The Cowboy's Forbidden Bride (The Blushing Brides Book 4) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Cowboy’s Forbidden Bride

  All Titles by Tayla Alexandra

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  Chapter 1—Ezra

  Chapter 2—Charlotte

  Chapter 3—Ezra

  Chapter 4—Charlotte

  Chapter 5—Ezra

  Chapter 6—Charlotte

  Chapter 7—Ezra

  Chapter 8—Charlotte

  Chapter 9—Ezra

  Chapter 10—Charlotte

  Chapter 11—Ezra

  Chapter 12—Charlotte

  Chapter 13—Ezra

  Chapter 16—Charlotte

  Chapter 17—Ezra

  Chapter 18—Charlotte

  Chapter 19—Ezra

  Chapter 20 - Charlotte

  Chapter 21—Ezra

  Chapter 22—Charlotte

  Chapter 23—Ezra

  Chapter 24—Charlotte

  Chapter 25 - Ezra

  Chapter 26—Charlotte

  Chapter 27—Ezra

  Chapter 28—Charlotte

  Chapter 29 - Ezra

  Chapter 30—Charlotte

  Epilogue

  The Cowboy’s Forbidden Bride

  The Blushing Brides Series

  Tayla Alexandra

  Copyright © 2019 by Tayla Alexandra

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book series may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  THE COWBOY’S FORBIDDEN Bride is a work of fiction. All Characters and incidents are from the author’s imagination. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  COVER DESIGN BY PATRICIA Bell. Editing by Lisa Dahill DeBartolomao.

  I’D LIKE TO THANK JESUS who has given me the gift of gab. And thanks to my husband, Cliff, who listens to me ramble on about fictional characters night and day with a smile. There are so many people who have influenced my writing. Fellow authors like Paulyn Aneke, Carisa Wells, Dyanne Gordon Green, and Audrey Rich are invaluable to me. To my Editor, Lisa Dahill DeBartolomao who pours hours into checking my work.

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  Chapter 1—Ezra

  Ezra McCain headed for the front door. “I’m not doing it. No way. I’m done.” Opening the door, he rushed out, slamming it tightly behind him. If he were lucky, it would give him a few extra seconds to get away. He stumbled down the porch steps and out into the open expanse of desert, searching for a place to run. Hide.

  Blinding heat assaulted him as the blazing sun beat down on his body. Sweat beaded instantly on his forehead, and his eyes dotted from the brightness. Finding nowhere to hide, he took off away from the house.

  Before he was only a few yards away, the door swung open, hitting the side of the house with a thud.

  “Ezra, you get back here,” the old man called. “You’re a part of this whether you like it or not.”

  “I’m not going to do it. This is not the same. People are going to get hurt.” Ezra picked up his pace.

  Work boots hit the ground right behind him.

  Garret was an old man, but he was tough. For as long as Ezra knew him, no one had ever backed out on him. If they had, they'd surely been met with a bullet right between the eyes. To be fair, he’d never seen it happen. He’d soon find out.

  “Come back here, Ezra! Let’s just talk about it.”

  “There’s nothing to say.” His hands shook so badly, he balled them into fists. “You may be a killer, but I’m not. You’ll have to shoot me in the back, old man.” Ezra picked up his pace to a jog.

  There was no way he was getting out of the situation alive, but he’d rather be dead than do another dirty job for Garrett Malone.

  “I raised you!” Garrett called, his voice cracking. “When you were on the streets, with nowhere to go, I took you in!”

  Ezra stopped in his tracks, his heart thumping wildly. Dust settled heavily on his boots. The steps behind him halted at the same time. Refusing to turn and meet the barrel of Garrett's pistol, he waited. The raspy breath, well within his hearing, told him Garrett was close enough to blow his head off in an instant. But that's not what halted his retreat.

  It was the truth of Garrett's words that had sliced through him like a blunt knife. Since he’d been a young boy, Garrett had taken care of him. He’d fed him, clothed him, taught him to read and write, and he’d never once laid a hand on him as his own father had. But along with that came heavy manipulation. Ezra had been indebted to Garrett. He owed him his life. At that moment, Ezra was sure Garrett would take it. Boldly, he turned around to face the man who stood less than a yard away.

  “I can’t do it, Garrett. Petty theft is one thing, but this, what you’re talking about, will get people hurt. I didn’t sign up for that.”

  “Come back inside, boy.” Garrett placed his hand on the butt of his gun holstered to his waist. “Let’s just talk about this.”

  “There’s no more talking, Garrett. Either shoot me now or let me go.”

  Garrett watched him closely, his hand never leaving his gun.

  “Go on then.” Garrett nodded grimly. “Go on and leave.”

  Ezra stayed firmly planted in his place. The wind kicked up dust as a tumbleweed skittered between them. Ezra kept his focus on the man’s face as sweat dripped down his forehead, burning his eyes. Still, he didn't blink.

