The Bride Lottery

by Tatiana March

  “But—”

  Jamie spoke through gritted teeth. “End. Of. Discussion.”

  Miranda bit her lip, peered at him from beneath her lashes. “I can’t bear the thought of waiting at home for years and years while you go on the road, risking your life. I want us to be a team, and there’ll be no better chance than this for a big bounty.”

  Jamie picked up a piece of straw, rolled it between his fingers. Miranda could see the mental struggle on his face. What if something went wrong? She suppressed the flash of fear. Her trust in Jamie’s ability to keep them safe overruled her sense of caution.

  “Can you shoot a handgun?” Jamie asked finally.

  “I am an excellent marksman.”

  “You’ll need to prove that to me first. Then we’ll see if Rose leads us to the outlaws. If she does, we’ll evaluate the situation. I’ll decide if it’s safe to make an attempt to capture them. My word is the law. If I believe it’s not safe, we’ll ride away and leave Rose to her man. You’ll have to obey me—not just say you will. You’ll have to give me your cast-iron guarantee that you’ll do exactly as I tell you.”

  Miranda laid a hand over her heart. “I promise.”

  * * *

  Jamie snapped the cylinder out of his revolver and shook the cartridges onto his palm. Leaving the pack mules to enjoy a day of rest, they had ridden a short distance out of town, to a sunny desert clearing surrounded by prickly pears in fruit.

  He held up the weapon and talked like a schoolteacher in front of a class. “This is your gun. A Remington New Model Army Revolver converted to take metal cartridges. It is too heavy for you but it will serve to test your skill.” He held out his other hand. “These are your cartridges.”

  He waited in silence while Miranda gingerly wrapped her fingers around the smooth wooden grip of the revolver. Twenty years old, the weapon had seen much use but remained in excellent shape.

  He had bought the pair of guns secondhand, and had never found anything better to replace them, particularly after he’d had them converted from ball and cap to the metal cartridges that were quicker to load and did not release acrid smoke when fired.

  “How does it feel?” he asked.

  “Sleek and lethal.” Miranda peered into his cupped palm and glanced up at him, frowning. She made no move to pick up the long, shiny cartridges.

  Jamie heaved out a sigh. “Don’t tell me you shoot like you ride—you know how to aim and pull the trigger but have no idea how to load or maintain a gun.”

  “I’ve only shot with an old-fashioned pistol, or a musket. The kind that only takes one lead ball at a time. The grooms loaded for me.”

  “If you don’t know how to load fast, you’ll only have six bullets. If you don’t kill the outlaws with six shots, you’ll die. If you don’t clean your gun and it jams, you’ll die. If you hesitate before you pull the trigger, you’ll die. If your aim is off, you’ll die.” He lifted his eyebrows. “You still want to be a bounty hunter?”

  “Show me how to put the bullets in.”

  “Cartridges. A bullet flies out and the empty shell is left in the gun.”

  He helped her fill the cylinder and slot it back inside the weapon. “This gun is single-action. That means you’ll have to cock the hammer first, and then you pull the trigger.” He took the revolver from her, aimed from the hip and shot off a ripe prickly pear. The blue jays feasting on the fruit flapped their wings and screeched but didn’t fly away.

  Holding the gun safely, Jamie put it in Miranda’s hand. “You try.”

  Miranda raised the gun, squinted along the barrel. She used her left hand to cock the hammer and squeezed the trigger. A ripe prickly pear exploded. Jamie stared. It had to be a fluke. A lucky accident.

  “Try again.”

  Tense now, on full alert, he watched as Miranda repeated the motion. Another splatter of seeds and pulp. The blue jays screeched. The sweet smell of ripe fruit drifted toward them on the breeze. Miranda fired off two more shots, barely pausing to aim.

  “I’ll be damned,” Jamie muttered.

  He reloaded, made her repeat the entire sequence.

  Six shots. Six exploding prickly pears.

  “Try shooting from the hip,” he instructed as he switched in the spare cylinder he’d loaded with cartridges while Miranda had been busy shooting. “Pick a bigger target. Aim at the paddle-shaped leaf instead of the fruit.”

