The Bride Lottery

by Tatiana March

  Jamie picked up the small oil painting from the ground. He touched Miranda’s face. The longing was like an ache inside him, but the deep, lifelong resentment burned like bile in his gut. How could he forget? How could he forgive the rejection that had driven his mother to an early grave, had marred his childhood and that of his sister?

  The hate seemed like a living thing that clung to him with sharp claws. As Jamie wrestled with the pain, he heard a bird sing. He raised his gaze from the painting. A skylark, a bird one normally only noticed in flight, had hopped down onto a rock. Head tilted, the bird studied him, then darted up and soared into the sky.

  In that instant, Jamie opened his mind to the Indian superstitions he had always attempted to deny. The spirits of the dead walked among the living. His sister, in the form of the skylark, had just paid him a visit, perhaps to tell him the choice was his to make.

  Jamie took a deep breath and closed his eyes, focusing on his inner feelings. On that rocky piece of land beside Sirius, the late-morning sun baking down on them, Jamie let go of the old resentments, let go of the bitterness, let go of the hate. He accepted the gesture of apology from his snobbish, intolerant grandparents and met it with forgiveness.

  For a full hour, Jamie sat there, letting his mind purify itself. Finally, feeling oddly at peace, he gathered up the painting and the papers and got to his feet.

  Six months, the letter had said. Jamie glanced at the top of the page. “April 11.”

  He ticked his fingers to count out the months. October. The deadline would be October 11.

  His body stilled, then burst into frantic motion. He grabbed the newspaper that had been wrapped around the parcel of jerky and smoothed out the crumpled pages: “Friday, October 4.”

  He figured out the time backward, day by day. He’d bought the paper exactly a week ago. Today was Friday, October 11. The final day for him to claim his inheritance.

  Jamie jumped up, packed away the painting and the rest of his belongings. Forgetting the need to rest and nourish his body, he vaulted into the saddle, dug his heels in the flanks of Sirius and shot down the trail.

  Where was the nearest telegraph office? Would it be open when he got there? Would the lawyer accept his message if the office in Baltimore was already closed? When did the deadline end? At the end of business hours East Coast time? At midnight?

  Jamie gave up thinking. He rode.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Miranda pranced up and down on the stage at the Drunken Mule, wiggling her bottom as she sang about a sailor with a girl in every port. Before, she’d enjoyed performing to an audience of lonely, homesick men. How could she be so bored now? Where had her spirit of adventure gone? Why did everything seem so flat and meaningless?

  “Take a break, Miss Randi,” called out Manuel Chavez, the one-eyed cardsharp who ran the Drunken Mule for Art Langley, the owner. Art Langley owned most of Gold Crossing, but despite his valiant efforts for a revival, the played-out mining town was slowly sliding toward oblivion as an empty, forgotten ghost.

  “It’s all right, Manuel,” Miranda called back. “There’s nothing else to do.”

  The saloon only packed out on Thursday nights when the train came. During the rest of the week, Miranda filled the hours by reading or sewing, or she visited Charlotte and her husband, Thomas, on their farm. Miguel passed the time writing cowboy stories he was trying to sell as serials to magazines.

  “A customer.” Miguel tossed down his pencil, closed the exercise book with his latest jottings and hurried to stand behind the counter. “What’s your drink, stranger?”

  “I’ll just watch the show for now.”

  The deep, husky voice made Miranda’s skin tingle. Was she going mad? She kept hearing Jamie’s voice at night when she couldn’t sleep, but her mind must be slipping if she heard it coming from a stranger dressed in a black broadcloth suit and a frilly white shirt and polished black shoes. She twirled the parasol over her shoulder, resumed her prancing and tried to put some effort into the song.

  The batwing doors clattered again. Miranda peered over to the entrance. Two men walked in. One wore round spectacles. The other had a neatly trimmed moustache. Both were around forty, and possessed the self-important air of petty bureaucrats she had learned to distrust.

  The stranger with Jamie’s voice leaned against the counter and turned to look at the newcomers. He nodded a greeting to them, then darted a glance in her direction. The saloon doors were still swinging and the last rays of the setting sun spilled in through the gap, illuminating his sharply drawn features.

  Miranda’s heart seemed to leap out of her chest. The man in a frilly white shirt had not only Jamie’s voice but his face. And he had Jamie’s pale gray eyes. Jamie! The name formed on her lips. She was just about to whoop with joy and jump down from the stage and rush out to him when he pivoted on his shiny black shoes and set off up the stairs.

  He was going up to the bedrooms! Miranda gripped the handle of the parasol almost hard enough to make it snap. How dare he? How dare he go looking for the favors of a saloon girl before their marriage had even been annulled! Before he had even asked her about the annulment papers! Before he had even acknowledged her presence.

  It would serve him right to discover there were no saloon girls at the Drunken Mule. No demand existed for such services in a town which up to recently had only had eight permanent residents.

  Miranda tried to keep up her singing but the lyrics muddled up and the notes fell into discord. A crash sounded from upstairs. She tripped on a rapid turn as she craned her neck, alerted by the thud of footsteps along the staircase.

  What was Jamie hauling over his arm? It looked like a curtain pulled down from one of the bedrooms. He strode over to the stage, jumped up in a single agile leap and wrapped the dusty velvet fabric around her shoulders. “Haven’t I told you not to parade half-naked in front of a saloon crowd?”

  He was standing toe-to-toe with her, his hands beneath her chin, his face bent to hers. She could feel the heat of his body, could smell the familiar scents of leather and soap on him.

  Miranda’s heart was beating so fast it felt like the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings. She saw laughter in the crystalline depths of Jamie’s eyes, laughter and a promise that made a wild hope soar inside her, but she didn’t dare to give in to it, so she kept aloof.

  “There is no crowd in here,” she replied.

  “Five people are a crowd if one of them is my half-naked wife.”

  “I’m not half-naked. It is only a low neckline, no more revealing than a lady might wear to a ball.”

  Jamie wrapped his arms around her and lifted her down from the stage, setting her firmly on her feet. After making sure the curtain remained securely covering her, he jumped down to join her.

  “Gentlemen, may I introduce my wife, Miranda Blackburn. She used to be Miranda Fairfax from Merlin’s Leap, Boston, Massachusetts. She is white, educated to a high standard and brought up in a cultured home. In addition to belting out sea shanties she can sing Mozart and Puccini. Will she do?”

  The two petty bureaucrats inspected her, as if she were once again a lottery prize on display. They put their heads together and held a whispered conference. Then the one with spectacles pulled out a piece of paper and held it up in front of her.

  “Can you confirm that you are married to Mr. James Blackburn, as recorded on this marriage certificate?”

  Miranda leaned forward, scanned the text. “Yes,” she said. “But we—”

  Jamie bent down to her and silenced her with a quick, hard kiss that made her knees go weak. He increased the pressure of his arm around her, steadying her. Then he flashed a conspiratorial smile at her, straightened and turned toward the two strangers.

  “I apologize, gentlemen. I have been separated from my wife for too long. I had hoped to discuss th
e situation with her in private, but I understand the urgency as you need to continue your journey. Can you confirm you’re satisfied?”

  The two men nodded. The one with a moustache lifted his briefcase to the table, opened it, pulled out a document and handed it to Jamie. “Congratulations, Mr. Blackburn. Everything is in order. You can send this affidavit to your lawyer in Baltimore. I wish you every success in your new position.”

  The man closed his briefcase, and the pair of them turned about and walked out. As the doors swung wide, Miranda could see a horse and buggy waiting outside.

  “Do you have the annulment papers?” Jamie asked when the buggy had rattled down the street.

