Wild Western Women Mistletoe, Montana: Sweet Western Historical Holiday Box Set

by Caroline Clemmons

  “Don’t…be?”

  “That is…um…”

  He narrowed his eyes as she glanced to the side, wishing to high heaven he could read her thoughts. Then again, he had the feeling her thoughts were as unsettled as his. There was only one way to break the awkward impasse. He shifted, embracing her for a moment as he rolled over her to get out of bed.

  “I need to light the fires,” he explained. “I’m willing to bet they’ve all gone out since we, uh, ended up going to bed rather abruptly.”

  “Oh.”

  The single syllable could have meant a thousand things. He chose to let it go, grabbing the extra blanket from the end of the bed and wrapping it around his shoulders before retreating to the apartment’s main room.

  It was teeth-chattering work to find his clothes and dress, then to light the fireplace and the kitchen stove. Miranda didn’t follow him immediately out of the room. He couldn’t decide if that was a good sign or a bad one. They’d done something beyond the pale the night before. Something wonderful, something inevitable, something they’d been dancing around for days, but something that would have consequences. Partially because in all the fuss of pocketing a few items while cleaning the saloon, he hadn’t actually thought to pause long enough to fetch and use one of those French letters. Miranda could have conceived a child last night.

  He would marry her. That was all there was to it. The thought actually made him smile as he shaved quickly at the washbasin under the window. Snow was still packed tight in the panes, but something about the quality of light streaming through told him that the sun had finally come out. That would help the digging out efforts.

  It wouldn’t dig him out of the situation he and Miranda had gotten themselves into, though. He would marry her, and in spite of the circumstances, he would do it happily. But oof, his father would have a thing or two to say about that. It would mean the end of his ambitions—his father’s ambitions. Randall suspected that he would be perfectly happy to plant roots in Mistletoe, Montana. He could run a saloon. As he took the last of the rasher of bacon, half of the remaining eggs, and the loaf of bread he’d baked two days before out to start breakfast, it dawned on him that he could do quite a bit more.

  Miranda finally emerged from the bedroom, fully dressed, her arms full of sheets, just as the stove was beginning to grow hot enough to cook. The hint of movement out of the corner of Randall’s eyes as he worked shot excitement straight through him, and he turned to greet her with, “Good morning, Randi.”

  She swallowed, blushed, lowered her head, and finally ventured a tentative smile. “Good morning yourself, Randy.”

  The conversation instantly evaporated. Miranda stood there, eyes flashing with thoughts that didn’t look like they were going to settle any time soon. Randall racked his brain, searching for a way to tell her not to worry, they would get married, run the saloon, have nine children, and live happily ever after, that didn’t sound like he regretted their lapse the day before.

  At last, she cleared her throat and started for the hall. “I’ll just put these with the rest of the washing and fetch clean sheets.”

  With that, she was gone.

  Breakfast was well on its way to being done by the time she came back. Randall poured her a tin mug of coffee and brought it to the table as she sank gingerly into a chair. He hid his wince. That was probably his fault. He shouldn’t have been so…exuberant. But she’d definitely liked it at the time. He banished that thought by returning to the stove and finishing the French toast he was cooking. She said nothing as he fried two pieces in the skittle, slid them onto a plate with the bacon he’d cooked earlier, dusted it with powdered sugar, and brought it to her along with a small jug of maple syrup.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled, back to not meeting his eyes, then proceeded to devour her breakfast as if she hadn’t ever eaten before.

  He fixed a plate for himself and joined her just as she was finishing. But said nothing. Try as he did, he couldn’t summon up anything other than, “I think the sun has come out.”

  She hummed. She wriggled in her seat. She avoided his eyes. Then she said, “I think I need to try to get some of the washing done,” and jumped up, fleeing to the hall.

  Randall let out a breath, shook his head, and continued eating, though there was no joy in the deliciousness he’d created. Not until he dealt with the deliciousness they’d created the night before.

  He finished eating and cleaned up the breakfast things. Then he cleaned the rest of the tiny apartment. Miranda didn’t return. His headache gradually subsided. The morning wore on, and he finally summoned the courage to break through the awkwardness and headed out to the saloon to find her. She’d managed to light a fire in the main saloon fireplace, but the room was still cold. She’d also pulled out a washtub and was scrubbing away near the fireplace hearth.

  “Need some help?” he asked.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, her fretful look as charming as it was unsettling, and nodded. So Randall rolled up his sleeves and went to work wringing the sheets she’d washed and looking for places to hang them. Their makeshift Christmas decorations still brightened the saloon, and before long he found himself humming Christmas carols. Miranda even joined in, though she lost the thread of the tunes a time or two, lost in her thoughts.

  The day wore on, and still they didn’t talk about what they really needed to discuss. He put his effort into preparing a first-rate lunch of seasoned pork roast, herbed potatoes, and buttered beans. Once again, Miranda devoured it like she’d never tasted food. And once again, she fled to the saloon to find more work to do. Randall cleaned up, stored the leftovers, and put his foot down.

  “This awkwardness has to stop,” he declared as he marched into the main part of the saloon. The light filtering through the snowed-in windows was still brighter than it had been in the last several days, but it was already beginning to fade as sunset made an early appearance. Darkness might have been the standard fare for this time of year in Montana, but he wasn’t going to let that seep into what he was certain was something good between him and Miranda.

  To his surprise, Miranda stood from the washtub at his statement and sighed, throwing up her hands. “I know. I can’t stand it.”

  Randall let his arms flap uselessly at his side instead of crossing them, like he’d been about to. “Oh. I’m glad we’re agreed on that point.”

  “I just want to know if we did something wrong,” she burst, then heaved a breath before continuing. “Everything I’ve ever been told says that we did, but I don’t feel that way at all.”

  “Neither do I.” He stepped closer to her. Instinct told him to hold off reaching for her until she said everything she needed to. “But I do want to make it right,” he added.

  “How can you make something right if we’re not sure it’s wrong in the first place?” A layer of anger rose to the surface of her emotions.

  Randall shrugged, itching with his own burst of indignation, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what he was indignant at. Certainly not Miranda. “I want to marry you.” He spread his arms, finding the simplest way to express what he was feeling, what he’d been feeling almost from the moment he walked into the saloon. “It irks me that saying that now makes it sound like I only want to marry you because we went to bed together. But the truth is, the last few days I’ve been wondering how in blazes I’ll be able to keep following my father’s wishes and walk out of this saloon when the blizzard is over.”

  A spark of hope flashed in her eyes. “And I’m so angry that anyone on the outside might assume that I want to say yes to your marriage proposal just because my reputation would be tarnished otherwise. I couldn’t care less about my reputation as long as I don’t have to open that door, push you through it, and tell you goodbye.”

  “It’s not particularly fair.” He nodded. “We would have fallen for each other, courted, and gotten married with or without this blizzard, whether we let go of our inhibitions and made love o
r not.” He hadn’t realized how true that was until the words bubbled up from his soul, unfettered. He blinked at himself, lips twitching without knowing whether to smile or grimace.

  “Exactly.” Miranda took a step closer to him. “We would have found our way to everything that we wanted eventually, but now we’re as trapped in the inevitability of it all as we are trapped in this saloon because of the blizzard.”

  “The inevitability?”

  “Of the two of us marrying,” she sighed, shoulders dropping. They stepped toward each other. Miranda shook her head, rubbing her forehead with one hand. “I’m happy about it, really, but it’s not very romantic.”

  Now Randall sensed the time was right. He slipped close enough to brush a hand along Miranda’s arm. “I wish I could find a way to surprise you with a grand, romantic gesture. To ask you to marry me instead of it being the next, natural step for two people with as much morality as daring.”