  Curious, he watched as Miranda adjusted her stance, feet slightly apart, knees bent. A gunfighter’s pose. Holding the revolver pointed down, she concentrated, then lifted the gun in a smooth move...and gave a cry of frustration as the weapon failed to fire.

  “You forgot to cock the hammer,” Jamie told her. “You’re not strong enough to do it with your thumb. We’ll have to get you a double-action revolver. With one of those, it will automatically cock the hammer when you pull the trigger.”

  Miranda tried again, this time cocking the hammer before she aimed and pulled the trigger. A hole appeared in the middle of the fleshy paddle of the cactus. Jamie swore under his breath. His wife was a natural with a gun.

  He’d agreed to give her a trial because it had been easier than arguing against the bounty hunt, and he had expected her lack of proficiency would allow him to reject the idea. Now he found himself committed to the plan. Not even to keep Miranda safe could he face the dishonor of going back on his word.

  Instead of regretting his careless promise, Jamie allowed his mind to dwell on the possibility of actually going after the outlaws. “Let’s go back into town and see what kind of weapon we can buy for you.”

  Despite being called Three Guns the town had no gunsmith. In the hardware store, they inspected the display case with revolvers for sale on commission from the manufacturers.

  Miranda pointed through the glass. “That one.”

  “Dat is nice gun for a lady,” said the shopkeeper, a short man with florid skin who spoke with a heavy German accent. He ducked down to withdraw the revolver from the glass case and handed it to her. “Double-action, point forty one caliber. Two-and-haff-inches barrel.”

  Surprised, Jamie lifted his brows at Miranda. “You don’t want to try them all?”

  She admired the nickel-plated, pearl-handled Colt. “I want this one.”

  Of course you do, Jamie thought. It’s the most expensive one.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “It’s pretty.”

  Jamie winced. For a moment, her startling skill had made him forget she was not an experienced gunfighter. He must be out of his mind, even thinking of going after a pair of dangerous outlaws with a female partner who carried a pretty gun.

  * * *

  Being forced to sleep in the hayloft turned out to be good luck, for Jamie and Miranda discovered two of the horses at the livery stable belonged to Rose Donaldson and her father. Donaldson was a widower, confined to a wheelchair. In Miranda’s view, that helped to explain Rose’s haughty arrogance. Not only was she the prettiest girl in town, and likely the wealthiest, but she could run around without parental supervision.

  According to Jamie, Rose’s beau would have drummed caution into her. She wouldn’t ride out to him if she thought a stranger was observing her. They came up with a story that Miranda had caught a chill and needed to stay in bed, which allowed them to keep vigil in the hayloft, standing on bales of hay, staring out through the gap at the top of the wall.

  On the second morning, right after they had seen a stream of people in their Sunday best file out of the small white church on the edge of town, they heard noises downstairs. The jingle of a bridle. A feminine voice speaking in an impatient tone. Then the clatter of hooves as a horse was led outside. A moment later, they heard the steady thud of a rider breaking into a canter. Peering out through the gap, they could see a woman in flowing yellow skirts leave the t
own behind and disappear off into the distance.

  Miranda scrambled down from the bale of hay. “Let’s go.”

  “Not yet,” Jamie warned her. “She’ll halt a piece down the trail to make sure no one is following. We’ll need to give her a proper head start. Half an hour at least.”

  Twenty minutes later, they went downstairs and loaded their mules, pretending to be ready to resume their journey. Jamie sought out the owner of the livery stable, and settled their bill.

  The man pulled a pencil from behind his ear and scrawled a receipt on a scrap of paper. “Your wife better now?” he asked, with a covert glance at Miranda, who was fussing over Castor and Pollux. He’d been sneaking looks at her ever since they arrived, with the shy admiration of a man who longed for a wife of his own but expected he’d never get one.

  Jamie put away his receipt. “She’s fine. We’ll push on south.”

