The Bride Lottery
If he rode four days with her arms around his waist, her breasts pressing to his back, he might start thinking with the wrong parts of his anatomy and end up hitched to her for good—an idea that did not suit his plans.
“Can you ride?” he asked.
“Yes. Faster than you, I’ll bet.”
Jamie smirked. “That depends on the horse, not you.”
Although she was tall, the girl had to break into a run to keep up with him as he strode down the street. Clouds whipped about in the sky overhead, but it wouldn’t rain today. The weather was clearing, and tomorrow it would be sunny. He could tell.
He could always tell. Sensing the weather and reading signs were what he got from the quarter of his blood that was Cheyenne. The rest of the Indian mumbo jumbo he could do without. All of that mysticism junk his sister, Louise, had embraced with such fervor before her untimely death.
Jamie paused to let his wife catch up. “I thought you said you’re faster than me.”
“On four legs. Not on two.”
Smart mouth she had, his little Eastern princess. Four days in her company would be filled with temptation. Jamie led her past the storefronts, mostly closed for Sunday. A few men loitered on the boardwalk, smoking, talking, watching them with envy in their eyes.
Maybe he could auction the little princess when he was done with her, Jamie thought. He suppressed a smile. No, he’d be a good boy, cut her loose and give her enough money for the train fare to wherever she’d been trying to get, with no ticket and no money to buy food.
Before parting with his ten dollars, Jamie had got the facts from Marshal Holm. According to the railroad conductor who’d arrested the girl, she’d been caught stealing. Jamie suspected the accusation might be false. She seemed too proud to steal, but Jamie knew from personal experience that sometimes an empty belly ruled stronger than pride.
They came to a halt by the pole corral where the four horses of the bank robbers stood idle, tails flicking at flies. “Take your pick,” Jamie said and gestured at the horses. “Don’t go for the paint. He’s going lame.”
She spent a moment studying the animals and spoke with her gaze intent on them. “The buckskin has sores on his flanks from the cruel use of spurs. The bay has mean, shifty eyes. The black is a stallion. I don’t like to ride stallions. They start to misbehave the minute there’s a mare within a mile.”
“Aren’t you a picky one?” Jamie grumbled. “Good thing you had to take a husband in a draw. If you were left to choose, no one would have been good enough for you.”
“How astute,” she replied, and pursed her mouth into a prim circle of disdain. Her eyes raked him up and down in a look that plainly dismissed his worth. Then she turned back to the four horses in the corral and said, “Can you take the bank robbers’ horses before they’ve even been convicted? Is it part of the bounty?”
“It is, if you bring them in dead.”
“Dead?” Her pretty blue eyes snapped wide, then narrowed into angry slits. “You said... You threatened me with them...”
“I never said they weren’t dead. I merely said they didn’t care about adding rape to their sins. Considering they are dead, I’m sure that’s correct.”
“You...you...oaf...”
“Oaf?” He smirked at the little princess. “Is that the best you can do?”
“I’ll work on it,” she said tartly. “I’m sure that a few weeks in your company will expand my vocabulary.”
Not weeks, sweetheart, Jamie thought. Four days, and that’s four too many.
“Which will it be?” he asked. “The buckskin that’s been mistreated and is looking to take his revenge, or the shifty-eyed bay, or the uncontrollable black stallion?”
“How about one of those?” She pointed to the next corral where half a dozen horses from the livery stable jostled at the water trough “Can’t you sell these four and buy me something better? A horse suitable for a lady?”
Jamie sighed in resignation. “Let’s go and take a look.”
He hung back as his little Eastern princess, Miranda—what a fitting name for a woman who was bound to drive him crazy with complaints during the next four days—leaned over the corral fence and inspected the horses.
A gust of breeze molded her skirts against her legs. Strands of golden hair fluttered around her face. She wedged one boot on the lowest rung and climbed up for a better look, agile and slender. Like a blonde version of an Indian princess. Jamie hurried to quash the thought.
“That one.” Her arm shot out to point at a gray Appaloosa with an evenly spotted coat.
Jamie groaned. Indian princess indeed. He should have guessed she’d pick the most expensive horse at the stable.
Ten minutes later, he had traded all four of the bank robbers’ horses against the Appaloosa, and had been forced to haggle not to owe a balance. He’d been crazy to think marrying her was going to save him money.
He ushered the little princess into the cool, shady interior of the livery stable. Once they were inside, he nudged the toe of his boot at the bank robbers’ saddles and bridles that lay in a heap on the floor.
“Pick your saddle and tack.”
“My saddle?” She looked down at the pile by their feet, then back up at him. “But I can’t... I’ve never ridden astride... I’ll need a side saddle...”
The moment of payback had arrived. Jamie felt a twinge of shame, but he brushed it aside. It was best to make the little princess hate him, in case he wasn’t as good at resisting temptation as he ought to be.
He lowered his voice, bent to speak into her ear. “Considering you’re female, it shouldn’t be too difficult to learn to spread your legs.”
Chapter Six
It took a few seconds for the bounty hunter’s lewd comment to penetrate Miranda’s brain. How dare he speak to her like that? Her hands fisted in impotent range. The...the...oaf! She longed for stronger words—ones she hoped to add to her vocabulary very soon.
In an effort to overcome her fury, she focused her attention on the equipment carelessly stacked on the floor. It was clear which set held the most appeal. Saddle and bridle in black leather, shiny and supple, carefully maintained. She could see a pair of matching saddlebags, too. The metal studs that decorated each piece might be silver.
Miranda was about to point out her choice when her gaze strayed to the bounty hunter. The oaf—James Fast Elk Blackburn. He was leaning against the timber wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching her from under the brim of his hat. She might not be able to match him in dirty talk, but she could gain some measure of petty revenge by vexing him.
“I want to try out the saddles,” she declared.
He pushed away from the wall. “All of them?”
“That will be the only way to know which one fits the best.”
The long canvas duster flared wide as Blackburn moved toward her. Halting toe-to-toe with her, he pointed at the gray Appaloosa tied to the hitching post outside the livery stable. “There’s your horse.” He gestured at the heap of equipment by their feet. “There’s your saddles and bridles. Try them out to your little heart’s content.”
Oh, yes, Miranda thought. This is going to be very satisfactory indeed.
She turned to survey her new horse. The black saddle with silver studs would look beautiful on the gray. She pointed at a worn saddle in cracked tan leather. “Let’s start with that one. It looks a bit smaller than the others.”
When Blackburn didn’t move, she directed an impatient frown at him. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
“I’m waiting for you to get on with it.”
“Do you expect me to know how to saddle a horse?”
A worried notch appeared between Blackburn’s straight dark brows. “You told me you can ride. If I recall right, you boasted that you’ll ride faster than me.”
“And I’m sure I do. However, I never told you that I know how to saddle a horse, or brush one down, or feed one, or clean up after one. I’ve always had grooms for that.”
She ran her eyes over the bounty hunter, making it clear that she expected him to take on the duties of a groom. “Well?” she said, mirroring his brusque command a moment earlier. “I’m waiting for you to get on with it.”
Blackburn jerked his head in the gesture she’d noticed before, a bit like a stubborn mule tossing its mane. It made the thick strands of black hair swing about his shoulders. He had an expressive face, when he forgot to hide his thoughts, but the range of his expressions seemed mostly limited to anger, irritation and disbelief.
The bounty hunter heaved out a sigh but sprang into action. A secret thrill of victory rippled over Miranda as she watched him crouch down, pick up the worn saddle, walk out to the hitching post, lift the saddle onto the Appaloosa, adjust the position and tighten the cinch.
She hurried after him and came to an abrupt halt beside the horse. The animal’s gray flanks rose in front of her, like the brow of an ocean liner. How was she going to get up there, without the aid of a mounting block, or a groom to give her a boost? And she’d rather die than admit to her failure and ask Blackburn for help.
“Well,” the deep, husky voice said behind her. “The saddle is on the horse. I’m waiting for you to get on with trying it out.”
Miranda circled to the horse’s head. They had already made friends while the bounty hunter went inside to negotiate the purchase with the livery stable owner. She held out her hand. The horse nuzzled her palm, its nose cool and damp against her skin.
“I have a name for you,” she whispered to the Appaloosa. “Alfie. For Alfred Tennyson. A very famous poet, and a nobleman. That is what I’ll expect from you. Noble behavior. Please don’t let me down. See that man behind me? He is a rogue, with no manners. He is just waiting for me to fall flat on my face.”
After stroking Alfie’s long nose to emphasize her plea, Miranda circled back to his side. She grabbed hold of a stirrup, kicked up one foot. Her skirts got in the way and she almost toppled over backward. Determined, Miranda yanked her skirts up over her knees and tried again. She managed to wedge the toe of her button-up boot into the stirrup. With tiny hops, she moved closer to the horse and grabbed the saddle horn with one hand, the cantle of the saddle with the other, and bounced up.
And bounced back down again.
Peering backward beneath her arm, Miranda stole a glance at the bounty hunter. He was standing still, watching her, his long duster blowing in the breeze. The repertoire of his facial expressions seemed to be growing, but instead of the smug smile she had expected, he was staring at her, spellbound, as if witnessing a complicated circus act.
She’d show him! Miranda pushed the toe of her left foot deeper into the stirrup, bent her right knee, tensed every muscle and bounced up again. Her hands clung to the saddle. Her left foot wobbled in the stirrup as she hung poised in the air. Little by little, she managed to shift her center of gravity forward, until she found her balance and could fling her right leg over the horse’s back.
She was up! She was sitting astride the horse. Alfie beat one hoof against the ground and craned his head backward, as if to look at her and say, How is that for noble behavior? Miranda sank deeper into the saddle. She’d done it. She’d mounted on her own. She gave a tiny whoop of victory and flashed a smile at Blackburn, forgetting his arrogance, even forgetting his crude comment about her riding position.
“How’s the saddle?” he asked.
She wiggled her rump to test the fit. “It’s not comfortable.”
Dismounting was a lot easier, Miranda discovered, with gravity helping instead of hindering. She tried all four saddles, and then she claimed she couldn’t be certain of her choice and insisted on trying two of them again.
The bounty hunter kept swapping over the saddles. She could see a muscle tugging at the side of his jaw. His shoulders were rigid, his face set in stone. His gaze remained locked somewhere on the horse’s flanks, refusing to rise up to her as she sat up on Alfie and gloated over her success, both in mounting without aid and in vexing him.
“The black saddle,” Miranda said in the end, when Alfie started to get bored with the constant fussing. “I like that one best. Take off this one and put that one back on.”
* * *
Jamie gritted his teeth. He had to get her some new clothes. Did the little blonde princess not understand what she was doing? Blithely, she’d yanked up her skirts, exposing dainty leather half boots and a pair of shapely legs.
Then, when she’d hopped around on one foot, the other foot stuck in the stirrup, knee pointing skyward, her skirts had bunched up in her lap, giving him a tantalizing glimpse all the way up to a bare, milky-white thigh and the garter that held up her stocking.
Things had gotten a little easier when she swung astride and the skirts settled around her, but even then he could see a part of her leg. He was covered in sweat, and it wasn’t just from the effort of heaving the saddles on and off the horse. He’d barely had the presence of mind to keep an eye on the entrance to the livery stable, to make sure the owner wasn’t lurking in the shadows, enjoying the spectacle.
“You’ll need a pair of trousers for riding astride,” he informed his wife.
She was crouching on the ground, admiring the black saddlebags with a fascination that made Jamie suspect she had wanted the silver-studded set all along.
She frowned at him. “Surely I can’t wear trousers. It’s not decent.”
Not decent. He made a strangled sound, something between a groan and a laugh. “It will be a damn sight more decent than the way you need to pull up your skirts when you climb into the saddle.”
She stared at him. Her blue eyes kept widening until he could see rims of white all around the irises. Hot color washed up to her cheeks. “Heavens,” she breathed. “I didn’t realize.” She peered into the saddlebag, as if wanting to crawl into it. “I didn’t mean to...”
“It’s all right,” Blackburn said grudgingly. “No one was watching.”
“No one but you.”
“I don’t count, do I?”
She pursed her lips. “I guess you don’t. We are married, after all.”
