The Bride Lottery

by Tatiana March

  She climbed up to the stage, struck a pose. Just as she was about to launch into a song, the post office messenger, a tall, gray-haired war veteran, came through the swinging doors. Miranda’s heartbeat quickened. He was coming in her direction! And he was holding a telegram! He came up to the stage, reached up with his good hand.

  “For you, Miss Randi.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice trembled. The fear she had tried to keep at bay surged. Why had it taken so long to get a reply from Charlotte? What could be wrong?

  “Is it your husband, Miss Randi? Has he been killed?”

  Startled, she looked into the crowd. A new fear clenched in her chest. It had never occurred to her that something could happen to the bounty hunter, even though his job involved danger. “I apologize, gentlemen. I need a moment of privacy.”

  She withdrew into the shadows behind the velvet curtain and unfolded the slip of paper with shaking hands. Why should it matter to her if Jamie Blackburn had met an end fitting to his profession? But it seemed that it did, and not just because it would leave her alone to take care of Nora.

  Her eyes refused to focus on the text, postponing the potential bad news. Then she could no longer drag it out. She lifted the text closer to her eyes and read the telegram in the dim light of the lamp in the wall bracket.

  Dear Miranda. Married happily. Sorry delay. Have been to San Francisco to claim inheritance. Annabel traveling to Gold Crossing with money for ticket. Aware Cousin Gareth followed you at Merlins Leap but no news since. Take care. Be well. Come soon. Have telegraphed money order one thousand dollars to bank Devils Hall. Inform if need more.

  Miranda pressed the telegram to her breast. Both her sisters were safe. Annabel was on the train, secure with money. And Charlotte was married! If Cousin Gareth returned to Merlin’s Leap, he would not find Annabel there, and if he had gone after Charlotte in Gold Crossing, she now had a husband to protect her, as a husband should protect his wife. Her mouth pursed in dismay. Where was he? Where was James Fast Elk Blackburn?

  * * *

  The night chill was falling as Jamie rode into Devil’s Hall. He’d been on the road for three weeks and two days, earning five hundred dollars by tracking down a pair of men who had robbed a mine payroll across the border in Colorado.

  Both outlaws had been wanted dead or alive. Jamie had tried to take them alive, but all too often an outlaw destined for the rope preferred to take his chances in a gunfight. If they didn’t win their freedom, at least they gained a clean, quick death.

  After he’d hauled the bodies to the nearest sheriff’s office, Jamie had gone into a saloon, however he had foregone his usual custom of paying for a woman to celebrate staying alive. It puzzled him how a man could derive pleasure from being told to stop doing things he normally enjoyed doing, but when a little redhead had perched on his knee to whisper suggestions in his ear, he’d gained an odd sense of satisfaction from sending her away, telling her he was a married man.

  In town, the grinding and clattering at the mine had ceased for the day. On Main Street, the two saloons shone like beacons to guide weary travelers. Jamie took Sirius to the livery stable and headed for the Carousel.

  As he pushed his way in through the batwing doors, the Carousel appeared unusually crowed, yet strangely quiet. Most of the customers had their backs to the door. Careless fools. A man couldn’t expect to live long that way. Jamie tried to see what they were all staring at but couldn’t get a view of the small stage at the rear of the room.

  As he edged closer, he could hear a feminine voice singing a flirty, playful tune, something about a sailor with a girl in every port. It reminded him of how he’d lain awake for three nights, listening to Miranda singing her melodies, her voice so low that he’d had to strain his ears just to hear the faint rustle of sound, never mind the words.

  Jamie pushed forward, ignoring the angry glares directed at him as he elbowed his way past the men who had risen to their feet to watch. The singing girl was twirling about, wiggling her hips, her back toward the audience.

  My, Jamie thought. This one would be hard to toss off his lap, should she choose to settle upon it. Tall and slender, with a waist no bigger than the span of his hands. Fair hair, piled up on her head in a loose knot that suggested a man could make it tumble down with a single tug. The whole tempting package was squeezed into a pale blue dress that hugged every feminine curve.