  The fear of being shot in the head was something, he realized in that instance, that he didn’t want to experience. There had to be more to life than dying as a common thief at twenty-five.

  “Go on. I’m not going to shoot you.” Garrett nodded again. “You’re like a son to me.”

  Garrett's grip on the butt of his gun was so tight, his knuckles turned a brilliant white. His hand quaked, shaking the weapon beneath.

  Ezra had no doubt that, despite the tremor, Garrett would get off a clean shot to the head without a problem. He searched the cold, unflinching eyes of his opponent, but found nothing there. Not even a small flicker of whether he planned to shoot him or let him go.

  On the off chance he was telling the truth, Ezra turned and sprinted off.

  The sound of gunshots hit his ears just as bullets came flying his way. He picked up his speed and headed west. Not that any direction was a safe choice, he’d just been that way many times before and was familiar with the lay of the land.

  Garrett let out a loud howl as if he was sport-hunting coyotes. There was nowhere to hide in the barren land
. The desert brush was widely spread, leaving no hope for cover.

  Another shot rang out, hitting Ezra in the shoulder. Pain flared through his body as if he'd run straight into a blazing fire, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He was a far enough distance away that Garrett would not get another bullet into his body, but if he slowed down, Garrett would come after him. And the next shot would be straight to the head.

  Dizziness overcame him as Garrett laughed off in the distance. “Better keep your mouth shut, boy!” he called. “Next shot’ll be right between the eyes.”

  There was no chance of Ezra ever revealing anything about the crimes Garrett had committed. Ezra was an accomplice, and he’d rot in prison right alongside him if he spoke a single word against him. That was a fact that had been drilled into him each time they committed another felony.

  “We're in this together, boy. I go down, you go down.”

  Blood soaked his shirt. His head spun out of control. The world around him became a low hanging cloud in front of his eyes. Nausea kicked in as saliva filled his mouth. No longer able to go an inch more, he fell to his knees, spewing the remnants of his last meal out over the desert floor. With each wretch of his body, his shoulder screamed in unbearable pain.

  God, help me!

  Ezra stumbled to his feet and was able to make it only a few more paces before he could go no more. Falling to the ground, he emptied the rest of his stomach contents and fell face down into it.

  Darkness surrounded him.

  His sorry life passed before his eyes.

  A scrubby little boy, sitting on the street curb, crying for the mother he could no longer remember and a father who didn't love him. Dirty tears streaked down his face. He held a half-eaten, bruised Granny Smith in one hand and the seven cents he'd found on the street in the other. His dark black, scraggly hair hung loosely in his face. Wiping snot on his smelly t-shirt he looked up to the sky, asking for help from the great unknown.

  The scene skipped to a father, in a drunken stupor, a belt held high as he beat that same small boy.

  His drunken father screamed obscenities at him. Berating him with each painful stripe. The child sat crunched into a ball, unable to lift his head for fear he would anger his father more. But the pain, it had ceased after the first few hits. His body and soul numb to the world.

  Late in the night, his father snored loudly on the couch, the belt still hanging from his hand, a brown bottle in the other. Creeping quietly past, he ran for the kitchen and stole every cent of the beer money from his father’s jar. A crash sounded. He shrunk in fear. Waiting for the wrath to come. It didn't

  He tiptoed past the beast. The bottle lay on the floor below, clear liquid puddling on the tile. In the dead of summer, he ran hard and far. He didn’t stop until he reached the old-west city of Tombstone.

  “I’ll never go back,” he cried out to the city that didn’t hear him. “You’ll never hit me again.”

  Skipping backward as though sucked through a wormhole, Ezra was sitting at his mother's bedside.

  She touched his hand. “Don’t let this create bitterness in your heart, Ezra. I'll be watching from heaven.”

  His brain settled back on the streets of Tombstone.

  Same dirty boy, eating food the tourists had left in an overfilled trash bin. The western street show was reenacting the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral. He grabbed his imaginary gun from his hip, pretending he was Wyatt Earp.

  Pow! Pow!

  Outlaw Billy Clanton lay dead in the street.

  An old man sidled over to him. He’d looked like Wyatt Earp himself with his worn-out jeans and a button-down western shirt. A gun was holstered to his waist, and a cowboy hat clung to his head. Only the cowboy had no badge.

  “How about a hot meal, boy?”

  Hungry, dirty, and completely broken, the boy holstered his imaginary gun and left with the stranger.

  The ten-year-old watched in awe as the streets of Tombstone led out into the countryside where not a vehicle could be seen for miles around. Chewing on his burger greedily, his fear of the cowboy had been less than the brutal abuse he’d already suffered.

  The car stopped at a small farm with nothing but desert as far as the eye could see. The Wyatt Earp look-alike cleaned the boy up and nursed him back to health.