The answer took him by surprise. He’d meant he didn’t count because she had made it clear he was so far beneath her in social status he barely qualified as a member of the human race. Moreover, her embarrassment confirmed she hadn’t been tormenting him on purpose. Mollified, Jamie squatted beside his little Eastern princess and joined her in examining the saddlebags.
“These are Mexican,” he said. “Silver-studded. They’ll look good on the gray.”
She glanced up from beneath her lashes and flashed him a smile that made his breath catch. “That’s what I thought when I first saw them.” She met his gaze, earnest and eager now, and spoke without a trace of hostility. “I do want to learn how to look after a horse. I always did, but it upset the grooms when I asked. They feared for their jobs.”
“That’s good.” Jamie pushed up to his feet. “Let’s put the bridle and the saddlebags on the horse. Then we’ll go over to the mercantile. We’ll get them to open up even though it’s Sunday, and we’ll kit you out.”
* * *
“These are wonderful. Can I try them on for size?” Jamie watched his little Eastern princess clutch a pair of denim trousers in her hands, as if they were a gown made by a Paris fashion house. He was starting to suspect he might have been too harsh in judging her. The thought gave him pause. It would be better to remain enemies.
The shopkeeper, a small dark man with clipped speech and an oddly precise way of moving, pressed his fingertips into a steeple, as if praying for a sale. “Let me show you some boots and coats. And you’ll need a couple of shirts, and a hat, and a rain slicker.”
An hour later, Jamie was sitting on a wooden stool by the counter, drinking coffee while Miranda kept darting in and out of the small fitting booth at the back of the store. He shook his head as he watched her parade up and down the aisle. How did she do it? She never once looked at the price tags, but she unerringly selected the most expensive of everything.
“I like this hat best,” she informed him.
“Of course you do,” Jamie muttered.
“What?” She stilled, hands raised to adjust the tilt of the brim as she admired her reflection in the mirror. She frowned at him through the glass. “Is it wrong?”
“It’s about ten dollars wrong.”
“Ten dollars?” Her face fell with comprehension. She took down the black leather hat, fingered the band of silver beads around the crown. Her voice was very small. “I thought it would go nicely with the saddle.”
She turned toward him. Her eyes seemed very bright. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I wasn’t thinking... My parents died four years ago, and I haven’t had anything new since, and I’ve never bought any ready-made clothing before. It’s been so much fun, I got carried away.” Putting on a brave smile, she turned to the storekeeper. “Let’s start again. Point me to the cheapest hats and coats.”
Jamie let his eyes drift over her. She’d picked a pair of black knee-high boots and a short coat in black deerskin, cropped at the waist, Mexican style. The hat had straight sides and a short, flat-topped crown. She looked as if she had ridden up from south of the border. If it hadn’t been for the fair hair, everyone who saw her would expect her to talk in Spanish.
“Ring it up,” Jamie said to the storekeeper.
“But...” Miranda studied the price tag on the hat. “You can’t...”
“We’ve spent enough time in here. I’m not going to sit through you picking out something else,” Jamie said gruffly, even though he knew it was a bad idea to let her keep the clothes. The whole idea of marrying her had been to save money. And now his little Eastern princess had become a little bandit princess, a transformation that made her even harder to resist.
Jamie closed his mind to the misgivings and turned to the counter. He pulled up his shirt to reach his money belt and handed over his hard-earned cash. He almost jumped when he felt the light touch of fingertips on the back of his hand.
“Thank you,” the girl said. “It is very kind of you.”
If you expect chivalry from me, you’re sorely mistaken, he’d told her a few hours ago. A nasty suspicion niggled in Jamie’s mind that Miranda Fairfax—his wife—had the ability to turn everything in his life upside down before he could get rid of her.
Chapter Seven
This marriage business might not be such a bad idea after all, Miranda thought as she rode out of town behind James Fast Elk Blackburn. She had acquired an excellent horse, a fancy saddle with silver studs and a lovely set of new clothes.
It appeared a husband had a duty to look after his wife, and the bounty hunter took that duty seriously. She doubted he’d ever let her go hungry. If only she knew what price he would extract for his protection, her nerves might not be quite so jumpy.