  The girl turned around and minced toward the edge of the stage. Jamie let his gaze drift upward, curious to see her face, but got distracted by a pair of milky white breasts that rose above the low neckline of her dress. The pale blue fabric of the dress seemed oddly familiar. His gaze slid the final few inches up to the singer’s face.

  Hellfire and damnation.

  Had Jamie not been shocked to immobility, he would have jumped up to the stage and pulled his wife out of the hungry glare of thirty other men. How did she dare? How did she dare to flaunt herself on the stage after she had ordered him to respect his wedding vows?

  Emotions twisted within him, each targeting a different part of his body. For a fraction of a second, he took his eyes off Miranda to glance at the men around him. Close your eyes, he wanted to yell. She is not yours to look at. Then his attention returned to her.

  She sang. She smiled. Her blue eyes sparkled. Her red lips pouted with air kisses. She sent the men coy looks from beneath her lashes. She twirled on her feet and wiggled her hips and shimmied her shoulders and did a million other things that made Jamie’s pulse riot.

  When the song came to an end, she struck a few more teasing poses while the crowd of men burst into applause. Some whistled and cheered. “Thank you,” she called out, and gave a deep bow that offered an even better view of the milky white tops of her breasts.

  Straightening, Mirada surveyed the crowd—and spotted him.

  All daintiness left her movements. She marched to the edge of the stage, jumped down to the plank floor and cut a path toward him through the throng. It surprised Jamie how easily the men parted, but when Miranda got closer, he understood.

  She was swishing her parasol about and muttering, “Get out of my way, get out of my way,” her voice an angry growl that inspired men to obey. She came to a halt in front of him, her lovely features in a scowl. Jamie’s already overwrought mind took another tumble, this time with confusion. Why was she furious with him? He hadn’t done anything. He’d been away, taking care of business. She was the one behaving unlike a married person should.

  He noticed her body tense, saw her mouth flatten into a hard line. Her shoulders twisted as she pulled back one arm. The instinct that had helped Jamie stay alive for eighteen years while he hunted outlaws warned him that she was about to deliver a hard slap across his face.

  She didn’t.

  A small hand clenched into a fist, swung through the air and crashed into his jaw. The lady packed a bigger punch than Jamie would have expected from someone so dainty. He reeled, was forced to stumble backward to restore his balance.

  Jamie rubbed his aching jaw. “What was that for?”

  Instead of a rational reply, Miranda burst into a stream of insults that proved just how far her vocabulary had progressed beyond oaf in three short weeks.

  “What’s wrong, Miss Randi?” someone shouted.

  “Is he bothering you, Miss Randi?”

  “Do you want me to shoot him for you, Miss Randi?”

  Questions peppered the air around them. Jamie would have laughed, had he not been so alarmed. A bunch of drunken knights in shining armor, offering to protect his wife from him. Icy sweat coated his skin at the prospect of danger. He lifted his hands high, clear of his guns, to make sure no one could claim an excuse to draw on him.

  “Don’t kill him,” Miranda said. “He’s my husband.”

  “Ohs” and “ahs” of surprise rose from the crowd, and
then melted into a chuckle. “It’s the husband.” The words rippled around the room as the men repeated the comment to each other, like some kind of a secret code.

  Miranda stepped up to him, so close her frothing skirts brushed the toes of his dusty boots. She craned forward, lined her mouth next to his ear and spoke in a muffled whisper that no one else could hear.

  “Kiss me,” she said. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

  Chapter Ten

  Kiss me. Kiss me like you mean it.

  Jamie froze. He stared down at the exquisite face tipped up toward him. A notch creased Miranda’s brow. Through the multiple layers of his duster and coat and shirt, Jamie could feel slim fingers poking at his ribs, prodding him into action. A frown of impatience flickered across the flawless features of his little Eastern princess, whose latest transformation had turned her into the queen of the night.

