A Wish to Build a Dream On

by Vivian Vaughan

Overview

A warm-hearted tale of romance and adventure from “a superb writer who does Western Americana with flair and humor” (RT Book Reviews).
 
Reese Catlin is determined to get his herd from Texas to Kansas ahead of the rush so he can make enough money to buy the ranch of his dreams. An excellent chuck wagon cook is essential to the cattle drive, and after tasting the delectable lemon pies at the café in town, he knows he’s found the perfect man for the job in “Andy” Dushane.
 
The thing is, Andie Dushane is no man at all. And Reese has no intention of taking a woman on the trail. But it’s not so easy resisting Andie’s culinary skills . . . or her undeniable beauty.
 
Before long, her delicious cuisine is all the cowboys can talk about. But it’s the thought of her passionate embrace that keeps Reese up at night. Can he bring himself to profess his love for Andie before it’s too late?
 
Full of love and laughter, A Wish to Build a Dream On celebrates the magic of finding love where it’s least expected.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781626816756
Publisher:	Diversion Books
Publication date:	02/06/2019
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	96
File size:	2 MB

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

"Don' take no sass, lil' gal. Chuck wagon cook runs the show, an' you let 'em know you know it first thing out o' the chute." Uncle Kipp's instructions echoed through Andie's head the whole day long, interspersed with her own admonition that she should have stayed home and taken the job at Long's Cafe instead of heading off to cook for a herd of trail drive cowboys.

But Uncle Kipp and Jordan found her the job and insisted she take it. She hadn't needed much encouragement; Miz Long's dollar a day couldn't compare with cattle drive pay.

"Reese Catlin's got some burr under his saddle blanket," Uncle Kipp explained after Jordan brought her the startling news that she had been hired to cook for a trail herd headed for Kansas. "Wants to drive the first herd into Wichita this spring, an' he's payin' fightin' wages to get the job done — three hundred dollars, double the goin' rate for a chuck wagon cook."

Three hundred dollars! Three hundred dollars would see them through the summer and winter, too. With three hundred dollars, she could hold onto things a while longer.

"What did he say about me bein' a woman?" Andie had quizzed.

"Nary a word," the old mercantile proprietor insisted. "Catlin's a no-nonsense trail boss, Andie. Built up a right proper reputation for hisself in the cattle country. Ain't heard nary an ill word spoken against him, neither. I wouldn't send you off with someone I wouldn't trust alone with my own mama."

Jordan was especially excited. "He ain't married, Ma."

"Isn't, Jordan." She smiled, rueful. She took Jordan's meaning, while realizing the futility of his wish. Even if she were in the market for a husband, Reese Catlin wouldn't be a candidate. From Uncle Kipp's description, he must be in his doddering years. But why spoil Jordan's fantasy?

She'd had a week to tie up things at home and provision the wagon; a week for Uncle Kipp to tutor her in the ways of a chuck wagon cook. Now that week was up, and she had arrived at the appointed site. She glanced around, pleased.

All was in order. Pot roasts and potatoes steamed in Dutch ovens; sourdough biscuits rose beneath flour sack towels. In the black iron pot, frijoles burbled merrily, while Andie's culinary speciality, six sour cream pound cakes, lovingly baked before she left home, were wrapped in brandy-soaked towels.

"Make the first meal count," Uncle Kipp had cautioned. "Thataway, if there's any dissentin' cowpoke among 'em, he'll be won over 'fore he can spoil the barrel."

The first dissenting cowboy turned out to be the night horse wrangler, Night Hawk, who rode into camp midafternoon to help set up. A tall, rawboned kid, with a head of shaggy brown hair that Andie vowed to tackle first when the drovers lined up for her barbering skills, he had been visibly taken aback at finding a woman in camp.

Andie sliced him a hunk of cake. "I'm told Mister Catlin hired only the best, which must mean you're an expert at working with stock horses."

"For a fact, ma'am. This'll be my third year up the trail."

She ladled a dipper of mustang grape syrup over the cake. "Night Hawk," she mused. "How did you come by such a name?"

The first taste of that buttery, brandy-flavored cake lit up the boy's eyes. He spoke around bites. "My job's to keep track of a hundred and twenty head of horses and two extra wagon mules in the dark o' night, ma'am. That calls for eyes like a hawk."

