Table Of ContentThe Cowboy Poet © 2016 by Susan Page Davis
For a Song © 2016 by Susanne Dietze
Crazy about Cait © 2016 by Nancy J. Farrier
Love’s Sweet Storm © 2016 by Miralee Ferrell
The Reformed Cowboy © 2016 by Darlene Franklin
A Texan’s Surprise © 2016 by Vickie McDonough
The Wrangler’s Woman © 2016 by Davalynn Spencer
Cowboy Competition © 2016 by Becca Whitham
The Cowgirl’s Lasso © 2016 by Jaime Jo Wright
Print ISBN 978-1-63409-525-9
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Table of Contents
The Cowboy Poet
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
For A Song
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Crazy About Cait
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Love’s Sweet Storm
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
The Reformed Cowboy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
A Texan’s Surprise
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
The Wrangler’s Woman
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Cowboy Competition
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
The Cowgirl’s Lasso
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
THE COWBOY POET
By Susan Page Davis
Chapter 1
June 1, 1880
Near Beaumont, Texas
H
ave a safe journey, Henry.” Rilla Lane held up a small basket. “I’ve packed you a lunch, for on the
train.”
The old man sitting on the wagon seat looked at the basket for a moment, his eyes wide, then reached
out for it. “Bless you, Miss Rilla. That’s mighty kind of you.”
“Just being practical. I know from experience the food you can buy along the way is expensive—and
not always the best. I wish I could go with you as far as the station.”
The young cowboy holding the reins leaned forward and looked at her. “You’re welcome to come
along, Miss Rilla.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Bat, but Mama and I will be doing the washing today. Mama’s still not very
strong, and she’ll need me.”
“I expect you’re right.” Bat Wilson’s brown eyes held her gaze. He had come to the ranch during
Rilla’s absence at school. She’d seen him working around the barn and the corrals with the other ranch
hands but hadn’t had much opportunity to get to know him. So far, she liked what she saw, and she’d heard
nothing bad about him.
She’d seen how considerate he was to Henry, too. The old ranch hand was retiring, going to live with
his daughter in Galveston. Bat had loaded Henry’s bedroll and his old, worn saddle into the back of the
wagon as carefully as if they were blown crystal.
“You ride old Bluebell for me once in a while.” Henry’s smile creased the corners of his eyes. “Don’t
let her get stiff.”
“I will,” Rilla promised.
“Don’t know why I’m even taking my saddle,” Henry muttered, glancing back at his few bits in the
wagon bed.
“You’ll ride another horse in Galveston,” Bat said. “You know you’re not done ridin’, Hen.”
“I dunno.” Henry’s face scrunched up, as though just the thought of mounting a horse made his muscles
ache.
Woolly, his black-and-white spaniel, ran across the dooryard and barked. He put his front paws up
against the wagon’s frame near Henry’s boots and wagged his tail.
“No, fella, you can’t come,” Henry said sadly.
“You sure?” Bat asked. “They’d put him in the baggage car. Wouldn’t cost much.”
Henry shook his head. “My Annie’s got babies and a small house. She said no critters.”
Rilla gently pulled Woolly down and stroked his silky head. “Sit, boy.” The dog immediately sank to
his haunches. “Don’t you worry about him, Henry. We’ll take good care of him.”
Henry cracked a smile. “That’s good of you. Now, don’t let him chase the wagon.”
“I won’t.”
Henry looked down at the dog that watched his every move. “Woolly, roll over for me one more time,
boy.” As he spoke, he gave a subtle signal, wiggling his index finger in a circle.
Woolly flopped over on his back and rolled over then stood gazing at his master, waiting for praise.
“Good dog. Now sit. You guard Miss Rilla, y’hear?” Henry nodded to Bat, who gathered the reins and
clucked to the horses.
Rilla stood with her hand on Woolly’s head, in case the dog tried to bolt after them. Woolly tensed but
kept his position, his tail jerking back and forth as the wagon rolled up the lane.
Rilla closed the cupboard on the clean supper dishes and hung up her apron. The sun was low in the west,
but it hadn’t set, and she might snatch an hour before dark. She hurried to her room and grabbed her
composition book, a pencil, a hat, and the short jacket she wore around the ranch. At the finishing school
in Philadelphia, the worn coat would be forbidden and she would have used a fringed shawl. She missed
school, but the ranch had some compensations, including her comfortable old clothes.
She slipped out the back door before Mama could see her and give her another chore. Rilla didn’t mind
working all day—that was what she had come home for. If she had stayed in the East, she’d be working,
too, probably as a teacher. But surely she had earned an hour of leisure after doing laundry and housework
all day, not to mention bottle feeding the two orphaned calves and ironing her father’s shirts.
One of the ponies in the corral whickered, and she veered her steps to pat him. Three others drifted
over for attention, jostling the first gelding aside.
“Oh, are you jealous?” Rilla stroked each one’s muzzle in turn and scratched beneath their forelocks.
Henry’s aging mare seemed especially to love that. “Hello, Bluebell.”