  Slowly, Jamie dipped his head. Every instinct screamed a warning. He knew without a doubt that if he obeyed her command, it would be the most dangerous thing he had ever done. More dangerous than any outlaw. More dangerous than a gun pointed at him. More dangerous than a rattlesnake coiled on a sunlit rock.

  But he did it anyway. Just as Miranda parted her lips in a soundless whisper that spelled out now, Jamie closed the last of the distance between them and settled his mouth upon hers. Without a conscious thought, he wrapped his arms around her and hauled her to his chest.

  At first, Miranda went rigid. Jamie guessed she’d anticipated a gentle peck, not an openmouthed kiss. But that’s what she got. He could taste her shock and resistance as his lips slanted across hers. Something bold and powerful flowed through him. He’d never felt such a wild sense of elation at a woman’s nearness, not even at the moment of completion in a saloon girl’s bed.

  Equally frightened and fascinated by the sensation, Jamie kept the kiss going. Because Miranda was so tall, he didn’t need to bend, merely to incline his head. He could feel the length of her body molded against his. They seemed a perfect fit, her slender curves against his hard planes, her soft mouth beneath his hungry one.

  As the seconds ticked by, Miranda grew responsive. Her hands eased their grip on his shoulders and swept up to the nape of his neck. Jamie could feel her fingers shifting through his hair, a delicate touch that sent another wave of pleasure rippling through him. He inhaled her scent, a fresh, floral soap, different from the cloying perfumes many saloon girls used. He could taste coffee, and the faint residue of tooth powder.

  Slowly, Jamie became aware of the rowdy chorus of voices around them. Some of the comments were good-natured, but some were lewd, and Jamie could hear the hard edge of envy mingled with the friendly banter.

  He broke the kiss, lifted his head. Miranda tried to follow, rising on tiptoe, eyes closed, lips parted. He withdrew his arms from around her, caught her chin with the edge of his hand and swept his thumb across her lips.

  “That’s enough for now, Princess.”

  Her eyelids fluttered up. She blinked a few times, as if emerging from darkness into a bright light. Slowly, the languid look in her eyes faded away. Instead of the fury Jamie had expected, a lost, disoriented expression settled on her features.

  He took her hand and ushered her toward the exit. “Let’s go, Princess. I appreciate the welcome, but now it’s time for you to explain why you’re prancing about on the stage seducing men instead of looking after the child I left in your care.”

  * * *

  Miranda allowed Blackburn to steer her through the throng. If she were totally honest, she had hit him not just out of anger at his high-handed interference in her life, but out of anger at herself. The surge of delight that had flared inside her when she spotted him in the crowd was the last thing she should have felt at the sight of him. He was the enemy. He was at the root of the bewildering mix of happiness and grief that was tearing her apart.

  “Let’s hear it,” Blackburn prompted.

  “I hit you because I hate you. I hate you for marrying me. I hate you for bringing me here and making me love a child who is going to die. I hate you for the helplessness I feel. I hate you for leaving me alone to face the ordeal of watching her grow weaker each day as her time runs out.”

  Blackburn halted between the crowded tables. Standing rooted, he scowled at her, as if he had no idea what she was talking about. Miranda sailed past him and flounced out through the batwing doors of the Carousel, into the cool darkness of the night.

  “Oh, why am I even trying to explain?” she said with an angry flap of her hand when he caught up with her on the boardwalk. “It’s enough for you just to know that I hate you.”

  “You sure showed it in there.” Blackburn pointed back inside with that annoying jerk of his head. Trust him to lack the good manners to ignore that small, inconvenient kiss. Perhaps small wasn’t the right word, Miranda admitted. Insignificant. That was better. One insignificant kiss, exchanged out of necessity.

  “That was for their benefit.” She gestured to take in the Carousel, where the merry tune of a piano was now plinking out. “When I started performing, I needed something to keep the men from pestering me. I threatened them with a jealous husband and they got it into their heads that I...”

  “That you what?”