"No doubt. Well, my job is to keep a dozen hardworking, hungry men fed. I'm an expert at that."

Night Hawk glanced up from his empty tin plate. "You surely are that, ma'am. Might I trouble you for another piece?"

By the time he had eaten half a cake, Night Hawk was eating out of Andie's hand, true to Uncle Kipp's predictions. He inspected the fire trench and allowed how diggin' it was his job, an' he an' Jordan would take care of it in the future. He helped Jordan put up the canvas tepee Uncle Kipp had insisted Andie bring along for privacy. Together the boys snaked in firewood, which they stored in the hide hammock slung beneath the wagon — Night Hawk called it a possum sack. After that, he called it a day.

"Time for me to get some shut-eye, ma'am. I'll crawl on up in the wagon there and get my forty winks 'fore it's time to relieve ol' Hank, the day wrangler."

"Boy, oh boy, Ma!" Jordan danced from foot to foot. "This trip's gonna be better than goin' to a circus!"

Andie hugged him close. Something told her he might not allow much hugging in the months to come, not in front of a dozen cowboys. Tears sprang to her eyes, as a gossamer vision warned of the changes this trip could produce in her precious young son.

"Isn't this a perfect campsite, Ma? That Reese Catlin must be a real smart man."

"It's Mister Catlin, Jordan. Everyone calls the trail boss mister. And yes, he did choose a good campsite. As to how smart he is in other matters, we'll have to wait and see."

"He chose Night Hawk. He's the best wrangler ever."

She grinned. "Unless I miss my bet, you and Night Hawk are going to be great friends."

"Yahoo!" Jordan had been looking out over the prairie. When his eyes widened suddenly, Andie followed his gaze to a rider who approached from the direction of the cattle herd. A fissure of trepidation speared through her confidence.

"That must be Mister Catlin." She whispered a silent prayer that the trail boss would find her work acceptable. She needed this job so badly. "His message said to expect him by sundown."

"Mister Catlin?" Jordan rushed to the chuckbox and picked up a bucket. "I'll fetch some water from the creek."

"We don't need ..." But he was already out of sight. Andie turned to the approaching rider. The last rays of sunlight splashed over the prairie, burnishing the early spring grass a greenish gold. A muted scent of wildflowers wafted on the evening breeze. Sundown, her favorite time of day.

Or it had been. She suspected that sundown on a trail drive might be more hectic than tranquil, what with twelve hungry men arriving to be fed at one time.

The rider headed straight for the wagon. Uncle Kipp had warned her to keep a gun handy, and indeed her loaded six-shooter was stashed in the chuck box. But this rider would surely be Reese Catlin, who was obviously a punctual man. She liked that.

For the hundredth time she wondered why he was so dead set on getting to Wichita ahead of the other herds. Was it a wager? Pride? Greed? Whatever, she would have to thank him. For his need, or greed, would be her reward. Her salvation.

The rider skirted the camp to the lee side, a practice necessary to keep dust from flying into the food, according to Uncle Kipp. Andie watched him hitch his horse, a big dun with black mane and white stockings. The man was big, too. When he turned toward her, she was startled to see that he was a young man.

Mid-thirties, she judged with quickened heart. His brown handlebar mustache didn't have one gray hair that she could see. Uncle Kipp had spoken so reverently of him, she had assumed Reese Catlin to be in his fifties or better. Maybe this wasn't Mister Catlin. The thought brought a stirring of panic. She glanced to the spring. No sight of Jordan. She moved toward the chuck box, eyeing him warily as he approached.

The Stetsoned man halted in the middle of the clearing. His spurs stopped jingling. Silence pervaded the camp. But although he stood head and shoulders above her, he didn't appear threatening. Her uneasiness waned.

He removed his hat, rubbed his sleeve over a sweaty brow. He glanced around. His eyes lingered on the fire, where supper waited. His gaze moved to the wagon, hesitated on the brand on its side — an entwined RC — moved to her. His brown eyes were the darkest she had ever seen, like a bar of baking chocolate. But they offered no threat. Rather, he looked confused, as though he had lost something.