“Did you want to ride, Miss Rilla?”
She whirled and found Bat Wilson and Woolly a couple of yards behind her.
“No thanks, Bat. I need to start riding again, but tonight I thought I’d do some writing.” She held up her
composition book. “Seems like I never get time for it.”
“I know your ma appreciates having you home.”
She smiled. “I think she does. But I need to finish a piece this week.”
“You have some kind of… like, a deadline?” Bat asked.
Rilla felt warmth flood her cheeks. “Sort of. It’s a contest. I promised one of my instructors I would
enter, and if I don’t get my poem off soon, it won’t be on time.”
“You write poems?”
She couldn’t meet his gaze. “Well, I try.” Some of her teachers had thought her poems were quite good,
but she could hardly tell him that. She stooped to pet Woolly. “Do you think he’s figured out yet that
Henry’s gone?”
“I don’t think so, not for sure. He’s a pretty smart dog, though.”
Rilla laughed. “That’s the truth. Henry could teach him any trick he wanted. This is my favorite. Bend
over.”
“Huh?”
“Lean down like this.” She demonstrated, bowing from her waist.
Bat copied her, watching her from beneath the broad brim of his hat.
“Woolly,” she said, and when she had the dog’s attention, she gave a little salute. At once, Woolly
leaped up and knocked Bat’s hat to the ground.
“Hey!” He stood up, laughing. “That’s pretty good.”
“Isn’t it?” She gave Woolly an extra pat. “Well, I’d better get going, or it’ll be dark. Good evening.”
She walked away, toward the creek, where she had found a special spot years ago. A large willow branch
jutted out from the tree less than three feet off the ground. Rilla climbed up carefully and settled in the
curve of the branch. She hadn’t outgrown her favorite perch.
She opened the notebook and looked through the last few pages she had written. Miss Saxon had
praised her writing highly. She had urged Rilla to think about becoming a published writer, perhaps while
she taught other young women to love literature as much as she did. The teaching position would pay her
expenses while she established herself as a writer, and she might enjoy a career at it. Rilla had embraced
the idea—until Mama took ill.
Last spring her mother had suffered from severe pneumonia. Terribly worried, Rilla had nearly left
school a month early. But her father had told her to finish out the term, and her teachers had encouraged
her to do so, since she was so close to graduating. Pa’s telegram saying Mama had rallied was enough,
and she had received her diploma in May. Her parents weren’t able to attend the graduation, but that was
all right. Mama was getting better. The next morning, Rilla had boarded a train for Texas. By the time she
got home, Mama was sitting up and able to exclaim over the beauty of Rilla’s diploma, which now hung,
framed, in the parlor.
Rilla poised her pencil over the first blank page. Miss Saxon had extolled the freshness of her voice.
Confused as to what that meant, Rilla had asked her. The beloved teacher had replied that it was her
attitude in writing. Rilla was from the West. Her essays and stories, but especially her poems, didn’t
sound stuffy and suffocated like those of some of the city girls, the teacher said.
Now Rilla was home and in the middle of the wide, wild places that gave her that voice. She should be
able to write even better poems. She looked out beyond the creek, to the distant hills for inspiration. She
ought to be able to write something new and stirring about this vast, rolling land. She put her pencil to the
paper.
From afar I see the punchers riding in.
In the city, I never saw a vista of the sort.
With buildings pressing all around, I’d spin
And long for Texas and my faithful horse.
She reread her effort and curled her lip. It was awful! Just horrible. Now, the poem she had sent to the
Canfield Magazine last month, that was a fine example of verse. She almost wished she hadn’t sent it to
the editor to consider for publication, so she could send it now to the contest. With a big sigh, she turned
the page. She would have to try harder, that was all.
She leaned back to think, but instead of panoramic views and Texas’s turbulent grandeur, a dark-haired
cowboy with bright eyes filled her mind.
When had Bat become the object of her reverie? Shortly after she returned home, if the truth were told.
He could ride and rope with the best of them, and he always seemed eager to do his part of the work. In
fact, she’d seen him come in late one afternoon from stringing fence, and instead of heading right into the
bunkhouse, he had stopped to help another cowboy, Zeke, finish his own work—the unsavory job of
cleaning the harness. Pa periodically assigned the task to one of the hands.
Rilla wasn’t sure why she was so attracted to Bat. Sure, he was nice looking, in a fresh-off-the-range
sort of way. His kindness to others had something to do with it, and probably the fact that he was still an
unknown to her. His background was a blank so far as she was concerned, and Rilla had learned at school
that young ladies found a mysterious man appealing. She’d laughed when her friend Alicia had put that
idea forth, but maybe it was true. Bat fit her concept of the tall, dark stranger, and he certainly did intrigue
her. She began to write.
The dark-haired stranger rides in from the north.
Who is he? How long will he stay?
Townsfolk watch him from
Rilla stopped with a sigh. What rhymed with north, anyway? Forth, she supposed. In a pinch, worth,
but she didn’t care for approximate rhymes. She erased from and wrote:
