Anthology - BIG SKY GROOMS

by DAVIDSON, Carolyn. MALLERY, Susan. WILLIAMS, Bronwyn (in) Montana Mavericks

  It hadn’t escaped him that Lizzy was closer to Brock’s age than to his own. She’d told him a lot about herself. Not everything—he was pretty sure of that, but he could wait. Now that she was his, he could wait forever. Hell, one of these days he might even quit grinning!

  THE BRIDE WORE an ivory gown that had belonged to Will’s mother. With a little alteration, it fit like a glove. Will wore a yellow silk vest with his best black suit, his boots gleaming like patent leather, thanks to Harry’s attention.

  Harry was there. They were all there, practically the whole town. Amos and Millie, John and Tess from the Mercantile. Violet Gibson had started crying before she’d even climbed down from her wagon and hadn’t stopped since. She had come early to help Ruth with the preparations.

  Ruth was wonderful. Little Zeke passed around fry bread and coconut macaroons with suspiciously sticky fingers while Cam handled the bar. The old Double Deuce had actually closed down for the occasion, so that all the girls could be present.

  Will had opened his mouth to protest her choice of bridesmaids, but then backed down. What the hell—this was Whitehorn. This was Kincaid land. If Lizzy wanted to invite President Harrison and any of the James brothers that had made it out to the frontier, it was fine by him.

  Above the heads of two saloon girls and the carpenters who had taken a day off from working on his bank, Will met his bride’s eyes. She was glowing. Radiant. Little Zeke was hanging on to her satin skirt with sticky fists and she was ruffling his hair with her fingers.

  Soon, he told her silently. She nodded and beamed.

  Soon they would go home together. Caleb had sworn they wouldn’t be subjected to a shivaree, but the ranch hands—including the newest hire, young Cicero Price-Hawthorne, of the South Carolina Price-Hawthornes, had their heads together.

  Soon, Will promised with his eyes. Soon and forever.

  The Gamble

  Carolyn Davidson

  PROLOGUE

  August, 1896

  “MAKE A SHERIFF outta James Kincaid?” John Dillard asked unbelievingly. “It’d take an act of God to keep him sober enough to pin on a badge.”

  “Anybody got a better idea?” Will Kincaid leaned back in his desk chair. His spanking new desk chair, in his brand-new bank.

  “Hell, we all like James, and Lord knows we need a good man to wear the badge,” John said. And then his gaze swept the room. “How we’re gonna get him to quit drinking is the problem.”

  “Well, if he’d just cut back a little…” Harry Talbert said slowly. “Maybe, we could take a chance on him.”

  “You can’t have a sheriff with a hangover every damn morning of his life, and I fear that unless someone gets hold of him and straightens him out…” Will looked helplessly around at the men in his office.

  “You mean like Lizzy did with you?” Harry asked with a chuckle.

  Will flushed, and then grinned. “A good woman can work magic, and I’m the first one to admit it.” He sobered quickly and leaned forward, one hand uplifted. “James is my cousin. I care about him.” He cleared his throat. “Now, we all know he’s got a head on his shoulders. He’d make a fine sheriff. If we keep our eyes open, and the opportunity arises, do all of you agree with me on this?”

  The men gathered together in the twilight hour glanced at each other, then as one, nodded their heads emphatically. All but one.

  “I’ll bet you a five dollar gold piece you’ll never get him to consider it,” Cam said. As the brand-new member of the group, the owner of the Double Deuce Saloon had a vested interest in the proceedings. James Kincaid, in the few short weeks Cam had owned the place, had become one of his best customers. And, if he’d ever seen a drinking, gambling man, James Kincaid was it.

  Will’s jaw hardened. “All we have to do is wait for something to come up, maybe arrange the right opportunity, then get him to consider the job, right?”

  The men nodded in unison.

  “All right, then.” Will looked at Cam and his eyes glittered with controlled anger. “I’ll take your bet, barkeep, and raise you another gold piece to boot,” he said quietly.