"Where's Andy Dushane?" His question ended on a high note.

According to Uncle Kipp, the cook was in charge of the campsite, so Andie stepped forward and extended her hand. "I'm Andie Dushane. You must be Mister Catlin. Welcome to camp, sir. Coffee's hot. Let me pour you a cup."

He took her hand, squinting as though bewildered. "You ...?"

"I've prepared pot roast and —"

"You're Andy Dushane?" His eyes widened to the size of silver dollars. "But you're a ... you're ... a lady."

The word lady, though softly spoken, staggered her. "You didn't know?"

"Know? Hell, if I'd known I wouldn't have ..." Reese dropped her hand like it was a hot pot lid. He looked around the camp, then back to her, one brow quirked, as if he expected her to confess to pulling a prank.

"Uncle Kipp didn't tell you ..." She glanced down inadvertently. When she looked back, his eyes were taking her in, too, what wasn't hidden beneath the voluminous canvas apron. Her stomach fluttered. "That I'm a woman?"

"A woman!" Reese spun away. He stepped to the fire, where, using a pot hook, he lifted first one lid, then another, releasing mouthwatering aroma each time. He moved to the wagon, looked in, inspected the provisions and the sleeping occupant. Gaining momentum, he strode to the back of the wagon, to the gateleg table, called the lid. After he had examined every cubbyhole in the chuckbox, he lifted the flour sack towels that covered six dozen rising sourdough biscuits. His eyes at last settled on the cakes, five and a half pound cakes.

Andie felt sick. She fought a futile urge to berate the absent Uncle Kipp for his subterfuge. Slipping a tin cup from its corner, she filled it from the pot on the fire and set it on the table before Reese Catlin, even though an unwritten law of the trail permitted no one but the cook to touch the lid. "Let me cut you a piece of cake, Mister Catlin. I thought this first night —"

"Damn it to hell, woman. The boys won't stand for this. They'll stampede faster than lightnin'-spooked cattle. And I've got to get this herd to market."

And I have to have this job. Desperation clawed its way up her throat. She took a deep breath to steady her voice. "I understand." Picking up the cup, she held it toward him. After a cursory glance, he accepted it. "Uncle Kipp explained your goal to drive the first herd into Wichita."

He gulped a swallow of hot coffee and glared at her.

"To do that," she continued, "you have hired the best men available. No greenhorn, wet-behind-the-ears kids looking to play cowboy. You've hired the best."

"Dang right and they'll ..."

"That includes me, Mister Catlin. I'm an excellent cook. I can keep your men fed and healthy."

"There's more to bein' a trail cook than lightin' a fire, Andy ... uh, Miz Dushane." He glared at the wagon as if it, too, offended him. "You expect to drive this rig five hundred miles? Over prairies and mountains, through rivers and rain storms, across mud flats and bogs?"

"Indeed I do." At his skeptical frown, she added, "Six years ago on our move from Virginia to Texas, my husband broke his leg. I not only set the break, but I drove us the rest of the way, without aid of cowhands to ferry the wagon across rivers or fix broken axles or hitch the team or build campfires, all of which I understand are customary on a cattle drive."

"How many men have you cooked for at one time?" Reese challenged. "Not just one meal, but three a day, at three different locations, to which you have to move your kitchen and set up all over again? How many meals have you prepared in pourin' rain or blowin' gales when the Man Upstairs would have trouble keepin' a fire goin'? How many —"

"Mister Catlin, I accepted this job because I'm a widow with a child to raise and because I need the money to hold onto my ranch. Even so, I am beginning to regret my decision."

"That makes two of us. I've been regrettin' it several minutes now."

His admission took the life out of her. "I'm not one to stay where I'm unwanted," she said at length. "As soon as Hank arrives with the remuda, perhaps you would be kind enough to loan me a horse so I can return to town."

"Town? Town's half a day's ride away. I can't let a lady ride off into the night by her lonesome."

"Then forget my gender. Consider me an employee, duly terminated. On second thought, I won't wait for Hank. I'll take one of the mules."

"Like hell you will."

"You have two more in the remuda," she reminded him. "And I'll send this one back. Don't worry, I'm not about to stand between a man and his greed." She strode angrily toward the mule, calling down the hill, "Jordan. Oh, Jordan. Come runnin'."

