The Bride Lottery

by Tatiana March

  It crossed her mind how much she had relied on sleeping beside Jamie, warm and safe, tucked into the curve of his body as they lay together in a tent, the rest of the world far away, the future insignificant compared to the demands of the present. The kiss they had shared played on her mind, making her wonder how it would feel if Jamie did it again—hauled her into his embrace and pressed his lips against hers.

  But there would be none of that. She would sleep alone in the tent, while Jamie slept beneath the lean-to, keeping them safe. Without her, he would not have even bothered putting up a tent. She was a burden. The sensation grew as Miranda watched him set out bread and jerky for supper and boil coffee on a fire he’d built beneath a tree, using the leaf canopy and his rain slicker to protect the struggling flames from the rain.

  “Do you want hot water to wash?” he called out.

  She longed for the luxury of a hot wash. But instead, she said, “I don’t need to wash. The rain has taken care of that.”

  Only spoiled little Eastern princesses washed with hot water on the trail. She did not want to be one of those. Miranda made herself a promise. She would learn to do her share of the chores. Or she would board a train when they reached the next railroad town, even if it meant she might never see Jamie again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jamie couldn’t have wished for better conditions to convince Miranda to travel by train. Day and night, the wind howled across the prairie. Rain battered the earth until the horses struggled to keep their balance on the waterlogged trail.

  Their clothes were damp. The food unappetizing. The nights wet and cold. Miserable. That was the best word to describe it all. Except Miranda. For her, Jamie had another word.

  Stubborn. Stubborn as hell.

  “Get under the overhang,” he told her when they pulled up for the night beside a wall of red rocks, just before the cliffs narrowed into a canyon.

  “No. I’ll help you with the lean-to shelter.”

  Jamie muttered a curse. Miranda kept insisting that she carry her weight, do her share, earn her keep, whichever in her repertoire of arguments she might toss at him while ignoring his commands to get out of the rain.

  “Start supper,” he ordered. He had contrived a division of labor that allowed her some measure of protection from the weather. When they halted for the night, he lifted the panniers from the mules to the most sheltered spot. Then he did the same with the saddles and saddlebags. It was Miranda’s task to take care of their provisions and maintain the tack for the horses.

  “Look for soot stains on the cliffs above the overhang,” he advised her. “That will be the best place to light a fire, tried and tested by other travelers.”

  Miranda jumped to her feet. “I’ll go and collect firewood.”

  “Stay where you are!” Jamie roared, then gritted his teeth. The damn woman had reduced him to yelling. For a second, he let his gaze rest on her. Thank heavens he’d bought her the expensive leather hat that repelled water. Her face and hair were dry. Nothing else was. Her skin was marble white, with an almost bluish tinge, and she was shivering.

  But she never complained. Never. It seemed forever ago that they had first set out on the journey to Devil’s Hall after he won her in the bride lottery. He recalled how he had expected his little Eastern princess to whine about every hardship. He could not have been more wrong.

  “Check the coffee and sugar to make sure they’re dry.”

  “I’ve already done that. I’ll go and get firewood.”

  “No!” Jamie bellowed. He finished tying one side of the oilcloth to the wooden stump he’d beaten into the ground. The lean-to was barely three feet high, but it would keep them out of the rain. Tonight, he could not put up the tent, for there were no saplings he could cut down to make poles.

  “Check the saddles and bridles,” he ordered. “Wipe them dry.”

  Each night, he contrived to keep her busy in a sheltered spot while he put up the lean-to and got a fire started. He dreaded the thought of a campsite without firewood. If he didn’t manage to keep Miranda warm at night, she might catch pneumonia.

  Jamie felt his body go rigid. No. He refused to dwell on the possibility that something might happen to her. Refused to admit that he’d come to care about another person. Caring for someone brought the prospect of loss, and he’d had enough of losing loved ones.

  While they ate, Miranda plagued him with questions.

  “How does a bounty hunter find the outlaws?”

  “With patience.”

  “Patience with what?”

  “Listen in saloons. Ask around. Pay for information.”

  “And how does a bounty hunter track down his quarry?”

  Quarry? It was a new word to him, but it seemed to fit. “Follow the information.”

  “Follow the information?” she echoed. “You don’t look for hoofprints on the ground and broken twigs and other signs to see which way the outlaws have escaped?”

  “It’s not like that. If the outlaws know you’re coming, you don’t stand a chance.”

  “So you need to figure out where the outlaws are hiding, and then you’ll have to sneak up on them and catch them by surprise?”

  “Yes.” Jamie scooped up the last of the beans from his plate. “That’s it.”

  At his reticence, Miranda huffed in frustration. Jamie turned away and held his plate out to the rain to clean it. As he listened to the drumming of the drops against the tin platter, he suppressed the sense of inadequacy. He knew Miranda wanted to talk. She found comfort in idle chatter, but he didn’t have it in him.

  That long talk beneath the picnic oak, when he’d told her about his mother and his sister, seemed to have depleted the store of words inside him. And somehow, as if by common consent, neither of them had mentioned Nora since the day of the funeral. It might have been to allow the grief to heal, or perhaps out of respect for the Indian belief that one should encourage the dead to pass into the next world.