  She glanced up at him, a combination of frustration and sentimentality in her expression. “Do you suppose we threw caution to the wind the way we did last night because neither of us could figure out how to approach the subject of marriage after knowing each other for so little time?”

  At last, Randall broke into a smile. “Probably.” He reached for her, folding her in an embrace, resting her head on his shoulder and stroking her hair. “Although it was probably also the fact that we’re two, restless, passionate souls…who just finished tidying up a saloon full of unmentionable items.” He laughed more as he thought about it.

  Miranda huffed an indignant breath and peeled away from him. He was certain he’d said the wrong thing, until she said, “It’s this blasted saloon’s fault.”

  “The saloon?” Her anger had focused into a particular kind of irritation, and since he was certain it wasn’t focused on him, that they were on the same side, his uneasiness melted away.

  “No!” Her eyes narrowed. “It’s Uncle Buford’s fault. Oh! I bet he knew something like this would happen when he willed the place to me.”

  “What, that a traveling brush salesman who has spent the past ten years living under his father’s thumb would come along, get trapped in a blizzard with you, have the best week of his life, and compromise you into a marriage that, I suspect, will be a long and happy one?”

  He was joking, but she answered with a strong, “Yes!”

  His brow flew up. “That was very specific of him.”

  Her expression remained implacable, but a lighter, wilder light filled her eyes. “How dare he push me out of a place where I was so comfortable and miserable?”

  “And into a place where you are uncomfortable and blissfully happy?”

  She planted her fists on her hips. “Exactly. Ooh, if he were standing here right now, I’d give him a piece of my mind.”

  A crazy notion grabbed hold of Randall. This entire day had been so topsy-turvy, his life had changed and his future had just veered off on a path that would enrage his father while making him happier than he would have dreamed. It was as surreal as a melodrama, so why not make it as dramatic as possible.

  He grabbed hold of Miranda’s hand and led her to the stage at the front of the saloon. “If you want to give your uncle a severe tongue-lashing, then do it.”

  “I can’t. He’s dead.”

  They stepped up onto the stage. It felt only right that what he was about to suggest happen on a stage. As he turned to face her, he shrugged. “Pretend I’m Uncle Buford. Tell me everything that you want to tell him.”

  She let go of his hand, completely taken aback. “Really? Yell at you?”

  Randall held his arms out and looked around the empty saloon. The light outside was definitely fading, but there was still a sense of lightness streaming through the snow-clouded windows. “Have you got anything better to do?”

  Her lips twitched. Her eyes flashed. A wicked smile spread across her face. “No. I don’t. So sit back, Uncle Buford, and prepare to get what’s coming to you.”

  Chapter 9

  Excitement pumped through Miranda’s veins as Randall hopped off the stage to grab a pair of chairs. She’d never dreamed anything like this was possible. Then again, in the last twenty-four hours so many impossible things had happened to her that she’d lost count. A giddy laugh rippled through her as Randall set the chairs facing each other, then gestured for her to take one. He sat in the other.

  “Oh, no, Uncle Buford.” She jumped right into the fantasy the two of them were creating. “You need to sit down for this, but I am most certainly going to remain standing.”

  “Yes, dear,” Randall replied in a strange voice. She blinked, realizing he must be attempting to imitate Uncle Buford, though he’d never met him.

  “Uncle Buford had a low, gruff voice,” she whispered, breaking character for a moment.

  “Right. Gruff.” Randall changed his voice to suit.

  He didn’t have it quite right, but that wasn’t enough to distract Miranda from her purpose. She paced away, then back again, then planted her hands on her hips and snapped, “What gives you the right to ruin my life by leaving me this saloon?”

  Without missing a beat, Randall huffed the way a crotchety old man would and said, “Who says I’m ruining your life?”

  “I do.” Miranda pointed at herself. “I am the last person suited to run a saloon. A saloon which has obviously been more than that, if the scandalous things we’ve found cleaning up are any indication.”