  Miranda spread her hands in a gesture of defeat. “You try to get them issued. There is no judge, or justice of the peace, only an ancient preacher who is going senile. When you explain what you need, Reverend Eldridge will nod at you, and then he’ll pull out his ledger. He’ll turn over a new page and smile at you and say, ‘Welcome, welcome, dear. What is it I can do for you?’ It’ll drive you mad.”

  She didn’t add that it could also fill a person with a secret satisfaction. She could honestly claim that she had tried to arrange an annulment, and yet her marriage remained as legal and binding as it had ever been.

  “Good,” Jamie said. “Simplifies things.” He swept a glance around the quiet room and lifted his brows. “Why are you singing in an empty saloon?”

  “I have to do something to occupy my time and make myself useful.” Miranda patted the curtain that hung like a cloak around her shoulders and sneezed when a cloud of dust tickled her nose. She might as well let Jamie know the rest of her failures.

  “I tried to teach school, but I lacked patience. I tried to help Doc Timmerman. He is almost eighty and has arthritis. It turned out that I swoon at the sight of blood.”

  She didn’t mention it was only because every time she saw a bleeding wound she remembered the small round hole on Jamie’s tan buckskin coat and the circle of blood spreading around it.

  “I thought you would stay with your sister on the farm.”

  “I did but...” But it was too painful to watch them so happy while I’m so miserable. “We decided it is better if I stay in town, in case a telegram comes from my sister Annabel or the Pinkerton detective who is trying to locate her. She is still missing.”

  “Are you interested in a new adventure, Princess?” Jamie leaned closer to her. She could feel the warm brush of his breath against her cheek as he bent to whisper into her ear, “How would you like to own trains instead of robbing them?”

  * * *

  Jamie tried to fix back up the curtain he’d torn down and at the same time listen to his wife interrogating him. It had started while he led her up the stairs, questions bombarding him like a swarm of buzzing bees. During the ride over, his thoughts had centered on bedding her, but it seemed he had to clear the hurdle of talking first.

  “What are you doing here? Why are you dressed like a bank manager? Who were those two men? Why did they look at me like I’m livestock on an auction block? Why are you not wearing your guns? Have you given up bounty hunting? What did you mean about trains?”

  The curtain crashed to the floor as Jamie abandoned the effort. The window faced the gravel back yard, with no buildings opposite. No one could see inside, and he liked the idea of awakening to the dawn light with his naked wife beside him.

  He turned around. “I’m dressed as befits my new station in life. Those two men were a lawyer and his aide and they were studying you like a broodmare on an auction block because that’s what you were to them. I’m wearing a gun under my coat. I’ve given up bounty hunting. And I’m here because...”

  A twinge of irritation slowed him down. He’d already proposed to her once. Why did he have to do it again, particularly as they were already married? He spoke in a low voice. “A while ago, I asked you a question, Princess. You promised to think about it. And as to the trains...” He crossed the room, wrapped one arm around Miranda’s waist and hauled her close to him. “How would you like to be married to a railroad magnate, Princess? A man rich enough to buy you whatever you wish.”

  She gave him that look of hers, eyes round as blueberries. “Rich?”

  Jamie sighed with frustration. There would be no way around the talking. He ushered Miranda to the small table by the window, settled her in one of the chairs, sat down opposite to her and explained it all to her—trailing the outlaw, the scar on his palm, his grandfather’s will.

  “You hated your grandfather.”

  Angry voices along the corridor disturbed the quiet. A child, arguing with an adult. The Imperial Hotel served as an orphanage now, Jamie recalled. A trace of amusement tugged at his lips at the thought that his grandfather had finally succeeded in sending him into one.

  “Yes,” he said. “I hated the old man. And you were right. I had to give up something for you. Not just bounty hunting. I had to give up the hate. It felt like tearing out something from inside me, but afterward I realized I’d torn out something poisonous. Something I’m better off without.”

