Wed to the Montana Cowboy

by Carol Arens

  “Shut your mouth, Smith. I paid you good money to hitch me to this giant. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  Her assailant let go of her. She spun about, not surprised to discover that she was glaring at Smothers.

  The mayor gazed down at Mike, cursed, then nudged his ribs with the toe of his boot. At least one villain would be out for a good while.

  “I will not marry you.”

  “You brought the paperwork?” Smothers said to Smith, as though she had not voiced an objection.

  “It’s here. Legal as can be, but it doesn’t appear that the bride is willing.”

  “Don’t matter. I paid you three times what a justice of the peace deserves.”

  Smith shrugged then set a marriage license, pen and ink bottle on the desk. Apparently these men were all of one mind...right or wrong didn’t matter when there was money involved.

  “Sign it.” Smothers turned to her, his order issued.

  “I will not!”

  He dragged her to the desk, shoved the pen into her hand and held it by squeezing his fingers about hers and the pen. He guided her fist toward the ink bottle.

  The fool did not take into account that she still had a free hand. It was a simple matter to swipe up the ink bottle and dash the contents on Smothers’s face.

  Ink dripped off the tip of his blackened nose. If her situation weren’t so grim, she might snort with laughter.

  * * *

  Lantree walked into the room that he shared with Hershal, shutting the door behind him.

  His boss reclined against the headboard with his legs crossed at the ankles, his bushy brows creased in a frown.

  A man, looking tense as a coiled snake, sat in a chair beside the door with a gun pointed at the old man’s chest.

  “This here is Dimwit,” Hershal explained. “He says once Mike brings him word that Smothers has married Rebecca, he’ll skedaddle.”

  “Say...” Dimwit narrowed his eyes, leaning forward in his chair. “Ain’t I seen your face on—?”

  Lantree cursed, swiped at the chair leg and caught the gun out of Dimwit’s hand as the chair toppled.

  On his way out the door, Lantree handed off the gun to Hershal.

  “Have you ever heard of my late wife?” he heard his boss say while he rounded the doorway. “Good, because—”

  He didn’t hear the rest of the ghoulish plans that Mrs. Moreland had in store for Dimwit.

  Within five seconds, he reached Rebecca’s door, kicked it open and crashed into the room.

  He surveyed the scene without slowing his stride.

  Harley Smith stood before Smothers, looking as professional as a man could while wearing his nightcap.

  Smothers had odd black splotches on his face. Next to Smothers, Rebecca sat in a straight-backed wooden chair, her arms and legs tied to the slats. She wore a frilly sleeping gown, and for some reason she clutched a wad of money in one fist.

  “I’d rather marry a worm!” Her eyes spit as much venom as her mouth.

  Leaping over Mike, who lay unconscious on the floor, he raced past Rebecca then snagged the mayor by his coat collar and the seat of his pants. He tossed him through the open window. Being a wide man, he hit the top of the frame and broke some glass. Long, razor-like shards shattered on the floor.

  With all that went on in Coulson at night, this act went unnoticed.

  He spotted a marriage license on the desk. It had Smothers’s signature on it. Where Rebecca’s should have been was a smear, the ink still glistening. Lantree ripped the paper in two, then for good measure ripped it again.

  He carried the pieces to the window and tossed them on top of Smothers, who rolled about, slow to find his feet.

  “You got another one of those, Smith?”

  “This is very irregular,” he said. “Is the bride at least willing this time?”

  “Read the vows, Mr. Smith,” Rebecca said quickly with a glance at the window. “And be quick about it.”

  Lantree signed the license then put the pen in Rebecca’s tied-up hand. He held the paper close enough for her to scribble her signature. Setting the legalities back on the desk, he stood between Rebecca and the window.

  He rested his hand on her shoulder. He wanted to take the time to set her loose but Smothers had gained his feet and was trying to wedge himself back through the window.

  Hershal barged into the room, weapon in hand. Lantree hadn’t heard a gunshot, at least not one in the hotel, so his boss must have left Dimwit with the ghost of Catherine Moreland to deliver justice.

  “Wouldn’t if I were you.” Hershal pointed the gun at Smothers’s knee, which had just cleared the sill.

  “Do you—” Smith glanced over at the marriage license “—Lantree Boone Walker, take this woman to—”

  “I do.”

  Smith sighed and glanced again at the license.

  “Do you, Rebecca Lousie Lane, take this man to have and to—”

  “Yes...yes I do.”

  “Rings?” the justice asked.

  As luck would have it the gold band was still in his pocket. He slipped it on Rebecca’s finger. She craned her head, trying to see it, but her hands were behind her.

  Smothers set up a string of curses but stayed where he was.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife.” Smith, a bead of sweat dripping down his neck, hightailed it out of the room, the pom-pom on his nightcap swinging with his long stride.

  “Kiss your bride, son,” Hershal declared, grinning wide.

  He gripped the edges of the chair and lifted it. He took an instant to look into Rebecca’s eyes. She clutched the edges of the seat for balance, then blinked wide.

  The pink bow that held the bodice of her gown together had come loose. The satin ends draped over the swell of her breasts. Dumbfounded groom or not, he could only notice.

  Hershal shoved the mayor back out the window frame.

  Lantree yanked the chair close, leaned in and kissed his stunned and no doubt reluctant bride.

  Chapter Eleven

  Three days on the trail toward home and Rebecca remained stunned.

  The fact that she was married, as legal a wife as any had ever been, was a shock all by itself. But what left her half-speechless was the memory of Lantree lifting her from the floor...tied to a chair.

  He hadn’t grunted or strained, he’d simply plucked up her up as though she weighed no more than Melinda did.

  By the saints!

  Sitting in the wagon beside Grandfather, she stared at Lantree’s back while he led them into the yard in front of the house. She had no idea a man could be so strong.

  And here he was, in a sense, hers. How was she to act now?

  The one thing she did know was that she was grateful to be home. The only thing she wanted to do was climb the stairs to her room, collapse upon her bed and come to terms with what had happened.

  At least now that they were married, they would no longer have to pretend to be in love. That was a relief...it most certainly was!

  She had never meant to marry, and neither had Lantree. But circumstances had changed in a hurry. There had been no time to think, to consider the consequences.

  In the moment, they both understood what needed to be done. There had been no choice...no decision to be agonized over.

  The ceremony happened quickly. The memory of it flashed in her mind as a blur. All except the kiss.

  That kiss had stunned her. Her, well, her husband—that was what he was after all—had lingered over it longer than it had taken to rush through the vows.

  The kiss had begun quick and hard, just like everything else leading up to the moment, but then it softened, deepened, made her feel like she was floating...possibly because that was exactly what she w
as doing.

  Subtly, the pressure on her mouth had changed. Lantree had begun to nip at her lips. She’d grown half-dizzy and then had felt his tongue— Oh, my.

  In the end, a bucket of cold reality had doused the moment when Mike had begun to stir and Smothers to curse outside the window, vowing that they would all be sorry. Vowing it with ugly words.

  What she could not help but wonder was what did Smothers think he could do to a man who lifted a woman tied to a chair as though she were a feather drifting on the breeze?

  Early on she had likened Lantree to a massive Viking. Now she thought it even more.

  With the mayor’s outrage grating on their ears, the three of them had hurried to the livery, gathered the wagon and the horses and fled Coulson by the light of a rising moon.

  Naturally, Grandfather grinned all the way home. He had gotten exactly what he’d wanted.

  And, truth be told, she could not help but take a few peeks at her wedding ring, the metal glowing softly gold in the moonlight.

  She and Lantree had found little to say to each other. Utter shock had stolen their voices, was what she reckoned.

  Still, there was a good bit that needed to be said. Now that a few days had passed to let matters settle in their minds, now that they were safe at home, they would be able to figure a way out of this mess.

  Lantree had no wish to be married any more than she did. To add to the trouble, Dimwit had seen Boone’s face on the wanted poster.

  For his own safety, Lantree would need to be on his way, and in a hurry.

  Imagining him riding away, his only belongings those he could carry in his saddle packs, made her heart twist. He had become a friend...a very special friend. It was not fair that he should be forced to move from the home that he loved.

  It wasn’t right and her heart ached for him.

  “Good to be home,” Grandfather declared, then got down from the wagon, grinning at her while he stretched. “I’ll have Tom and Jeeter bring your things over to Lantree’s cabin.”

  Her gaze locked with Lantree’s. She felt her eyes go wide, her body go cold as stone.

  A woodpecker tapped at a tree overhead. She heard the front door open and Barstow’s boots cross the porch.

  This could not be. As soon as she recovered her voice she would say so.

  Grandfather announced the good news about the marriage to the cook as though it really were good news.

