“My stage name was Miss Randi.”
The woman gave another hoot of laughter. “Randi? I can see why the men might have liked to call you that.”
A blush crept to Miranda’s cheeks. The clientele at the Carousel had given her good-natured ribbing over the name, and she understood the double meaning. “It comes from my given name, Miranda,” she explained. “I’m Miranda Fairfax. I mean, Miranda Blackburn. I am married now, and I’m not traveling on my own.”
It crossed Miranda’s mind that she was giving out a lot of information. Bounty hunters probably just tossed a few coins on the table and grunted a demand for a key, but it was lovely to talk to a person who actually seemed to enjoy conversation.
“I’m Aggie,” the woman said. “Aggie Nugget, can you believe it? Got me a good few customers when I was younger, with my yellow hair and all. Gold Nugget, they used to call me. The saloon’s named after me.”
“You are not old, Aggie,” Miranda said. “You are a lady in your prime.”
“Oh, aren’t you a smooth one...” Aggie pulled a face, but there was pleasure in her mocking tone. “The stage is over there, behind the red curtain. Go and take a peek, love. There’s a piano, too, but there’s no one here who knows how to play.”
Miranda turned. The lone cardsharp was sitting with his back toward her, still practicing his tricks. He was dressed very well, in fawn trousers and a peacock blue frock coat, pristine white shirt cuffs peeking from the sleeves. He had light brown hair. A walking stick leaned against the side of the table.
A walking stick with a silver handle in the shape of a wolf’s head. Miranda gasped at the familiar sight. The gambler must have heard her, for he turned around.
“Gareth!” she cried out as she stared into the face of Gareth Fairfax, or at least a man who looked just like him—just like him, and yet subtly different. For if it was her cousin, he had changed since she’d last seen him at the railroad station in Chicago, where she’d fled from him almost two months ago.
Chapter Sixteen
Miranda steeled herself for a confrontation as Cousin Gareth bolted to his feet. He’d lost a great deal of weight. No longer puffed, his features looked handsome now. The straight nose and blue eyes and elegant posture reminded Miranda of her father, the older brother to Gareth’s father. There was a fresh scar on Gareth’s forehead, a livid red welt that ran from the hairline to the temple.
He charged up to her and fisted his hands in the front of her wool poncho, rattling her so hard her teeth knocked together. “Who am I?” he yelled. “What is my name?”
When she didn’t reply, when she merely stared uncomprehendingly at him, he shook her harder. His eyes were wild, his expression fraught. “Do you know me? Do you know who I am? Gareth? You said Gareth. Who am I? Tell me? Tell me?”
He didn’t know who he was. Startled, Miranda gathered her wits. Cousin Gareth must have lost his memory. The scar on his forehead might be from a blow.
“I’m... I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I made a mistake... I saw the walking stick... I thought I’d seen something similar before but I can see now it’s not the same.”
The man uncurled his fists from her clothing and sank back down on the wooden chair that had scuttled backward when he jumped out of it. “I thought... I hoped...”
Miranda avoided meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He gave a small shrug, as if of acceptance, and spoke quietly. “They found me on the train with this gash in my head.” He touched the scar on his forehead. “The doctor says it is just a severe concussion. No real damage to my brain. He thinks eventually I’ll remember. There’ll be some trigger that lifts the mist in my mind.”
He shook his head wistfully. “When you said Gareth...it seemed so familiar... Suddenly I thought I could smell the salty ocean breeze instead of this infernal prairie wind...”
When he fell silent, Miranda felt compelled to say something. “Perhaps your home is by the ocean. You speak like an educated Easterner.”
“Yes. Yes. I’ve been told so.” He fastened his gaze upon her. “People have been calling me Wolf, because of the emblem on my walking stick, but I like Gareth. Do you mind if I adopt it? Use it as my name until I find out my real one?”
“By all means,” Miranda said. “It suits you.”