  Miranda jumped to her feet and came to stand over him. Looking down at him, she raked her hands into his hair, stirring the neatly trimmed layers. “It doesn’t matter to me if you’re rich or poor. As long as I don’t have to lie awake every night, worrying that you might be sprawled in the dust somewhere, an outlaw’s bullet in you.”

  Jamie pulled her down to sit on his knee. “Was that a yes, Princess?” His tone was firm. “I want a definite answer. Three months is a long time for a man to wait for his wedding night.”

  “Three months is an equally long time for a woman.”

  Jamie leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers, which also gave him a perfect view down the low neckline of her gown. The impatience that had simmered in him during the long ride over burst into flame. “Princess, can I just have a simple yes?”

  Miranda tugged at his hair, forcing him to look up at her. Her eyes met his, solemn and without guile. “Yes.”

  Jamie fought the urgency that seized him. If a man ever needed restraint, it was on his wedding night. He traced one fingertip along the pale upper slopes of Miranda’s breasts, letting the sense of anticipation build within him.

  “Princess, could you do something for me?”

  “What is it, bounty hunter?”

  “Do you still have the dress you used to wear, made from an old shirt?”

  “I sleep in it every night.”

  He eased her up from his knee and settled her on her feet. “Go put it on.”

  Miranda gave him a startled look. Then understanding flickered across her features. She spun around and hurried to the big oak armoire along the wall.

  “Close your eyes,” she ordered.

  “Why? We’re married.”

  “I don’t want you to see me fumbling with buttons and hooks and petticoats. Not today. It’s not romantic.”

  Jamie closed his eyes. He had never realized how erotic it could be, listening to a woman undress without being able to see her. The swish of fabric. Dainty footsteps. A rattle on the floor—perhaps a scattered button—and a whispered swearword.

  He smiled. “You’ve come a long way from ‘oaf,’ Princess.”

  “So have you,” Miranda replied.

  Sharp mind she had, his little Eastern princess. Jamie listened, his senses alert. Outside, a horse trotted up. The saloon doors swung and the barkeep called out a greeting. Cooking smells drifted up from the kitchen. It was close to supper time.

  “You can look now.”

  He opened his eyes. Miranda stood a few paces away from him, dressed in the baggy garment that covered her from neck to toe. She had let her hair down, and the thick strands cascaded like a golden cloak over her shoulders. Twilight was falling outside, filling the room with
shadows, making her appear as ethereal as a dream.

  His heart pounding in his chest, Jamie rose from the chair. He took a step toward Miranda, reached out one arm to touch her, then came to an abrupt halt. It wasn’t enough to put his hands on her. He wanted to feel her naked skin against his.

  Quickly, Jamie shrugged out of his tailored wool coat and white linen shirt. A man who lived on the road learned to be meticulously tidy, each item in its place, but now he merely tossed the garments aside.

  With two determined strides, he closed the distance between them. Fisting his hands in Miranda’s golden tresses, he tipped back her head. For a moment he waited, letting the need build up within him until there was no room in his mind for anything else.

  Then he settled his mouth upon hers. Rising on tiptoe, Miranda wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him. Her scent filled his breath. He could feel her feminine curves against him, could feel his arousal fit snugly at the juncture of her thighs.

  And yet he refused to hurry. He kept the kiss soft and tender, only slowly letting Miranda taste his hunger. A promise and a demand at the same time. A pledge and a claim. Seconds ticked by. Emotion soared within Jamie. How could he ever have thought he could live without her? He broke the kiss and lifted his head.

  “I missed you, Princess.”

  Her eyes were bright. “I missed you, too.”

  With unsteady fingers, Jamie eased open the first two buttons on Miranda’s dress and slipped one hand inside to cup her breast. He could feel her trembling beneath his touch. His blood was pulsing through his veins, swift and hot, but even then he kept the pace slow.

  “Are you hungry, Princess? Do you need to eat supper first?” He glanced over to the bed. “Once I get you in there, it will be a long time before I let you go.”