  Miranda spoke again. “Where can you get wanted posters?”

  “Sheriff’s office. Town marshal. Sometimes a post office or a store.”

  Miranda gave a slow nod. There was an eager look in her eyes that worried Jamie. He was starting to get some idea of the path her thoughts were taking. He had already figured out that her thirst for adventure was greater than her common sense.

  “Forget it, Princess,” he muttered. “Women can’t be bounty hunters.”

  “Why not?” she shot back. “You said patience is the most important requirement, and the ability to coax information out of people. In those, women are better than men.”

  Jamie did not reply. He knew arguing would only serve to spur her on.

  * * *

  Jamie lay beneath the oilcloth, his clothes almost dry from the flames, his hunger chased away by the dull staple of beans and jerky. In the darkness, he could feel Miranda’s restless fidgeting beside him.

  “Can’t you sleep, Princess?”

  “I’m cold.” She wriggled closer, bumping against him. “Hold me, like you did before.”

  Jamie tensed. Then he rolled over to his side and pulled Miranda into his arms. It was a dangerous thing to do, but he couldn’t deny her the comfort of his warmth. He could feel her trembling. Instead of burying her face in the crook of his neck, she tipped her head back. Despite the lack of light Jamie could make out her features and the faint glimmer of her open eyes.

  “You won’t get to sleep unless you close your eyes, Princess.”

  “How do you know they’re open?”

  “I told you, I can see in the dark. You’re looking at me.”

  She spoke very softly, a mere rustle of sound in the night. “I’ve been thinking of how you kissed me on the floor of the Carousel... It was not how I expected a kiss to be...and I’ve b
een wondering if it would be the same if you kissed me again...”

  She could not have come up with anything that would have startled Jamie more. For an instant, his mind went blank. Then it sprang into a chaotic flurry of doubt and hope and need. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. His brain screamed a warning, just as it had that other time. And just as at that other time, he ignored the warning. Sometimes a temptation was too strong for a man to resist.

  Threading his fingers into Miranda’s unraveling upsweep, Jamie cupped the back of her head and leaned forward. Even after three days on the trail, the scent of floral soap clung to her, tantalizing his senses.

  “Like this?” he asked and pressed a gentle kiss on her brow.

  “No.”

  “Like this?” He brushed a kiss on the crest of her cheek.

  “No.”

  “Like this?” He settled his mouth on hers. He intended to keep the kiss light, but Miranda’s lips were warm and soft and willing beneath his. Despite the thick layer of clothing between them, he could feel her feminine contours pressing against him.

  A rush of emotion went through Jamie. He’d never before understood how tightly his life had been bound to that of Louise and Nora. Providing for his sister and his niece had given him a purpose, had added a sense of honor to his grim and dangerous profession.

  Now they were gone. He had no one. No feminine softness to balance the hard days out on the road, no welcoming smiles to return to. Just the great big emptiness inside him and the slow, tedious wait for it all to one day come to an end.

  But Miranda was alive and vibrant against him. The beautiful, compassionate Miranda, whose presence lit up his gloomy world like sunlight banishes the darkness. Jamie breathed in her scent, felt her warmth and softness in his arms and gave in to his hunger.

  Rising up on one elbow, he eased his body half on top of hers and deepened the kiss. This time, Miranda was with him at once. Her lips parted, offering him access. When his mouth slanted greedily over hers, she made a tiny moan deep in her throat, an erotic sound that enflamed his need.

  On and on the kiss went. The rain beat in a sharp tattoo against the oilcloth. The wind blew across the prairie with a dull, mournful howl, sending a chilly draft beneath the lean-to canopy, but their bodies thrummed with heat.

  There was passion in his little princess, Jamie discovered, and it seemed all too easy to make that passion spark out of control. The night was cold, wet and miserable, yet he doubted Miranda would protest if he tried to ease her out of her clothing.

  Clinging to the last vestiges of his sanity, Jamie broke the kiss and lifted his head. “Princess, we have to put a stop to this. Do you understand how perilously close you are to getting hitched to me for the rest of your days?”

  He could see the faint glimmer of her eyes in the darkness and knew she was looking at him. “It might not be such a bad idea,” she replied in a voice as light as a butterfly’s wing.

  Jamie settled on his side again and bundled Miranda tight against his chest, her head tucked in the crook of his neck. A hollow sense of despair filled him. Why did she have to say it? Why did she have to tempt him to dream the impossible?

  “Wait until we get into the next town and need to find a place to stay.” His tone was grim. “Then you tell me if you still think it might not be such a bad idea to stay hitched to me for the rest of your days.”

  * * *

  The sharp, lashing rain had finally ceased. Riding at the end of their small procession, Miranda saw the line of the railroad that bisected the prairie a moment before she spotted the cluster of buildings in the distance. The place didn’t seem much of a town. Water tower, perched on four legs, like an enormous spider. A station house with a wooden platform. A few other buildings lined up in a single row.

