The Bride Lottery. Tatiana March
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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.”
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