fortunately, her mother usually did all the cooking, serving up wholesome, delicious meals for her family and for the men who lived and worked at the Rocking P Ranch.

  Of course, that was before. Things were a lot different now.

  Things had changed around the ranch, and around the nearby little town of Sunset, as well, which was why Amanda was away from home so much of the time. Ever since old Doc Carder gave up the ghost and went to his reward in the great beyond, there wasn’t a physician to be found between Sunset and Denver, except for Abner Kellerman. No woman in her right mind would want that old drunk birthing babies, so it was Amanda Phillips who stepped in, visited the women in town, and saw to it that the next generation arrived safely into the world.

  Unfortunately, newborns seldom chose convenient moments to emerge from their mothers’ wombs, and the dinner-hour, as often as not, seemed their favorite time, second only to middle-of-the-night arrivals.

  “Reverend Kendrick’s coming to dinner, you know.”

  At the sound of the voice, Kat whirled around. The pan of biscuits slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor.

  “Emily Sue, you’ve got to stop sneaking up on me that way!”

  “I wasn’t sneaking.”

  “Yes, you were.” She stooped down to retrieve the biscuits. Hard as rocks! She picked them up and tossed them into the garbage bin. “And of course the reverend is coming to dinner. He always comes to dinner on Thursday evenings.”

  “Mama says he’d make a fine husband.”

  “Already told you, I don’t want a husband.” Even if she did, it sure as Hades wouldn’t be Virgil Kendrick. “Now, you’d better go wash up before I paddle your butt—” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Your behind, I mean. You didn’t hear me say butt, right?”

  Emily rolled her big blue eyes. Someday, when the little girl grew up, she’d have an entire repertoire of feminine wiles and flirtatious gestures, Kat suspected. Now, a dramatic sigh slipped from her rosebud mouth. “Of course I heard what you said, but give me a nickel and I won’t tell Pa.”

  “A nickel? That’s outrageous. I’ll give you two pennies, no more.” She fished two copper coins out of a wide-mouthed Mason jar Mama kept on the table. Tithing money went into the jar every time somebody paid Mama for her services. Ten percent, given to God. Pa put tithing money into the jar, too, whenever he got paid for odd jobs. Of course, when the government paid in full on the beef contracts, all of that money went right into the bank, and Pa made a fine show of writing a check for the family’s tithing and handing it over to Reverend Kendrick.

  At least, that’s how it used to be…before.

  Now, things were a lot different around the Rocking P Ranch.

  “Reverend Kendrick will be here at seven, so you’d better hurry up if you’re going to get dinner ready on time.” Emily’s eyes lit up as she accepted the pennies. “And you’d better change, too. Your dress is a mess.” She laughed and scampered from the room.

  Kat glanced down at her flour-covered, yolk-stained skirts. Yes, she would have to change. Although she really didn’t care what Reverend Kendrick thought of her appearance, her pa would have a conniption fit if she came to the table looking like she’d been rolling around on the kitchen floor.

  But why did she have to wear a dress? She saw nothing wrong with the shirts and trousers she usually wore. They were comfortable and practical for her needs.

  At least, they always had been. But that was before.

  Kat sighed, wishing life could have stayed the same as it had been for the last eighteen years, but things always changed, and there wasn’t a damned thing anybody could do about it.

  That didn’t mean she had to like it though.

  She glanced toward the clock. Close to five, and Reverend Kendrick would arrive at seven. For anyone else, that would leave plenty of time to get a meal on the table. For Kat, it wasn’t nearly time enough.

  Two hours later, she carried a tureen of chicken soup to the dining room. Soup was not on the menu her mother had written out, but Kat’s inedible attempt at fried pork chops and gravy had gone straight to the trash heap. Even the mangy dogs that hung around the ranch turned up their noses and went whining away.

  She didn’t care. It’s not like she was out to impress anyone with her culinary skills. Especially not Reverend Kendrick. If he didn’t like the meal, he could go elsewhere. The church-goers fed him every night. The man should be thankful for whatever he got, in her opinion.

  With the pork chops ruined, Kat had raided the cellar. Her mother had put up dozens of jars of thick, rich chicken soup. A second batch of biscuits had fared slightly better than her first. They were burned, but not to a crisp. Soak them in the soup…they’d be just fine, she hoped.

  As she placed the tureen on the table, footsteps shuffled through the doorway. Kat put a bright smile on her face and looked up.

  “Pa? What are you doing? I thought you were still sleeping.” She’d changed into a neat, simple, and clean cotton frock—and she’d taken off the hideous bustle. With little time left to worry over her hair, she’d removed the pins, letting her tresses fall in loose waves around her shoulders. Not exactly the ideal image of young womanhood, perhaps, but at least she looked more feminine than usual, and the expression on her father’s face showed his approval.

  “Sleeping?” He shook his head. “There’ll be time enough for sleeping when I’m dead,” he quipped, coming forward to lift the lid from the tureen. “What’s this, honey?”

  “Chicken soup.” She turned away. It bothered her when her father joked about dying.

  He replaced the lid and nodded. “Not what I was expecting, but I’m sure it will taste fine. You did a good job.”

  “I didn’t make it, Pa. I got it from the cellar.” She brightened her smile. “But I did make biscuits. They turned out fairly well, I think. And there’s apple pie for dessert.” She hurried around the table and linked her arm in his. “Why don’t yo
u let me take you back to your room? You can rest a little longer. I’ll wake you when the reverend gets here.”

  A few months before, he’d collapsed while working out on the range. Most likely his heart, Mama said, promptly ordering him to his bed. It took a few days before a physician from Denver could make it to Sunset to check him out. The doctor quickly agreed with Mama’s assessment and her recommended treatment. Lots of bed rest. No excitement. No strenuous activities.

  But her father still hadn’t regained his strength. Kat knew he never would. At least he was alive, and she intended to keep him that way as long as possible, no matter how much she had to fuss at him—and no matter how much he fussed back.

  Her father patted her hand. “I know you mean well, honey, but I can’t seem to rest these days. I’ve got too much on my mind.”

  “Pa, I’ve told you before, you don’t need to worry about the ranch.”

  She was accustomed to hard work, probably knew as much about ranching as any man, and with the help of a good foreman, she could all but run the Rocking P by herself. Fortunately, their lead man was one of the best.

  “Mike and I have everything under control,” she rushed on, not giving him a chance to interrupt. “We’re doing just fine, Pa.” They’d scaled back their cattle ranching operations and let all the hands go except for Mike Morrissey, the foreman. He’d been with the Rocking P since its beginning twenty years earlier. The grizzled old man was part of the ranch and part of the family.