  Miranda swore she could hear amusement in that deep, husky voice. The bounty hunter smirked—Jamie, she thought of him as now, because Nora kept talking incessantly about her Uncle Jamie. For nearly a month now, Miranda had been obliged to admire James Fast Elk Blackburn for his noble existence as a crime fighter, a fine specimen of American manhood who in one handsome package combined the native heritage of the Cheyenne Nation, the adventurous spirit of the frontiersmen and the educated mind of an Eastern gentleman.

  “A very jealous husband that you what?” Jamie prompted.

  Miranda flattened her mouth. He knew what she had been about to say. What she had convinced all those men who came to drink at the Carousel to think, but only as a ruse to keep them from getting improper ideas about her.

  That I love my husband very much. It was beastly of James Blackburn to attempt to force her to say it out loud. Beastly was her younger sister Annabel’s favorite word and it served very well in this instance.

  “Whom I...respect...very much,” Miranda said in the end. “Of course, I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about an imaginary husband, one I married out of my own free will, and you are simply fulfilling that role in the eyes of the saloon crowd.”

  While they had been talking, they had drifted along the boardwalk, away from the noise of the Carousel and the Purgatory, to the better end of the town.

  “Since when have you been singing at the saloon?” Blackburn asked.

  “Since my second week. It turned out my skin can’t tolerate the soaps for cleaning. My hands came up in blisters. When Nordgren asked me if I can do anything else, I told him I can sing. He offered me a trial. The men liked my act. I get five dollars a night, instead of five dollars a week, and it leaves me free to spend time with Nora during the day.”

  Jamie gripped her arm, forcing her to a halt. Their footsteps faded into silence. He gave her a tiny jerk that spun her around to face him. It occurred to Miranda that Jamie had an advantage, because he took care to keep his back to the light that spilled out of the saloons, hiding his face in the shadows while the lamp glow fell upon her.

  “What happened to the rest of your dress?” he asked.

  Automatically, Miranda glanced down. The tops of her breasts shone pale in the faint glimmer of light, like two uncooked buns rising from a baking tin. How inconsiderate of the man to draw attention to the more embarrassing aspects of her musical career.

  “Nordgren said that if I wanted the position, I had to give the men something to look at. He offered me a costume that was little more than a corset with a tiny pumpkin-shaped skirt attached to i
t, and a pair of black fishnet stockings. We compromised.”

  She glanced up to Jamie’s face but the darkness hid his expression.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, peering ahead along the boardwalk.

  “Huh?”

  Miranda repeated her question. Jamie seemed about to nod off, judging by the way his face remained tipped downward, and he appeared to have lost his train of thought. Finally, he gathered himself and looked about him.

  “I live at the Carousel,” she reminded him. “I don’t know where you’re going, but you’ll need to escort me back to my room.”

  How was it possible for her to know he was grinning, even though she couldn’t see his face? And how was it possible for her to know exactly what he would say, even before a single word came out of his mouth?

  “But of course, I must sleep in your room. I am the jealous husband, the one you respect very much. Your ruse will lose all credibility if we spend the nights apart.”

  “The bed is very narrow.” Her voice sounded very small.

  “A happy couple always has enough room.”

  * * *

  Jamie escorted his little princess back to the Carousel. An uneasy mix of amusement and guilt churned inside him, and something more, something dark and brooding he had no wish to examine. What made him want to needle her so? He was to blame for her situation, and she had shown remarkable courage and resourcefulness in solving the problem of alternative employment. And she seemed to hold true affection for Nora.

  “How is the little Skylark?” he asked quietly.

  “Getting very weak. I’m...” Miranda drew a shaky breath and lowered her voice, as if reluctant to say the words. “I’m pleased you’ve come. The doctor says she only has a few days left, and I agree. She didn’t seem worried about being able to tell you goodbye. Something to do with her Cheyenne beliefs. I talk to her about God, but I don’t discourage her Indian faith. In my view, two sets of religion offer a double dose of comfort.”