Overhead, the sky was clearing. Swallows dipped and soared over the grassy meadows, the way seagulls swooped over the ocean waves at Merlin’s Leap. The air smelled clean and fresh. In the distance, sunlight glittered on the mountaintops.
For an hour, Miranda rode in meek silence, and then she could no longer tolerate the uncertainty. She had to know what he wanted from her. She urged Alfie forward, until she was riding alongside the bounty hunter’s bay gelding.
“Where are we going?” she called out to him.
He kept his eyes straight ahead. “You’ll find out.”
“Why can’t you tell me now?”
He shot her a sharp glance. “Shut up and ride.”
“I can ride and talk at the same time. Can’t you?”
“Be quiet. You’re annoying me.”
It was not a playful retort. It was a surly, brooding complaint. Perhaps he regretted spending all that money on her. Ten dollars might have seemed cheap for a wife, but she had quickly turned into a bottomless pit of additional expense.
The path narrowed and Miranda fell back behind the bounty hunter’s horse. For the rest of the day, they rode across the grassy plateau at a steady lope, pausing frequently to stretch their legs and to let their mounts rest. The bounty hunter ignored her, except to issue an order or to warn her to keep out of the way. Tension ratcheted up inside Miranda. When they stopped for the night, the bounty hunter set a soot-covered coffeepot to boil on a fire he had built from dead branches in a circle of stones on the ground.
Miranda gathered her courage and perched beside him on the fallen log where he had sat down. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
“I don’t like to talk.”
“Why did you marry me?”
“You’ll find out.”
“You’ll find out, you’ll find out,” she mimicked. “You sound like a parrot in a cage.”
“And you talk too much.” He shot her a frowning glance. “Can’t you do something useful? Like cook supper, or groom the horses, or build a fire, or clear a place on the ground to sleep, instead of hovering around and annoying me?”
Miranda spoke quietly. “It is not my fault that I’m gently bred. Unlike you, I’m not nasty and surly by nature. I’m asking because I want to know. If I prepare myself for whatever it is you want from me, I might be able to perform the task better.”
She had never heard anyone heave out such a loud sigh. It made the air vibrate with frustration and irritation and exasperation and aggravation and impatience. James Fast Elk Blackburn might not like to talk, but it seemed he had no trouble communicating his bad temper without words.
Miranda walked away, but she was not giving up.
She was merely regrouping for another attack.
* * *
A fire crackled in a circle of stones, casting shadows in the darkness. The soft night breeze whispered in the trees. The horses, hobbled to stop them from straying, grazed on the long grass by the brook. The aroma of roast turkey, already eaten, lingered in the air.
Jamie drank the last of his coffee and studied his little bandit princess. She sat beside him, staring into the flames. He could sense her fear. During the evening, she had drawn tighter and tighter into a ball, shoulders hunched, knees pressed together, as if she wanted to disappear into herself.
He should have been gentler with her, but the emotions she stirred up in him had made him morose. It grated that she looked down on him, the way his mother’s family had looked down on his father. The physical reactions she sparked in him didn’t help, either. It was best to keep his distance. Healthier for them both. The worst of his feelings was guilt, though. It was clear she was on the run, perhaps from being tied to a man twice her age, and now she had ended up married to a savage who killed people for a living.
The right thing would be to explain what he wanted from her, but Jamie couldn’t talk about it. Death might be his trade, but when it came to the death of his mother and his sister and his niece, his mind locked up. He didn’t know if it was because they were women, or because they were family, or because they were the only people he had ever loved.
“Who is Woods?” he asked. When the girl didn’t reply, he added, “Your husband. Are you a widow or not? Is he still living?”
As Jamie considered the question, it occurred to him that if Woods still lived, it would simplify things. The marriage would be bigamous, invalid as such, and he would avoid the trouble of seeking an annulment when the time came.
The little princess kept picking bits of bark loose from the log they sat upon, her eyes intent on the task, the way a hungry sparrow might concentrate on the search for a worm.
“He doesn’t exist,” she muttered.
“He doesn’t exist?”
“That’s right. He is a figment of my imagination.” She shot him a glance. “I thought it might make it easier for a woman traveling alone to be assumed a widow.”
“Where are you from?”
“I thought you didn’t like to talk.”