Cousin Gareth picked up the deck of cards with one hand, spread them into a fan, then shuffled them with a mere flick of his wrist and twist of his fingers.
“I might not know who I am, but at least I know what I am. I’m a professional gambler. Cardsharp. Good at it, too. Must have always been, for I don’t seem to know how to cheat. I only play an honest game. That’s good, because in these parts a man gets shot if he is caught cheating at the card table.”
Miranda realized he was talking to her just to keep up the conversation, to connect with another human being. It must create a terrible sense of loneliness when all memories are wiped out, friends and family forgotten, every part of one’s personal history lost.
She ought to tell him. She could be the trigger he needed to lift the curtain of mist in his mind and regain his memory. He posed no danger to her now. She could tell him that Charlotte had married and claimed her inheritance.
But...if James Fast Elk Blackburn resented escorting her all the way to Gold Crossing...telling the truth now would give him the opportunity to foist her off on Cousin Gareth, who was her closest male relative. Miranda shivered at the prospect. She didn’t want to put Jamie to the test, didn’t want to find out if he wished to be rid of her.
Moreover, Cousin Gareth might be furious about losing his grip on the Fairfax fortune. He might take his revenge out on her. Even if he didn’t, most men lumbered with responsibility for a female who had run away from home to become a saloon singer would believe the proper course of action was to send her back home again.
And she didn’t want to go back to Merlin’s Leap. Charlotte was in Gold Crossing and Annabel was on her way there. She wanted to join her sisters, and she wanted the adventure of overland travel with Jamie, even if it meant leaving Cousin Gareth to his fate.
In truth, Cousin Gareth seemed to be doing remarkably well in his new incarnation. He was dressed in fine clothes. Making a good living. From the way Aggie looked at him, he appeared respected. Liked. Perhaps even loved.
Apart from the scar, he looked physically fit and healthy. A great improvement from his hard-drinking, dissolute ways of the past. He had changed from a failed scoundrel into a successful one, even though he was still a scoundrel. The best plan was to leave him be, Miranda decided, with only a small twinge of guilt.
“I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mr....Gareth. I wish you luck.”
Cousin Gareth laughed. Despite the undertone of sadness, the sound seemed to convey less bitterness than the harsh, braying whine that had served him for laughter at Merlin’s Leap.
“Luck is one thing I seem to have,” he replied. “At least at the card tables.”
Miranda gave him a wan smile and turned to Aggie. “I’m sorry. I don’t think it is possible for me to sing here tonight. My husband wouldn’t approve.” My cousin might recognize my sea shanties and regain his memory.
“Husbands.” Aggie rolled her eyes. “The bane of my business.”
At the sound of the heavy footsteps of a man struggling with a weighty load, Miranda glanced over to the batwing doors. “Here he comes now.”
“Ah,” Aggie muttered, observing James Fast Elk Blackburn’s progress across the floor. “I can see now why there is no room at the inn.”
* * *
Jamie strode into the saloon and dumped the first set of mule panniers on the floor next to the long counter. The aging but attractive blonde behind the bar welcomed him with in an indulgent, almost maternal smile. “Your wife tells me she used to sing at the Carousel in Devil’s Hall.”
&n
bsp; “She isn’t singing here,” Jamie replied. “I don’t have the energy to play the jealous husband.” One corner of his mouth kicked up in a smile as he darted a look at his little Eastern princess. “Although, as I recall, the role had its benefits.”
Miranda didn’t react to his teasing. She seemed preoccupied, her forehead in a frown, her hands clenching and unclenching in that agitated manner she had when she struggled to control her temper.
Jamie felt a sting of regret at the humiliation she must have suffered at the hotel, being turned away on his account. She would soon learn what it meant for a white woman to take up with an Indian husband, even if it was a husband in name only.
“You got a room yet?” he asked Miranda.
“No, I...” Miranda’s eyes darted to the gambler who sat alone at the table. “I haven’t had time... I was talking to Aggie.”
