The Bride Lottery

by Tatiana March

  * * *

  Jamie stood between the two covered wagons, talking to Seth Stevens. He’d been introduced to Stella and her brothers, and to the two Hungarian musicians who were father and son, and to the Color Girls.

  Miranda was in one of the wagons, getting out of her wet, muddy clothes. Jamie had already changed, but the process appeared to take much longer for a female. He’d seen the Color Girls dart in and out of the wagon, bearing crystal flutes of champagne. Giggling and a flurry of feminine voices burst out every now and then.

  “The bounty for the Hardin brothers is four thousand dollars,” Seth was saying.

  “Not interested,” Jamie replied. “I’m on vacation.”

  He tossed back the last of the whiskey in his glass, savoring the trail of heat down his chest, and nodded at Seth. “Excuse me. I need to go and find my wife.”

  He kept saying that, Jamie realized. My wife. And every time he did, a wave of warmth greater than the glow from Miss Stella’s top-grade whiskey flowed through him.

  He paused by the covered wagon. The girl in a green dress, Olive, was passing two full champagne glasses into the wagon and taking away two empty ones. Jamie had to admire Miss Stella’s logic. Without the colored dresses he’d never have remembered the names of four women who all looked much the same to him.

  Another stream of feminine laughter rang out. Jamie grinned into the twilight. If he wasn’t mistaken, he might have a tipsy wife on his hands tonight. He moved closer, was just about to call out for Miranda when he heard one of the Color Girls talking.

  “How did you end up married to a bounty hunter?”

  Jamie’s feet stopped moving. Eavesdropping was second nature to him. That’s how he gathered information about where a wanted man might be hiding. Miranda replied, her voice bright and lively. Good, Jamie thought. The champagne was doing its job of wiping away any lingering residue of fear and shock.

  “He promised to bust me out of jail if I married him,” Miranda was saying.

  “You were in jail!” the Color Girl gushed. “What for?”

  “Train robbery.”

  “Train robbery! You robbed a train?”

  “I robbed several trains,” Miranda boasted. “But they also tried to pin a robbery on me that I hadn’t committed.”

  Jamie shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. Now his little Eastern princess was fashioning herself into the Queen of the Outlaws.

  “Heavens.” The Color Girl lowered her voice. “What is he like...the bounty hunter? He is part Indian... Are they like other men...you know...in the boudoir...?”

  Jamie winced. There were limits to eavesdropping. He didn’t want to hear what answer Miranda’s imagination might furnish to a question about his bedroom prowess.

  “Miranda,” he called out. “Are you ready? I have ointment for your hands.”

  Silence. Then a burst of giggles. The wagon canvas rustled, as if someone was struggling to find their way out through the flap, and then Miranda tumbled down in a careless leap. Jamie caught her and restored her balance before she toppled over. She was wearing her light blue dress, like another Color Girl, but with a shawl tied around her shoulders to add a touch of modesty.

  “Jamie!” A huge smile spread on her face. “We were just talking about you.”

  He ignored the comment. “I have ointment for your hands. It will stop infection.”

  Miranda inspected her palms, lifted them closer to her face and lowered them again, as if they were some strange objects instead of a part of her body. “They don’t hurt.”

  Jamie took the small stone jar from his pocket, unclipped the lid and dipped his finger into the cooling salve. “This will make sure it stays that way. Give me your hand.”

  He massaged in the herbal paste, rubbing his thumb over the scrapes. “Train robber, huh?” His wife’s hands were tiny in his, her skin soft. Jamie kept rubbing longer than needed, just for the pleasure of touching her. “You robbed several trains?”

  Miranda lifted her chin in that haughty angle he’d noticed the first time he set eyes on her. “I was traveling without a ticket. That’s robbing the railroad company. And I did it on several trains. All the way from New York City.”

  “I see.”

  Swaying on her feet, Miranda sniffed at the air. “I’m hungry.”

  The two wagons were set at an angle to each other, and on the open side of the triangle a big bonfire burned, with hunks of beef roasting over it, releasing succulent scents.