  They traveled at a leisurely pace until they were out of sight. In places, Rose’s trail was clear, with fresh hoofprints in the earth, still soft after the storm. Once or twice, Jamie had to dismount to inspect the ground. “Her horse has a nail sticking out on the left hind shoe,” he commented as he vaulted back on Sirius. “Easy to tell apart from any other tracks.”

  To disguise her destination, Rose had taken a route that twisted and turned. They trailed her across the plateau, up into the foothills where aspens blazed in autumn colors. In the cover of the forest, they paused to find a safe place to tie the mules and went on without them. As they gained height, the aspens gave way to hardy evergreens. The air grew cool, the ground moist and springy.

  Weaving along the narrow path, they came upon a clearing, set in a depression in the hillside. A log cabin huddled at the base, and tied to a post outside stood Rose’s dun gelding. On the left, where a small stream rippled down the slope, two more horses grazed in a small corral.

  Jamie twisted in the saddle to look at Miranda. “Go back.”

  Miranda urged Alfie into reverse. A thick coat of moss and pine needles covered the ground, muffling the sound of the horses’ hooves. What little noise they made could be attributed to deer or elk roaming in the forest. After they had backed away, they dismounted and left the path, picking their way between the trees until they were hidden from the sight of anyone passing.

  “We’ll leave the horses here,” Jamie said.

  Miranda nodded. Her mouth felt dry. Her heart was beating fast, her entire body tingling in the grip of tension. This was it. A bounty hunt. Nerves churned inside her, like a bout of nausea. For a moment, she wanted to tell Jamie to forget the idea, to forget the bounty. Then he was beside her. He clasped her by the arms and held her still while he studied her face.

  “All right?” His voice was gruff, his brows gathered in a frown.

  Miranda swallowed, took a deep breath. “Yes.”

  “The aim is to take them alive,” Jamie said. “But if your life is threatened, you must shoot. Remember this. A bounty hunter can kill in self-defense, and it may come to that.” His eyes held hers, sharp with concern. “The first time killing a man is the hardest, but if it’s a choice between your life and his, you must be prepared to do it.”

  Her throat too tight to speak, Miranda gave a silent nod.

  Jamie released his hold on her and crouched down to the ground. Picking up twigs and a few pinecones and a stone, he arranged them to make a model of the clearing and the house, gesturing over the objects as he spoke.

  “I’ll have to circle around and crawl down the hillside behind the house. The approach is too open on this side. They have selected their hideout well. On this side, there is a rock halfway between the house and the edge of the clearing. A man would struggle to hide behind it but you are small enough to manage it.”

  He raked his gaze over her. “Your deerskin coat is good. It blends in. You’ll have to decide about your hat. I keep mine on, in case the sun is in my eyes when I shoot. You’ll be hiding behind a stone, and the hat will add to your height. I suggest you take it off. Cover your hair with a cloth. Something that will blend against the rock.”

  Miranda pushed up to her feet and went to Alfie, who was standing placidly next to Sirius, both of them nosing into the dead leaves on the ground. She took off her wide-brimmed hat and hung it on the saddle horn, found a green-and-brown-checkered neckerchief in Jamie’s saddlebags and tied it around her upsweep.

  “Is this all right?” she asked when she returned to him.

  Jamie nodded. He picked up a pinecone and placed it next to the stone on his map. “You’ll have to crawl on your belly to get here. Then you’ll have to stay still and wait for Rose to leave. I’ll be here.” He placed another pinecone by the cabin. “There’s a pile of firewood against the wall. I’ll have to hide behind it. There is no other place.”

  “But there’s no cover.” Miranda spoke in an agitated whisper. “You’ll be seen.”

  “The part of me that is Indian knows how to blend in.”

  Jamie dropped two more pinecones in front the square of twigs that represented the house. “When the men come out, if there are more than two, we’ll let them ride out. You do nothing. You just keep your head down, remain hidden. If there are only the Hardin brothers, I’ll jump one of them when he goes for the horses. I’ll grab him from behind and put my gun to his head. I’ll yell at his brother, order him to drop his gun. If he doesn’t—if he tries to shoot me—you’ll have to shoot him. Shoot to kill.”