  She longed to get dry and warm. Eat a decent meal. Sleep in a bed. The thought gave her pause. The kiss last night had been more than just a kiss. What would happen if they shared a room with a bed? Was she ready for such intimacy? She didn’t know. Perhaps no woman knew for certain until the moment was upon them.

  All she knew was that every day she found her eyes drawn to Jamie as he rode on Sirius ahead of her, his posture graceful in the saddle, his touch on the horse gentle but sure. At the rest stops, she would covertly watch him and feel an odd kind of restlessness.

  But was that enough? Had she been foolish to put forward the idea they could make their marriage real? Was what she felt for him the start of something true and lasting? Or was it merely a means to ease the grief of Nora’s passing, a yearning for the comfort and warmth he could offer?

  Casting aside the questions for which she had no answers, Miranda followed Jamie and the pack mules along the mud-churned street between the railroad station and the rest of the buildings. The tallest one had a sign that said Palace Hotel. Miranda didn’t dispute the boast. Right now, anything with a roof and a bed would qualify.

  Jamie reined in Sirius and turned around in the saddle to look at her. His hat shadowed his features and the upturned collar of his duster hid part of his face, but in his eyes Miranda could see a hard glint, as if he anticipated some kind of trouble.

  “Go and get a room,” he told her. “I’ll take care of the horses. There’s a sign for a livery stable at the end of the street.”

  “Can we leave the packs? Or should we take them up to the room?”

  “I’ll see if they have a guard at the livery stable overnight.”

  Miranda dismounted, hurried to Pollux and took out her canvas bag where she had her spare clothing and a few personal items. As she crossed the street to the hotel entrance, the short, stocky man who’d been standing on the boardwalk went inside and took up position behind the curved reception counter in the corner of the lobby.

  “I’d like a room,” she told him. “The warmest you have.”

  “You’re here for the train?” Dark-haired, with small brown eyes set deep in their sockets, the man appeared curt, almost hostile.

  “Just passing through on our way south.”

  “That your husband? The Indian with them two pack mules?”

  Miranda smiled, her head cocked to one side with a touch of feminine appeal. “Yes. That’s my husband. And he is only a quarter Cheyenne.”

  The man muttered something Miranda didn’t catch, and then he flicked open his ledger. “I’m afraid we’re fully booked tonight.”

  “But...” She surveyed the lifeless lobby with limp velvet curtains and dusty chandeliers and fraying padded chairs. “You can’t be. It seems very quiet.”

  “There’s a party arriving on the evening train. And some of the rooms are closed for renovation.”

  I expect they need it, Miranda thought tartly. It seemed as though the place had been thrown together in haste when the railroad came through two decades ago, and only as an afterthought had people realized the furnishings had to stand up to wear and tear.

  “Is there...” Miranda took a deep breath, her dreams of a warm room and soft bed in danger of turning into a mirage. “Is there some other establishment that might have vacant rooms?”

  “You could try the saloon. Two doors down.” The man pointed along the row of buildings, to the opposite direction of the livery stable.

  Miranda gave him a tired nod. “I’ll try there. If my husband comes in, can you tell him where I’ve gone?”

  “I’ll wager he’ll figure it out on his own,” the man muttered.

  Puzzled by the comment, Miranda left the Palace Hotel and made her way along the boardwalk, her boots clattering with forlorn steps. The saloon seemed equally quiet as she pushed in through the batwing doors, her canvas bag draped over one shoulder.

  The Gold Nugget was a rough, functional place, with scarred wooden tables and chairs. Gas lamps burned in brackets along the wall. There were no guests, only a m
an who seemed like a cardsharp. He was sitting alone at a table, flicking playing cards between his fingers, fanning the deck open and closing it, practicing his tricks.

  Behind the counter, a voluptuous blonde in her forties was polishing glasses with a towel, holding each glass to the light to inspect it before stacking it on the shelf.

  Miranda walked over to the counter. “Do you have a room for the night?”

  The woman gave her a cursory inspection, then picked up the next glass to polish. “This place isn’t suitable for the likes of you. Try the Palace Hotel. Two doors up the street.”

  “I’ve just been there. They told me they are fully booked.”

  “Fully booked.” The blonde hooted with laughter. “That’ll be the day.”

  Miranda frowned. “They said there’s a party arriving on the evening train.”

  One corner of the woman’s rouged mouth curled into a smirk. “He can be a bit funny, Karl Lomax, who owns the Palace. Thinks a woman traveling on her own is the devil’s bait, sent to lure good men straight to hell. You sure you want to stay here, love? This is a saloon. When the train pulls in, this place will fill up with a rowdy crowd.”

  “I don’t mind,” Miranda said with a smile. “I’m no stranger to saloons. I used to sing in one. The Carousel, in Devil’s Hall. It’s a mining town, four days’ ride to the north.”

  The blonde lowered the glass and towel, surprise and delight brightening her tired features. “I know Devil’s Hall. That big Swede, Nordgren, still own the place?”

  “He does. And Moses does the cooking. The girls are Eve and Jezebel.”

  “I’ll be damned.” The woman swept another glance over Miranda. “You can stay here for free, love, if you sing for the customers tonight. What do you call yourself?”