  “Me too,” Jamie said. “Let’s go and eat.”

  “And drink,” Miranda replied. “I’d like more champagne.”

  Behind her back, Jamie grinned in anticipation. He knew the prim Miranda, and the angry Miranda, and the grieving Miranda, and the stubborn Miranda. With an interest tinged with affection, he waited to get to know the drunken Miranda.

  Chapter Twenty

  The violin struck a lively tune. In the covered wagon, a piano joined in. A midnight concert under the stars. Miranda tipped her head back and laughed, letting the sound ripple toward the sky. She took another sip of champagne, giggled as the bubbles tickled her nose. Her belly was full of good food and her head buzzed with the nectar of kings. It was time to be merry, time to rejoice in being alive.

  “Go easy on the champagne, Princess,” Jamie warned her.

  “It’s all right. Our parents let us have champagne at Merlin’s Leap.” One small glass, she might have added. Not gallons of it flowing freely. But she’d be a good little wife and obey. She drained the glass and set it down on the trestle table behind her.

  When the Hungarian father and son took a break to have their supper, Miranda plucked a glass of tawny liquid from the table and took a sip. Jamie had told her to go easy on the champagne but he’d said nothing about whiskey.

  The liquor burned like a stream of fire down her chest. Emboldened, her mind in a pleasant swirl, Miranda burst into a boisterous sea shanty, something to break the boring silence that had settled when the notes of the piano and violin faded away.

  “Whiskey here, whiskey there

  Whiskey almost everywhere

  I drink it hot, I drink it cold

  I drink it new, I drink it old.”

  Jamie grabbed her arm and interrupted her just as her feet were about to master the pattern of the merry jig she’d been improvising. “Go easy on the whiskey, too, Princess.”

  “Spoilsport,” Miranda muttered, but she sat down on a rickety wooden chair and waited for the music to resume.

  It didn’t take long for the party to liven up again. The violin and piano sent out a catchy tune. In the space between the wagons, three of the Color Girls settled into formation with Stella’s brothers and began to dance, the flames of the bonfire reflecting on their shiny satin gowns.

  The scarlet girl remained standing aside, waiting for her turn. Wasn’t she the one who’d been asking about Jamie? And she was staring at him now. With big, eager eyes. Oh, yes, siree, I do notice, Miranda thought. If Scarlet planned to satisfy her curiosity about men with Indian blood in them, she could think again. Hopping from the chair, Miranda waved her hands at the girl, as if shooing away a sheep or a goat. Hands off my man.

  “What’s wrong, Princess?”

  “Huh?” She spun toward Jamie, stumbled.

  He reached out to steady her. “You’re flapping like a chicken attempting to fly.”

  His hand closed around her arm in that strong, firm touch she’d felt many times before, and a need seized Miranda, as sudden and powerful as a lightning strike. She wanted to feel Jamie’s arms around her, wanted to feel the warmth of his body against hers.

  She turned to him. “Dance with me.”

  He tilted his head in a gesture of regret. “I don’t know how.”

  Miranda shi
fted her attention to the couples making elaborate patterns of advance and retreat between the wagons, skirts twirling, feet skipping, boots thudding. “Wait here,” she said to Jamie. Weaving a little, she made her way to the young man with a violin, whispered a request into his ear. He smiled and nodded, not interrupting his playing.

  Miranda returned to stand beside Jamie. A moment later, the tune changed into a soft lullaby. She turned to face Jamie. The light was behind him, his features shadowed, his expression guarded. All of a sudden, her heart was beating too fast and her hands seemed to be shaking. Her mood no longer felt in a pleasant swirl but on the brink of danger.

  “This is easy,” she said despite her misgivings. “You just shuffle your feet.”

  For an instant, Jamie met her gaze, his gray eyes dark and serious. Then he opened his arms and Miranda stepped into him. They had embraced before. The night after Nora died, she’d lain in bed curled up against him, and he’d held her when she was cold under the lean-to canopy, but that had been for consolation and comfort and warmth.

  This was different, and they both understood it.

  This was a woman issuing an invitation to a man.