Reese caught up with her. "Me and my greed?"

"Uncle Kipp said you had a burr under your saddle blanket. He didn't explain what sort of burr."

"I'll assure you, ma'am, my reasons for needin' to get into Wichita ahead of the rush account for a lot more than greed."

When she reached to untie the ground hitch, he stopped her. His callused palm was rough and warm against her hand, and for an instant, pleasing. How long had it been since a man touched her? More than two years. But that had been Samuel, her loving husband. And this was —

"You can't ride a dang mule," Reese was saying, "even though I have a hunch you're nigh onto bein' as stubborn as one."

"Stubborn? Me?" Andie struggled to free the rope, but he wrested it away. His voice was harsh.

"Climb up on the back of that animal, an' you'll know stubborn. She'll kick you clear to kingdom come."

"Which at the moment is an infinitely more desirable place than here, where I'm unwanted."

While she was trying to interpret Reese Catlin's strange expression, Jordan dashed into the clearing. "What's wrong, Ma?"

Reese gaped at sight of the boy. "What're you doin' —"

"Howdy, Mister Catlin. Did'ya eat some of Ma's cake? Ain't she the best cook ever?"

Reese swung his gaze from Jordan to Andie, then back to Jordan. "Your ma? Why, boy, I oughta have your hide —"

Andie jumped between them. "Keep away from my son, Reese Catlin." Jordan peeked around her apron.

"Don't be mad, Mister Catlin. We didn't go to pull the wool over your eyes."

"You didn't, did you? You and ol' man Kipp set me up real good. You must've had a barrel of laughs after I left. Hell, he's probably still slappin' his leg and flappin' his lips. Son of a biscuit eater! I've been hoodwinked."

"So have I!" Chagrin roiling in her stomach, Andie shoved Jordan toward the mule. "Climb up on Bessie Mae, Jordan."

"That's not Bessie Mae," Reese corrected. "It's Bertha Jane. If you can't tell your mules apart, how'd you expect to drive 'em?"

"I don't. Supper's on the fire, Mister Catlin. Jordan and I will be on our way."

"On your way? What'll I do for a cook?"

"That appears to be your problem."

"You took the job."

"And you made it clear that I'm undesirable. I don't hold it against you. You hired me sight unseen. Uncle Kipp and Jordan have some explaining to do, though."

"What will I do for a cook?" he demanded again.

"Hire another one. With the wages you're paying, you shouldn't find it hard to come up with someone."

Reese removed his Stetson and kicked a clump of new grass with the toe of his boot. She watched his anger wane. "I don't have time to beat the bushes for a cook, ma'am. Fact is, just anybody won't do. I have a herd to get to market, and the way I'm fixin' to work these boys, I'll need an expert to keep 'em fed and happy."

"You just fired your expert, Mister Catlin."

"I did not. You quit."

"I'm no quitter."

"No? What else do you call leavin' a man high and dry? Hell, the biscuits aren't even baked."

"I'm sure you or one of your dough-brained drovers can figure out how to set Dutch ovens in the fire."

"That's not the point." Reese focused on his hat brim, which he twisted in his hands. "I might not like it, ma'am, but you're all I've got. I've tasted your cookin'. If everything you make is as good as those lemon pies Kipp sells, you'll do a better job fattenin' up my cowboys than I will fattenin' the steers."

Andie's heart turned over. A lock of brown hair had fallen over his forehead. She resisted the motherly urge to smooth it back. He might be a respected cattleman and a master trail boss, but at the moment Reese Catlin looked more like an overgrown kid. A kid who had been called to task and had the good sense to know when he was whipped.

"Try her pound cake, Mister Catlin," Jordan urged. "It's yummier'n that ol' lemon pie."

"Jordan," Andie warned.

"Don't go, Ma. Mister Catlin needs us."

Before her Reese continued to twist his Stetson. "That's a fact, ma'am." When he looked up again, the expression in his brown eyes gave her insides a good hard twist.

"What about the men? You said they would stampede."

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "A Wish to Build a Dream On"
by .
Copyright © 1997 Jane Vaughan.
Excerpted by permission of Diversion Publishing Corp..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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