The Bride Lottery. Tatiana March
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you have to express your consent to the union.”
“I do.” The bounty hunter tightened his grip on Miranda’s arm and turned to glare at her. His head dipped in a single, sharp nod. When Miranda didn’t respond, he gave her a light rattle, as if to shake the words out of her, the way one might shake apples from a tree. “Let’s hear it,” he said.
“I do not,” she muttered.
His chin jerked. The twin slashes of his black eyebrows edged upward. His inscrutable expression cracked a little. It appeared to Miranda that the corners of his mouth were fighting not to curl up in a smile.
“Yes, you do,” he told her. Turning to the preacher, he said, “She does. Where do we sign?”
“I need to hear the lady give her consent.”
“And hear it you shall,” the bounty hunter replied. He bent closer to Miranda and whispered into her ear. “It’s me, or a jail cell with four bank robbers who don’t care about adding rape to their sins. Which do you prefer?”
Miranda pursed her lips. Always stubborn, she hated to give in to blackmail. But on this occasion resistance might be ill-advised.
“I do.” She spoke through gritted teeth.
“Good,” the bounty hunter said. “She does. Where do we sign?”
The preacher looked pained. Behind Miranda, Lucille and her girls were muttering complaints about the lack of romance. The bounty hunter turned his head and scowled at them over Miranda’s shoulder. “You worry about your own weddings and leave this one alone.”
Before Miranda could think, one of her booted feet rose and slammed down on the man’s instep. He flinched. Although no sound passed his lips, Miranda knew she’d caused him pain. Good. He deserved it. It had been a cruel comment. He must be aware of how little chance the saloon girls had of ever getting a wedding of their own.
“That was nasty and uncalled for and lacking in chivalry,” she lectured.
The bounty hunter’s mouth fell open. For a second, he stared at her, speechless. Miranda could see something flicker in his eyes. Anger. Perhaps even respect. Then it changed to a flash of amusement, and his mouth curved into a rueful smile.
“If you expect chivalry from me, you’re sorely mistaken.” He turned back to the preacher, one hand still clutching her arm. His other hand settled over one of the big revolvers in the twin holsters at his hips.
“Now, where do we sign?”
“Name?” the preacher asked, looking at her.
“Miranda Fairfax.” She had thought about it carefully. Cousin Gareth was less dangerous than the bounty hunter. She was not afraid of leaving a trail. She wanted to leave a trail.
The bounty hunter’s eyes narrowed. “I heard your name is Woods.”
She gave him a strained smile, cherishing the tiny triumph of telling him a lie, one he might suspect but had no way of proving. “That was my married name.”
“Name?” the preacher said, addressing the question to the bounty hunter. It was clear to Miranda the brown-haired pastor had chosen to cut his losses over the ceremony and wanted to get back to his cooling porridge.
“James Fast Elk Blackburn,” the bounty hunter replied.
The preacher frowned. “You sure you want the Fast Elk in there?”
The bounty hunter hesitated a moment. “You can leave it out.”
They took turns signing the marriage certificate. The preacher copied the details into his record book and handed the certificate to Miranda. The bounty hunter leaned over her, snatched the document from her fingers and slipped it into a pocket on the buckskin coat he wore beneath his long duster. “I paid good money for you and I’ll keep this for now.”
“Ten dollars,” Miranda muttered tartly. “A fortune indeed.”
“Maybe that’s all you’re worth.”
Miranda bit her lip to stop an angry retort. You walked right into that one, she told herself. And now, shut up, before you’ll make it even worse. She had her provisions. Now was the time to gather her wits and start making plans for an escape.
* * *
This is a mistake, Jamie thought as he ushered the blonde beauty out of the saloon. He’d acted on impulse. He should have known better. In his profession a man needed cool judgment to stay alive. He had a premonition that hauling the little Eastern princess along with him for four days, until he could get rid of her, would not inspire cool judgment.
He’d have to get her a horse of her own. Last night, he had tried to bury his lust in the saloon tart, but his mind had given the girl beneath him the flawless features and the proud carriage of the woman he was now towing in his wake.
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?”