  The music soared around them, and Jamie pulled her close, anchoring her body against his. Miranda’s hands swept up to his neck. She shifted her fingers through the thick strands of glossy hair. His skin was warm beneath her touch, his hair cool and crisp.

  She could feel each movement as they danced. The slow rocking of his shoulders. The subtle rise and fall of his chest with every breath he took. The pressure of his hips against hers. The toe of his boot eased between her slippers. She could feel her skirts tangling around his leg.

  The notes from the piano and violin swarmed around the clearing like dragonflies, rising and falling, rising and falling, caressing her skin. Blood thrummed through her veins, delivering a rush of heat that defeated the cool of the night. A hunger ignited deep within her, a hunger that demanded more than just two bodies gently swaying to the music.

  “Kiss me,” she said. “Why do I always have to ask?”

  Jamie missed a step, stumbled. Miranda giggled. Stars seemed to be winking at her in the sky. A pleasant lassitude swirled through her mind. Elation filled her—elation and an irrepressible joy, a lightness of spirit, a sense that life was a magical gift from gods.

  “You’ve drunk too much champagne, Princess.”

  Keeping one arm around her, Jamie lifted his other hand to her face. He traced the curve of her cheek with the back of his fingers. He caressed her chin, trailed his fingertips along her eyebrows, lingering over each feature, as if paying homage to her beauty.

  “Kiss me,” Miranda said once more.

  With excruciating slowness, Jamie lowered his head. His hair, raven black in the night, fell forward, framing his face. Just before their lips met, he paused. Miranda felt the need prickle on her lips, felt the longing swell and soar inside her. She put her hands on his shoulders and rose on tiptoe, closing the distance, her lips settling against his.

  Jamie made a rough sound that rumbled low in his throat. His arms banded around her, anchoring her close to him. Miranda could feel the hardness of his body against hers. The music seemed to fade, the night shadows deepen. It felt as if time had suspended itself, as if everything in the clearing had vanished except their bodies molded together, their mouths feasting on each other.

  The kiss seemed to go on forever. The hunger inside her grew and grew and grew, even while it was satisfying itself. Breathless, dazed, Miranda clung to Jamie, her fingers fisted in his shirt, her legs too unsteady to support her weight.

  Finally, Jamie eased their bodies apart. His hands slid up from her waist to caress her throat. Miranda could feel the frantic hammering of her pulse beneath his questing fingers. Darkness and firelight cast deep shadows across Jamie’s features, and again Miranda got the oddest impression that a secret heat burned in the cool gray of his eyes.

  “Will you sleep in the tent with me tonight?” she asked. The question came without thought, born of boldness that rose not just from champagne, but from the euphoria of survival. Life suddenly seemed too short, too precarious not to live it to the fullest, not to seize every source of comfort and pleasure, not to chase after every dream, however fragile or distant that dream might be.

  Jamie contemplated her in silence. “Why?”

  Startled by the blunt question, Miranda fumbled. “I...”

  “I mean, why now? Why tonight?” he clarified. “A few days ago we shared the luxury of the honeymoon suite but I got the impression you couldn’t get away quick enough. Why now? In a tent?”

  Slowly, Miranda marshaled her thoughts through the buzz of champagne in her brain. Her eyes grew wide as she recalled the crisis at the railroad town. She made a sweeping gesture, swaying a little on her feet from the force of the motion.

  “Had to get away from Gareth, of course.”

  “Gareth?”

  “Cousin Gareth.” Forgetting the romance of the moment, Miranda giggled at the memory of the encounter. She’d been so clever. She’d fooled him good.

  “The cardsharp,” she explained. “He was my cousin. The one I was running away from when I left Boston.” She gave a flap of dismissal with her hand and spoke in a tone of contempt. “Of course, he is no danger to me now. Charlotte is married. Bye-bye, Cousin Gareth,” she chanted. “You lost. We won.”

  Jamie clasped her by the shoulders and peered into her face. “What are you talking about? The cardsharp in the saloon barely spoke to you. I saw him nod to you and say hello, and little more.”