  Randall shrugged. “Where’s the harm in men and women having a little fun with each other? No one was forced into anything. It was a damned good time all around.”

  Miranda sucked in a breath and took a half step back. She could have argued that she was shocked by Randall’s harsh language, but his words struck a little too close to home. It was surprisingly close to something Uncle Buford would have said. And she had been enjoying herself, not just the night before, but all week. No one had forced her to get close to Randall. Growing more and more intimate with him, and then ultimately intimate, had felt like the most natural thing in the world.

  She shook her head at her radical thoughts and returned to her argument. “That might have been your life—and I should have known that’s what you were up to all these years, since mother and father shook their heads whenever you came up in conversation—but that wasn’t my life. My life was something entirely different, and you destroyed it.”

  “But did you really like that life in the first place?” He was still speaking as Uncle Buford, but a flash of something purely Randall was in his eyes.

  Miranda pursed her lips and crossed her arms tightly over her chest, half turning away. “It was the life I knew,” she answered quietly. “It was a proper life, a respectable life.”

  “A life where you weren’t happy,” Randall as Uncle Buford said. “Don’t think I don’t remember the things you told me about your sister being the one who got all the attention, even when she didn’t follow the rules. You, young missy, tried following the rules, and it didn’t work out for you.”

  “That’s…” She wanted to finish ‘not true,’ but the words wouldn’t pass her lips. Because it was true.

  “You always were my favorite,” Randall went on. “That sister of yours was never as interesting or lively or daring as you were.”

  She rolled her eyes and turned back to him. Randall didn’t know Vicky. He didn’t know…

  She paused, considering. Vicky was lively and pretty and made conversation easily, but try as Miranda might, she couldn’t think of a single goal her sister had in life other than catching and marrying the right man. Which she did, though thinking about it now, Micah was nothing compared to Randall. And ever since marrying Micah, Vicky had been nothing but whiney and boring.

  “Yes, well, the saloon is a little too interesting for me,” she attempted to counter Randall-Buford’s argument.

  “Poppycock!” Randall exclaimed so forcefully that Miranda jumped. “Why, you’re bright and witty and willing to tr
y things that most of those milky-faced young ladies would never be brave enough to do. You just needed the right push to get you out of that stale old life and into a place where your talents could really be put to work.”

  Her heart thrilled at the prospect, but she frowned. “Yes, but here? In this place? It’s a house of every kind of vice.”

  “Ah, it was a house of every kind of vice.” Randall leaned forward, pointing at her. “What it will become is what you make of it. All I gave you was a premises and capital. I never said you had to continue to operate it as a saloon and whorehouse.” He blinked at his own pronouncement and sat a little straighter as if intrigued by the idea.

  Prickles of inspiration broke out along Miranda’s skin. “That’s…that’s true. He never said I had to continue to operate the place as a saloon. He never said I had to sink down into the kind of activity that he preferred.” She tilted her head to the side, a thousand thoughts flooding her all at once, like moonbeams breaking through the clouds. “Maybe…maybe Uncle Buford didn’t leave me an immoral travesty of an institution after all. Maybe he left me a way out of the life I was trapped in, a chance to create something new and recreate myself in the process.” She blinked. “Oh!”

  Her pulsed raced, but now it was for an entirely different reason. This whole time, she’d wedged herself between the proper, stiff, miserable life she’d been leading and the wild, vice-ridden life she imagined her uncle was trying to force her into. But the middle ground, the area of exploration and innovation, that was where she really stood. She had the whole spectrum of possibility before her. All that remained to be seen was what she would do with it.

  “Oh,” she repeated, pressing her hand to her chest. “This is a good way to figure things out.”

  Randall stood and crossed the space between them. He wore a broad smile and pulled Miranda into his arms. “I think I would have liked to meet your Uncle Buford after all. He sounds like a wise and wonderful man.”

  “You know, I suppose he was.”