“Miss Aggie.” Jamie nodded at the barmaid to acknowledge the introduction. “How about a room for two weary travelers? One with a stove, if you have one.”
“The honeymoon suite has a stove.”
Jamie suppressed a wry grin. “That’ll do.”
Aggie perked up. “Firewood is two bits extra.”
“Charge us four so we don’t have to skimp. And a bath for the lady? I assume there’s a bathing room downstairs?”
“There is, but it has rats. The honeymoon suite has a private bathtub. For two bits extra, I can have someone carry hot water upstairs.”
“Make it another four. I want the water piping hot, and plenty of it.” Jamie poked the panniers heaped on the floor with the toe of his boot and spoke to Miranda.
“Everything’s damp. I’ll bring over the rest. Get settled in the room and I’ll haul the luggage upstairs. You can spread your clothes out to dry, and you’ll need to check the provisions, to make sure nothing spoils.”
The gambler at the table had turned to watch them. Jamie took stock of the man. Light brown hair, regular features, the kind some people might describe as aristocratic. The scar on his forehead appeared recent. Something about the man seemed familiar, but Jamie couldn’t quite figure out what it was. He would have to check through his store of wanted posters. Maybe he was an outlaw with a bounty on his head.
“I’ll get the rest of the gear,” Jamie said and headed back outside.
When he returned to the saloon, Miranda was gone. Aggie pointed to the staircase. “Honeymoon suite. Last door at the end of the hall. Has a private balcony.”
Jamie shifted the panniers to his right shoulder, leaned down to grab the other set from the floor and swung them over his left shoulder. Staggering beneath the weight, he climbed the stairs, sympathy for the pack mules flickering through his mind.
He would have knocked but his hands were occupied balancing the load on his shoulders. “Coming in,” he called out and lifted one booted foot to kick the door open.
Lurching into the room, he lowered the panniers to the floor. It was an odd thing, he admitted, the masculine stubbornness that made a man believe it would be easier to carry one heavy load up the stairs instead of making two journeys with a lighter load.
He looked around. The room was a pleasant surprise. Clean and airy, with thick drapes at the tall window that gave out to the balcony. The bed was an enormous oak affair, with a pair of nightstands to match, and an armoire on the wall opposite. The bathtub must be behind the curtain that separated a small alcove from the rest of the room.
In the corner, Miranda was kneeling in front of a cast-iron potbellied stove, blowing at the kindling to get the flames going. Jamie couldn’t help noticing how nicely her rounded buttocks strained against her denim trousers.
He squatted next to her and spoke in a low voice. A man did not like to put his inferiority into words, even if that inferiority was only in the minds of others.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’ll get more of that as we travel on. It’s worse in some places than others. Mostly they just refuse to serve Indians. Sometimes they might pull a gun from beneath the counter, to make you leave quicker.”
Miranda looked puzzled, so Jamie spelled it out. “I’m sorry they turned you away at the hotel. Sorry if they said anything to insult you. It’s not your fault, or even mine. That’s just the way it is.”
He could see her brow furrow, then smooth out again as she understood his meaning. “They told me they were fully booked, so I left. I guess they might have become unpleasant if I had refused to leave.” She picked up another piece of firewood and tapped it against the floor, her eyes downcast. “Why is it like that for Indians?”
“I reckon it’s partly because some folks just need to hate. They target the weakest group around them. Or it might be because white soldiers and militiamen slaughtered so many Indian women and children. It is easier to justify those deeds if you convince yourself the people you killed were savages, no better than animals. Otherwise you were guilty of murdering innocent women and children, for no other reason but because you wanted their land. No one wants to feel like that, so it is easier to keep up the hate.”
“Do you hate them back?”
“Sometimes. Mostly I just walk away. Like my hair. I don’t really like it long, but it is too much trouble to find someone to cut it.”
“I don’t mind it long.” Miranda shifted on her knees, turning toward him. She raised one hand and slid her fingers into his hair, stirring the raven locks.