  He was that broken boy, and he owed a lot to that man. He’d done everything the cowboy had told him to do. And now, as the angels from Heaven surrounded him, it was time to meet his maker.

  But the angelic beings spoke to him ― Not yet, Ezra. It’s not your time.

  The hot sun burned down on his neck as his eyes opened. Lying face down in a puddle of his own vomit, he lifted his head. Not sure if he was dead or alive, Ezra leaned up to get a look. If he was in hell, it sure looked a lot like the desert.

  His lips were parched, his mouth tasting of a dead skunk. How long had he been lying there? A day, a week, only a couple of hours? Either way, he’d need to get out of the sun before it sucked up every ounce of water inside of him.

  Willing himself to move through the blinding pain and blazing heat, Ezra used his good arm to creep along the ground like an injured Gila Monster, stopping with each movement to endure the pain. After what seemed like hours, he’d slid himself over to a bush that lent him only the smallest amount of shade.

  Thoroughly beat, he closed his eyes against the sweat drenching his face and begged for the angels to come and take him back. Only, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. Certainly, his soul had been damned to a burning lake of fire. He'd done sold it to the devil. It was too late to call on God.

  After some time, he gained a bit more strength. But it was all for naught. The sun was setting along the mountains creating a glorious array of purples and reds. Soon, the coyotes would smell the fresh aroma of blood. Piece by piece they would eat him alive.

  Too tired to care anymore, he laid his head in the shade and hoped death would come soon if only to rid him from his blinding pain.

  As the sun declined, a rattle shook in warning as a horse galloped up from behind. His fate was near. He’d either be shot in the head or die the slow death of rattlesnake venom. Either way, Ezra closed his eyes and prayed for God to forgive him of his sins.

  As the shot rang out, the world went black.

  Chapter 2—Charlotte

  “Where is that boy?” The sun had set over an hour before, and her brother Cole had still not returned. “It doesn't take half a day to sell one horse.”

  Charlotte Spencer ran a soft brush over Clementine, their pregnant mare. Soon she would be delivering, and once the foal was weaned, they’d have another mouth to feed. Tears came to her eyes as she wondered how they would ever manage.

  Taking a glance out the stable door, she saw nothing but the faint outline of the ranch-style home her father had built before she was born. Not even the motion-sensor floodlight that hung over the porch illuminating the drive had cut on signaling he was back.

  Watch over him, please.

  Turning back, she glanced at the vast barrenness of the stables. It saddened her. At one time, every stall was full, and now they were down to a handful of horses. What was once a high functioning farm was down to a few chickens and one milking cow who was almost past her time of producing.

  She’d trusted God with her very being, but the work was just too much. At one time, she’d had enough faith to move mountains, but lately, it was waning so much, she was barely able to kick over an ant hill.

  “You’ve got to help us soon. We can’t do it by ourselves.”

  The ranch had been passed down to them by their father, and since her parents’ death, it had dwindled away to nothing more than a riding stable. What had once been acres of vast land, with thousands of horses, was now a few acres at best, with only ten horses and one on the way. Nine if Cole was able to sell.

  The clomp of hooves in the distance alerted her that her younger brother had finally made it back. She just hoped he was able to sell Sapphire and bring
them enough money to get them through the summer lull.

  It was all they could do to turn the place into a riding stable that, at peak season, brought them in the money they needed to live off of. Only each year, the money was stretching less and less, and the expenses mounted on top of each other.

  Charlotte went to the stable door. The floodlight kicked on as Cole came into view. She waited for the dust to settle, then met her nineteen-year-old brother riding up on Samson, their oldest, most reliable Morgan. With a sigh of relief that he wasn’t leading the Appaloosa mare behind him, she ran toward him.

  “How much did you get for her?” she called, hoping it would be enough to get them through the month. But as soon as Cole came fully into the light, she realized something was wrong. “What happened? Why is your shirt off? Cole, it’s got to be a hundred and twenty out here.”

  The bright light above shone down like a spotlight, revealing his shoulders were an angry red. It was going to blister. As he stared at Charlotte, unspeaking, his haunted eyes were scaring her. She glanced down to see blood smeared on his hands and arms. Yet he didn’t look hurt.

  “Why aren’t you answering me? Where’s your shirt? Where did all that blood come from?” Thinking he must have shot a rabbit or a deer, she glanced behind him. That’s when she caught sight of the bulk of a man that was strapped to the back of Cole’s horse.

  Her hand went to her mouth. Had Cole shot someone on accident? He was a perfect shot. That was an impossibility.

  Cole jumped down, untied the ropes that held the man to the horse, and gently pulled the lifeless body after him. Guiding him with his forearms, his muscles strained at the weight of the grown man. Taking quick strides, she marched closer to him.

  “He’s been shot.” Cole raised his blood-tainted hands. “I patched him up as best as I could, but he’s not gonna make it if we don’t get him to the hospital.”