  “Well, of course. Cousin Gareth doesn’t know he is Cousin Gareth.” Miranda’s shoulders jumped with a hiccup. She swallowed, sent Jamie a triumphant smile. “He’s lost his memory. He doesn’t even know his own name.”

  Miranda didn’t resist when Jamie sat her down on an empty champagne crate and fired questions at her, his face furrowed with concern. The interrogation seemed too tedious an occupation for such a fine night. Music and dancing and kissing were much more fun than being questioned about Cousin Gareth.

  “So he didn’t recognize you?” Jamie pressed.

  “No-o.” Another hiccup broke free.

  “But he overheard you saying that you sang at the Carousel in Devil’s Hall?”

  Miranda nodded and trapped the next hiccup before it could get out.

  “And he heard you say that your name is Miranda Fairfax.”

  “Was. Now I’m Miranda Blackburn. A bounty hunter.”

  “Train robber, last I heard,” Jamie muttered.

  Miranda giggled, then clamped her mouth shut, swaying on the makeshift seat.

  Jamie curled his hands around her arms. Leaning over her, he searched her eyes, his expression serious. “That cardsharp was looking to buy a horse when we left. I reckon he’ll ride out to Devil’s Hall and ask questions about you. Think, Princess. Did you send telegrams or letters to your sister? Did you leave any trace that would lead him to Gold Crossing, Arizona Territory?”

  Miranda hiccupped. “Letters. Telegram. Money order. Records at the bank.”

  A grim look settled over Jamie’s features. “I reckon you’ll catch up with your cousin in Gold Crossing. Maybe you ought to send a telegram to warn your sister. If your cousin takes the train, he might get there before us.”

  “He can’t harm her now. Charlotte is married and has Papa’s money.”

  “Perhaps your cousin no longer has power over you or your sisters,” Jamie argued. “But if he gains his memory, he might be furious that you didn’t tell him. It must be hard for a man to lose his identity like that,” he added quietly. “Bad enough when you lose one person you care about. Losing everyone and everything at the same time must drive a man to despair.”

  He slanted a curious glance at Miranda. “Why didn’t you tell him?
Let the man out of his misery? He is family after all, and you said he is no longer a danger to you.”

  A shiver rippled over Miranda. She’d been feeling guilty about it, but she had suppressed the feeling. Now the champagne was letting the regret loose, just as it was letting loose the longing for Jamie she normally kept locked away behind the gate of propriety.

  Perched on the wooden crate, kicking her heels against the side with a drumming sound, Miranda lowered her gaze and spoke in a mutter. “I thought you’d get rid of me. Dump me on Cousin Gareth and save yourself a thousand-mile journey across the continent.”

  “Oh, Princess.”

  Miranda peered up. Jamie was shaking his head but the darkness hid his expression. She could hear his heavy sigh, could see his shoulders shift. “I’ll go and talk to Seth,” he said in a low voice. “If he and his brothers agree to keep watch, I can sleep with you in the tent tonight.”

  * * *

  Four feet of space shared between them. Fully clad, boots on his feet, Jamie cradled Miranda in his arms, his lips nuzzling hers. Even if he’d wanted to, it wasn’t possible to put any distance between them. He’d resolved to stop after one kiss, but that kiss was stretching minute by minute. His mouth never seemed to get enough of hers.

  “Princess,” he breathed against her lips. “We have to stop.”

  “I don’t want to stop.”

  Jamie pulled back, studied her face. The light from the bonfire filtered through the tent canvas, casting a warm yellow glow that allowed him to see the languid expression on Miranda’s face.

  The music was still playing, but only the violin now, a lilting tune that soared and dipped like a bird in the sky. The temperature had fallen, but the tent was trapping the heat from their bodies, enveloping them with the haze of their own desire.

  “You’ve had too much to drink, Princess.”

  “I know...” she whispered. “But I want...”

  Jamie eased up on one elbow and leaned over Miranda, propping his other hand on her opposite side. One of his legs bent at the knee and straddled hers, pinning her down. He could feel the toe of his boot dipping between her legs.