  “You’re on,” Cam told him, grinning widely. It would be the easiest money he’d ever made.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE MAN BEHIND the bar poured a shot of whiskey into the glass, then spun it across the slick, wooden surface toward his customer. “It’s still morning,” he said, with a measuring look at the man who eyed the amber liquid.

  “It’s never too early in the day for some things.” James lifted his drink, lips twisting in a sardonic grin. His gaze swept the interior of the dusty saloon, lingering for just a moment on a red-haired woman with a satin dress stretched over her voluptuous form. Not what he had in mind, he decided easily. His head tilted back as the whiskey slid easily down his throat, and he winced at the impact of it on his empty stomach.

  “Hair of the dog, Kincaid?” the barkeep asked with sympathy and amusement. His bushy eyebrows lifted as James thumped the heavy glass on the bar.

  “One more should do it,” James said, his blue eyes narrowing as he focused on the four men who slouched around a table at the far side of the room. “That game been going on long?” he asked in an undertone.

  “All night,” the barkeep told him. “They just keep movin’ those little piles of money back and forth between them. I’ve been waitin’ for one or the other to go to sleep over there.”

  James lifted his glass and sniffed at its contents, then replaced it on the bar. “Maybe I need to help them out, sorta relieve them of their dilemma.” His voice slurred on the word, the only sign of inebriation he allowed to blur his image. The mirror behind the bar reflected his likeness and he cocked his hat at a jauntier angle, bending forward to peer into his own blue eyes. He brushed his index finger beneath his full moustache then straightened his string tie with a hand that barely trembled.

  “Why don’t you walk up them stairs and take a nap, Kincaid?” the barkeep asked mildly. “There’s an empty room at the end of the hall. You look like you’ve had a long night.”

  James grinned, knowing that his smile was his best friend. He’d coaxed more than one woman into his arms with its seductive gleam, hoodwinked more poker players than he could count with an innocent flash of teeth and curving lips. “Naw, I’ll just amble over and clear that table for the gents. Give them a chance to fold their cards in an honorable manner.” He spoke concisely, each word slowly formed and enunciated.

  Outside the door, a commotion took his attention as he turned from the bar and he looked askance at the swinging doors, then back at the poker game. Boots thumped the wide wooden walk and skirts swished as women hurried past. A shout from farther down the street warned of danger, and then the sound of jangling harness and shrieking horses penetrated his whiskey-soaked mind.

  “Sounds like trouble,” the barkeep said, pulling his gun from beneath the bar. He held it at his side, his gaze fastened on the swinging doors.

  “I’d say so,” James said flatly, his stance altered as if by magic. The grin was gone, the eyes alert beneath the wide brim of his hat. He stalked to the entrance and looked over the top of the double doors, then eased one of them open. The sidewalk was clear, as if a giant broom had swept it clean of humanity. All except two men who stood hesitantly in front of the new bank across the street.

  With red bandannas tied around their faces and saddlebags flung over their shoulders, they sure as hell looked like a couple of fools who’d robbed the damn place. Where their horses had disappeared to was any man’s guess, and the pair of them were waving guns in the air and cursing up a blue streak.

  The morning stage, which was still vibrating from its sudden stop in front of the hotel next to the bank, seemed to offer them the next best exit. Ignoring the rearing horses, who’d reacted badly to the gunfire, they leapt from the sidewalk, ran to the coach and shouted instructions to the hapless driver.

  From within the vehicle, a woman’s shrill voice called upon heaven to h
elp her, and James felt a twitch at the corner of his mouth, even as his hand lifted the gun from his holster. Fool creature needed to learn that God helps those who have enough sense to run from danger, he thought wryly. Bending low, he left the dubious shelter of the swinging doors and crouched behind the even more uncertain refuge of a four-by-four post that held up the porch.

  The two men glanced quickly at the stage driver who was making a hasty exit, leaping to the ground and then running full tilt toward the hotel doorway. One of the bank robbers climbed atop the stage, the other pulled open the door and dragged the shrieking female from its depths, casting her like a bit of rubbish to the ground.

  “Now, that wasn’t the least bit polite of you,” James murmured, lifting his gun to take careful aim. The slight tremble in his hand was gone, the barrel shone dully in the morning sunlight and his aim was true. As the stagecoach rumbled into motion, the horses rearing and plunging forward at the command of the second robber, James pulled the trigger. The would-be driver fell to the ground, motionless in the dirt.

  The second man turned toward his cohort, then looked frantically across the street, lifting his gun to level its barrel at James.

  “Well, damn,” James muttered, firing a second shot.

  The bank robber’s finger twitched on the trigger as his body jolted. The gun fell to the dusty road, and the man fell in a heap, holding his arm and cursing with a steady stream of cussing that made James shake his head in disbelief. The man had quite a vocabulary, limited though it was to words not fit for the ears of his listeners.

  From the ground only feet away from the wounded man, a wail of protest erupted, and James looked again at the female who’d made such an inelegant exit from the stagecoach. Her eyes were scrunched up behind wire-rimmed glasses, and her mouth was pursed in a way that gave him pause. She looked about ready to shed a bucket of tears, and if there was anything in this world James could not endure, it was a crying female.

  He left the shelter of the post, jamming his gun back where it belonged and strode across the street. She didn’t look much better up close, he decided, all dusty and teary-eyed, her skirts hiked up above her knees.

  Her knees. His glance swept the length of her legs and returned swiftly to those pink, rounded, dimpled knees. Beneath them, garters held plain, lisle stockings in place, and he allowed a swift appraisal to bathe his aching eyes with pleasure. Damn, she did have a fine pair of legs. Calves rounded and curvaceous, just right for a man’s palm, he decided judiciously. And slim little ankles that barely showed above the tops of half boots.

  But those knees. He shook his head. A man could examine those pretty little legs for half a night, and still find something to look at. He’d warrant they were as soft and smooth to the touch as they were appealing to his eye. He reached down with one hand and grasped her elbow, levering her to her feet. Her head bent, she gripped the valise against her chest and wobbled a bit. James released her as she nodded her thanks, gaining her balance readily.

  “Kincaid!” A voice shouted behind him and he turned quickly, almost steady on his feet now. “You saved the day,” the jowly storekeeper said, approaching with hands upraised. A wide smile wreathed his face, and he turned to the gathering crowd. “Did y’all see what happened?”

  Heads nodded and voices vied for notice, with several townsfolk all too willing to give their version of the short gun battle. From the bank, a dark-haired man stepped to the sidewalk, and James stiffened. Will might not take kindly to having James as a champion, and yet, the banker made his way in a deliberate fashion across the dusty road. His black suit was unwrinkled, his shirt pristine and elegant, and black shoes gleamed with a fresh layer of polish. His mouth twisted in a smile.

  “They tell me I have you to thank for rescuing the bank’s money,” he said diffidently, approaching James. “Many thanks, cousin.”

  “Told you I’d come in handy one of these days,” James said with a sweeping bow that almost brought him to his knees.

  “I’m glad you’ve proved to be good for something,” Will Kincaid answered smoothly, shooting a glance at an approaching merchant.

  He turned to watch as several men lifted the erstwhile robber to his feet and nudged him into movement toward the jailhouse. “Looks like you’ve left one of them alive anyway, James,” Will said. “Too bad you didn’t save us the trouble of hanging him.”

  “I didn’t aim to kill the other one,” James admitted, watching as the dead man was lifted from the dirt and carried past the jail to the undertaker’s parlor.

  “Sir?” The voice was soft, and the single word trembled with emotion. James turned and looked down at the woman who’d so recently been greeted with violence. Her hat was still tilted precariously over one side of her head, her glasses sliding to the end of her nose. Her shoulders sagged as she held tightly to the satchel that threatened to pull her arms from their sockets. It must hold all of her hard, cold cash, he decided, looking her over with aching eyes.

  Her skirts hung almost to the ground, hiding all but the toes of her boots, and, sadly, all of her legs. “Ma’am?” he said respectfully, lifting his hat in a fluid movement, then placing it again upon his aching head.

  “I want to thank you for rescuing me,” she said softly. Her eyes seemed about to fill with tears once more, and he grinned his best coaxing smile in her direction.

  “No trouble at all,” he said. “Just doing my best to keep law and order in our fine community.” Fool woman hadn’t been in any danger, he thought, once she’d been plopped in the road, but if she wanted to be grateful, he’d grin and bear it.

  “Is that so?” Will said.

  “Never say that I didn’t uphold justice, Will,” he warned, glancing back with a grin at the woman beside him.

  “Too bad you’re not looking for a job, James. The town hasn’t had a sheriff in more than a month, ever since the last one got a chance at a marshal’s job,” Will suggested smoothly.

  “That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea,” John Dillard said from behind them. The storekeeper tugged at his apron and eyed James approvingly. “You’d make a dandy sheriff, Kincaid. You sure can use that gun. And I’ll bet you the new schoolmarm here will vote for you, won’t you, ma’am?”

  Schoolmarm? James had heard that a teacher was arriving, had watched as the new school was built. And this pitiful creature had been chosen to teach the handful of girls and clutch of young boys who would fill its walls. The young men, hovering on manhood, and with a determined disdain for book learning, might elect to attend school after all, just for the sport of it, James decided.

  Amos Carlton, still in his shirtsleeves, with red garters holding them in place, joined the small group. “We’re needing a new man to fill the sheriff’s shoes and look after things. I’d say your cousin could handle the job, Will. What do you think?”

  Will nodded “He can shoot straight, that’s for certain,” he said deliberately. “But we don’t need a drunk in the jailhouse, at least not sitting in the sheriff’s chair.”

  “Maybe he’d be willing to go on the wagon,” Amos said hopefully, glancing at James, whose head was pounding mercilessly as he attempted to keep up with the conversation.

  “He’d never manage that for longer than a day, maybe two,” Will said sadly. “James has three things in life that interest him, two of them are booze and gambling.”

  “What is the third?” the young woman asked, her wide eyes moving from one to another of the men who discussed James as if he were not present in their midst.

  James grinned then and allowed the power of his blue eyes to focus on the brown-clad creature. “You don’t want to know, ma’am.”

  She blinked, then shriveled within her clothing, a retreat that jarred James from his cocky stance. Her eyes dulled and she glanced down at the dirt beneath her boots. Her hat slipped just a bit farther to one side and she slapped at it with her hand, losing her hold on the valise she clutched. It slid down her front, one arm not enough to hold its we
ight, and James reached for the leather handles.

  His hand covered hers and she winced as he grasped it tightly. “Let me take that,” he said politely, willing her to look at him. She might be untidy and about as fetching as a poulter pigeon, but she was obviously a lady, and he’d managed to damage her dignity or hurt her feelings, one or the other.

  “If you gentlemen will just direct me to the schoolhouse, I’ll be on my way,” she said primly, lifting her chin and giving her attention to Will. Her free hand shoved at James’s fingers, attempting to take hold of her bag, and with a show of stubborn courtesy, he lifted it until the backs of his knuckles rested precariously close to her bosom.

  “I’ll be glad to escort you,” he said firmly, his jaw tightening. All this yattering was about enough to urge him on his way, to put space between himself and the talk of filling the sheriff’s chair with his unworthy behind. And this frumpish little piece of womanhood was the excuse he needed to walk away from the group that had managed to gather, with him plumb in the middle of the circle. Besides, his head was banging to beat the band, and all this talk of making him sheriff was enough to turn his headache into a full-blown wall-banger.

  The woman released the bag, managing to slide her fingers from beneath his grip, and he jutted his chin forward. “You got more stuff on board the stage?”

  She nodded, her eyes squinting as she looked up to where a large trunk was strapped atop the vehicle.

  “We’ll send it on over to the schoolhouse, ma’am,” Harry Talbert said, his half smile befitting a man who knew most of the secrets in town. Being a barber made him privy to confidences that would have shocked many of the ladies whose husbands sat in his chair for their haircuts and an occasional shave. His gaze took James’s measure. “Sure looks like sheriff material to me,” he murmured, adding a nudge of his own.