  “They are wanted alive.”

  “Taking one of them alive will be enough. I can’t see one of them allowing the other to bury the gold without telling him the exact location. They’ll both know. If we have to kill one of them in self-defense, it will not impact the reward.”

  Another shiver of fear rippled over Miranda. Once more, she felt the urge to call the whole thing off, but she conquered the burst of nerves. “There won’t be more than two.” She leveled her anxious gaze at Jamie. “There are only two horses in the corral. It will be just the Hardin brothers.”

  She watched Jamie give a reluctant nod. The cold, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach stirred again. Once Rose said goodbye to her sweetheart and headed home, she—Miranda Fairfax of Merlin’s Leap, the gently bred daughter of cultured parents—would have to aim her gun at a man’s heart and be prepared to pull the trigger, if it meant saving Jamie’s life or her own.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Miranda squatted behind the stone, her sights trained on the cabin door. A small groove at the top of the rock gave her a gap to peer through, allowing her to keep mostly out of sight. She’d scattered dead leaves and pine needles on her head, adding to her disguise.

  An hour went by. Her legs grew numb. There had been no sign of Jamie. Perhaps he truly could blend into the landscape, the way he had claimed. The sun began its descent in the sky. A cool breeze swept over the hillside.

  Earlier, when she’d crawled into position, like a snake twisting along the ground, Miranda’s denim trousers had gotten damp, and now the chill made her shiver. Lifting her hand to her mouth, she blew warm air on her fingers to stop them from stiffening around the grip of the gun.

  Go home, Rose, she ordered in her mind.

  As if by magic, the front door eased open and Rose appeared in the frame. She spun around, yellow skirts awhirl, and flung her arms around the neck of the big, bearded man who stood behind her. They shared a long, lingering kiss. Finally, the man curled his hands around Rose’s waist and set her apart from him.

  The tedium of waiting had allowed Miranda’s fear to dissipate, but now, as she watched the lovers say goodbye, she felt a stab of regret. Whatever Alvin Hardin had done, Rose loved him. She would suffer when her beau was hanged. An outlaw chose his path, but it seemed wrong that a woman would pay for his crimes with her tears.

  Heels clattering on the flagstones by the
entrance, Rose turned around and hurried to the dun gelding waiting a few yards away. She untied the horse, mounted and set off at a canter across the clearing. Miranda ducked deeper behind the stone as the girl rode past.

  Another ten minutes passed. The door inched open once more. The big, bearded man came out first, followed by a smaller one. Slighter and shorter, the second man had the same broad face and dark hair. Both walked with a swagger—the arrogant gait of a man who knows he can dominate others and doesn’t care if his power stems from violence.

  Miranda lifted her head, raised her gun and lined the barrel to point at the smaller man. Both brothers were moving swiftly, on guard, their eyes sweeping the clearing. When they spoke, they kept their voices low, and she couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  The smaller man nodded and headed toward the corral. The bigger man darted back inside and came out carrying a saddle, which he dumped on the flagstones. He brought out another saddle, then went inside once more and returned hauling two sets of saddlebags, one draped over each arm.

  Like a ghost, Jamie separated from the woodpile. The smaller man had just passed him, leading the pair of buckskin geldings from the corral toward the entrance where the saddles waited. Jamie darted past the swishing tails of the horses and glided smoothly between their flanks.

  “Drop your guns or your brother dies,” he yelled.

  Miranda eased higher behind the rock. She could see the smaller man raise his hands above his head in surrender. The bigger man stood still by the open doorway, saddlebags dangling on his arms. Miranda aimed her gun at his chest.

  The man moved, a sudden, urgent jerk of his body, and the saddlebags tumbled to the ground. Spooked by the fracas, the two buckskins shifted back, exposing Jamie to full view.

  The world slowed. With utter clarity, Miranda could see the big man’s hands fall to his hips and dart up again, holding his guns. She checked her aim, squinting down the barrel of her pretty pearl-handled Colt.