Jamie kept still, enjoying the caress. Ever since he kissed Miranda in the tent last night and she responded with such abandon, he had been fighting his hunger for her. Tonight, they would sleep in the honeymoon suite, cozy in the warmth. Already, he could smell the pungent pine resin from the stove, could hear the flames crackle and pop as they caught, adding to the intimate atmosphere.
But Miranda seemed ill at ease. Being turned away from the hotel must have upset her more than she was letting on. He’d warned about the hardships in store for a woman who took up with an Indian husband. Perhaps Miranda had come to her senses, saw the folly of her suggestion that they might make their marriage real.
Doubt and want collided within Jamie, stirring him into reckless action. He pushed up to his feet, curled his hands beneath Miranda’s arms and pulled her up to face him. Slowly, he eased her backward, until she came flush against the wall. She kept peering past his shoulder, as if looking for an escape.
Jamie dipped his head. When their mouths were only a fraction apart, he halted. Instead of kissing her, he pressed his hips against hers, letting her feel the swell of his erection. Did she understand the significance of such masculine reaction? She must, Jamie decided. Although gently bred, she had spent a month in a saloon.
For a moment, Miranda appeared reluctant. Again, she peeked past his shoulder, edgy and restless, as if worried someone might barge in. Then she made a small sound of arousal and arched her back to fit her hips more snugly against his. She tipped her head back to look up at him. Her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed. It fascinated Jamie how easily passion sparked between them.
“Princess, we have a room with a nice, soft bed and a long night ahead of us. Don’t tempt me to do something you might regret.”
Miranda reached up and raked her fingers into his hair again. Jamie gripped her wrist to stall the gentle caress that was adding to the heat between them.
He spoke harshly. “You’ve had a taste of racial prejudice this afternoon. Wait until we get into a few more towns, need to find a place to stay or buy a meal. Then you tell me if you still think it might be a good idea to stay hitched to me for the rest of your days.”
He released her wrist and cupped her chin, stroking his thumb across her lips, the way he had done once before. “Marriage is not just sleeping together in the darkness of the night. I’m sure we’d manage that part very well. It is standing by your man when the world is against you. Being married
to me means getting turned away from hotels and being refused service in stores and people pointing a gun at you to chase you off their property.”
Miranda made no reply, merely watched him, her blue eyes big and round.
Jamie dropped his arm down his side and took a step away. “You think on it while I go and see if I can find a barber to cut my hair at gunpoint. Then I’ll see if there’s a lawman in this sorry excuse for a town, or at least someone who knows about the routes south. Have your bath, get ready for bed. I’ll be a couple of hours.”
He walked out of the room, his body taut with tension, his heart pounding in his chest.
Why did Miranda insist on tempting him? Was she just being reckless in her curiosity about men and women, or did she truly believe in the foolish notion they could have a future? He knew better, but if he came back to find Miranda waiting up for him, he might ignore his misgivings and end up putting the honeymoon suite to the use it was intended for.
Chapter Seventeen
Jamie returned to find the room hot and stuffy and Miranda sound asleep beneath the covers in the big oak bed. Filled with a confusing mix of disappointment and relief, Jamie eased over to the bedside, his footsteps soundless on the plank floor.
Miranda’s hair fanned over the pillow in damp strands, like golden snakes, and her skin was glowing from the bath. He could smell the floral soap she used. For a long moment, Jamie watched her, his eyes tracing her flawless features.
This was for the best, he told himself. No need to fight the temptation tonight. He could simply go to sleep. Perhaps by tomorrow morning, Miranda would have come to her senses, would take the train to her sister and put an end to the emotional torment that was tearing him apart.
Crossing the room, Jamie went to the balcony and opened the double doors to let in fresh air. Then he went back to the bedside. Miranda was wearing the shapeless gown made from an old shirt. Rough and baggy, it served as a contrast to her beauty, enhancing it even more than silk and lace might have done.
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