Bounty Hunter's Bride. Carol Finch
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She had to remind herself—repeatedly—why she’d turned her back on her aristocratic lifestyle, sacrificed all the opulent luxuries in New Orleans and left her father’s handpicked groom at the altar. She, who had what most women aspired to, had climbed out the window of a church filled to capacity, and made a mad dash to the riverboat that would deliver her to the precious freedom she’d craved—dreamed of—for years. For the sake of independence, she’d have to learn to adjust and accept life on different terms than what was familiar.
Hanna stepped onto the uneven boardwalk in front of a saloon to avoid the heavily rutted mud street. Tinkling piano music, masculine laughter and the smell of cigar smoke greeted her as she passed one tavern after another, to reach one of the ramshackle hotels in the offensive frontier town.
When a drunken ruffian stumbled from one of the saloons and rammed her broadside, Hanna clamped her arms around a rough-hewn post to prevent herself from being catapulted into the mud. Her carpetbags swung crazily from her fingertips.
“Well, what have we here?” the man slurred, licking his lips and leering at her through bloodshot eyes.
Thunder boomed overhead, signaling impending doom and threatening Hanna’s firm resolve. If she had any sense at all she’d reverse direction and hightail it back to the river to catch the next steamboat to New Orleans and the familiarity of life as she knew it. The thrill of reaching her personal promised land had been dashed, replaced with disillusionment and uncertainty.
“Why don’t you ’n me find us a room and git better ‘quainted?” the drunkard suggested, in what she presumed to be his most seductive voice. It fell miserably short of the mark.
Hanna shivered with repulsion and pushed herself away from the splintered post. “Excuse me, sir,” she said stiffly. “I’m on my way to meet my fiancé.” That was a half-truth, probably one of many she’d have to tell before she got where she was going.
Before the scruffy-looking man could grab her arm, Hanna sailed off at a fast clip, praying she could reach a hotel before she was waylaid again. Even in her haste she noted she was attracting entirely too much attention from the men who milled about on the boardwalks. Sweet mercy! The ratio of men to women in this town must be so lopsided that males salivated at the mere sight of a female, Hanna decided. She made a mental note to purchase another gown that downplayed her femininity the first chance she got. All this unwanted attention was making her nervous and spoiling her attempt to maintain a low profile.
The last thing she wanted was to find a string of men trailing behind her. She’d endured quite enough of men and their hidden agendas—not to mention their more obvious intentions toward her person. Because of her wealth and position in New Orleans society, she’d dealt with more than her share of gold diggers and opportunists who were anxious to attach themselves to her family’s fortune. And her father, damn him, had paraded a string of handpicked suitors past her, then finally delivered his ultimatum when she kept stalling and found fault with every one.
The thought of her domineering father stiffened her resolve and brought her chin up to a determined angle. Despite the crash of thunder and the sudden downpour that formed a curtain of rain along the overhang of the porch roof, Hanna assured herself that she had what she wanted. Now she was in control of her life and her destiny.
The sacrifices she’d made to reach Fort Smith, the hardships she might face during her exodus, were worth every trial and tribulation. At long last she was free of her father’s control. He was not making another decision for her, not dictating to her ever again. This was her declaration of independence from Walter Malloy, the powerful, influential shipping magnate who believed that his only daughter was a pawn to be played to his advantage.
Walter believed that money could buy anything and that every man had his price. During the steamboat ride upriver, Hanna had made a pact with herself that she would turn her father’s cold-blooded philosophy on him, to ensure she broke his control over her forevermore. She’d abandoned all attempts to please him, to earn his love and respect. She had spent years trying to gain his attention and approval, but he seemed loath to spend more than a few moments looking in her direction before turning away. In his eyes she would never be the beloved son he’d lost to illness.
Therefore, Hanna had left her life of sophistication, refinement and elegance behind, to find herself a husband. Her idea of the perfect mate, not her father’s. Hanna had mentally listed her qualifications for an ideal husband. He would be an intimidating man himself—not one easily cowed by her father’s booming commands, nor easily swayed by bribes, which bent so many people to her father’s fierce will.
Hanna glanced up to note the wooden sign that indicated she’d reached a hotel. If she were in New Orleans she wouldn’t have set foot inside such a shabby establishment. But this wasn’t New Orleans and she wanted nothing more than to take refuge from the rain and the crowd of men that swaggered along behind her. She was tired of being ogled, and weary from her journey. Not to mention the emotional turmoil she’d undergone after her father announced that she would wed whom he decreed, when he decreed and where.
The thought sent frissons of frustration undulating through her. Hanna definitely needed a secluded place to rest, to unwind, to regroup before she reviewed her checklist for the husband she hoped to acquire quickly and expediently. After she caught her breath, she would inquire around this muddy, backward frontier town to locate a man who’d agree to share his name, for a substantial price. Hanna would be her father’s daughter, use his own tactics, for the first and last time.
After a brief wedding ceremony, the groom could go his way and she would go her own way—west. She’d heard it said that out West a woman wasn’t as restricted by social expectations as in the East. Out West was where free-spirited individuals migrated, to live by their own rules and establish new lives for themselves.
Surely somewhere in this outpost of three thousand souls she could find one man who was intimidating and strong-willed enough to withstand her father. A man who didn’t stay in one place long enough for Walter Malloy to track him down and offer him scads of money to have the marriage annulled, before dragging his daughter home to wed that stuffy, pompous aristocrat he had chosen.
Hanna winced, remembering her confrontation with her father. He’d boomed at her in that deep, foghornlike voice, shouting that Hanna had rejected the very last suitor, and that she would become Mrs. Louis Beauchamp—of the highly prestigious Beauchamps who could trace their family lineage back to the titled gentry of France. The merger of two wealthy shipping magnates would ensure a monopoly the likes of which New Orleans had never seen.
In outraged fury, Hanna had refused, insisting that if Walter was so immensely fond of Louis Beauchamp—of the highly respected Beauchamps—then he should marry the man.
That had been a mistake of gigantic proportions. Walter’s face had turned the color of raw liver and he’d bellowed that there would be a wedding and a merger and Hanna would accept his decisions, like the dutiful, grateful daughter she was supposed to be.
From that day forward, a chaperon—Rutherford J. Wiley—was assigned to her each time she left their sprawling plantation on the Mississippi or ventured from their elegant town house in New Orleans. According to Walter, Hanna would have no opportunity whatsoever to defy his decree.
Or so he thought, she mused, smiling triumphantly as she made a beeline toward the registration desk of the hotel. She’d taken advantage of the only window of opportunity her father had left open to her the past few months. The window in the room where she was to dress in her wedding gown before Walter walked her down the aisle to become the bride of Louis Beauchamp—of the proud and pompous Beauchamps. That window had been her salvation. Hanna had been prepared for that moment of opportunity, had planned for it, right down to the last detail.
She imagined that her father had cursed several blue streaks when he’d realized she’d escaped. She would’ve liked to see the look on his face when he realized she’d defied him and fled the city posthaste. If she knew her father—and she knew him well—he would spare no expense in hiring the most qualified detectives—the Pinkertons, no doubt—to haul her home.
But