  “No, Grandfather,” she gasped. “Lantree and I, we aren’t really married. We never meant to—”

  “Hush, now, girl.” Grandfather gave her a hand down from the wagon, which she accepted because she felt topsy-turvy. “You are as married as me and my Catherine were, and a sight more married than your parents.”

  Lantree handed his horse off to Jeeter, who had come running when he heard the wagon roll in.

  She waited for Lantree to protest Grandfather’s decree, but he stood silently by, staring at the ground and crunching a dirt clod with the toe of his boot.

  Well, someone needed to say something rational.

  “Don’t forget the other thing that happened in Coulson,” she pointed out with utmost reason. “Dimwit matched the poster of Boone to Lantree.”

  Lantree nodded, still silent and grinding the clod to dust.

  “He’s got to leave...the sooner the better,” she pointed out.

  “No.” Lantree looked up, his blue eyes intent upon her. He walked over to her and placed his big, solid hands on her shoulders. “Rebecca, I’m staying.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Of course he had! “You’ve got to go.”

  “I’ve got a wife to protect.”

  She squinted her eyes at him as though he were a naughty child because he was not making any sense. “Not really. Besides, I’ll not have your arrest on my conscience.”

  “I take full responsibility for my own safety.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to take responsibility for mine.”

  “See you lovebirds at dinner.” Hershal gave a satisfied nod then walked past Barstow and into the house. “Or maybe not?”

  The cook bobbed down the front steps and wrapped her in a great hug. He smelled like onions and garlic.

  Ordinarily, she would have been eager to know what delicious thing he was preparing for the evening meal. Just now she thought she might never eat again.

  When Barstow finally finished with his hugs and congratulations, Lantree took her hand firmly in his.

  “Let’s go home, Mrs. Walker,” he said, but there was no warmth in the invitation, only resignation.

  By George, she was not giving in so easily. She wrenched free of Lantree’s grip.

  She gathered up her skirt then ran into the house and up the stairs. Once in her room she slammed the door closed.

  From down below she heard Screech calling her name. With a groan of frustration she fell belly-first on the bed then covered her head with a pillow.

  Even under the fluff, she heard determined footsteps mounting the stairs.

  She would be secure in her own room...for about thirty more seconds, since her door had no lock on it.

  * * *

  Four hours later, an easy night rain pattered against the cabin windows.

  Rebecca had not spoken a word to him since he’d carried her over his shoulder to his cabin.

  Their cabin, he corrected in his mind. She was his wife now. Everything that he had was hers.

  “Rebecca.”

  She stared at the rain dripping down the glass as though he had not spoken. He did not believe that she was being deliberately petulant. That was not the kind of woman she had shown herself to be.

  She reached for her violin and began to play a slow, sad-sounding tune.

  No, he reckoned she was in shock. It might take some time for her to come to terms with the fact that her life had been upended and there was not a damned thing she could do about it.

  “Rebecca, it’s time for bed.”

  The bow squealed across the strings. She spun about on her chair to look at him with narrowed eyes. She didn’t look alarmed, but she did look ten kinds of stubborn.

  “If you allow me to go back to my own room, I’ll be more than happy to go to bed.”

  “From now on, that—” he inclined his head toward what used to be his bedroom “—is your room.”

  “I think not.”

  She stood up, set aside her instrument, then began to pace. She stopped at the bedroom door, gazing in at the bed. When she turned to face him again, she was blushing.

  “I aim to sleep on the couch, if that’s what’s got you in a fluster.”

  “I’m not in a fluster... All right, maybe I am, but it’s because I don’t feel married.” She wrung her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers over her rings. “I heard the justice of the peace, I recited vows...but—”

  She crossed the room then sat back down on the chair with a flounce, looking frustrated.

  “I know it all happened too fast,” he said. “But we did what needed doing. Now we’ve got to make the best of the situation.”

  She shook her head. “This was supposed to be for show. I don’t know why it can’t continue to be that way. What, really, has changed except that we said some words in front of Mr. Smith?”

  Something had the hell and damn changed for him. Vows had been recited, the certificate signed. He had a wife. He was legally and morally bound to her...to keeping her safe. There was no going back from that.

  “Those weren’t just any words. They unite us for good or ill... I hope you’ll come to find it for the good, Becca.”

  “Grandfather will be safe at any rate.”

  He couldn’t say that her comment didn’t hurt. He’d offered an olive branch and she had dodged it.
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  “Weren’t we friends before we went to Coulson? Can’t we be that at least?” he asked.

  She closed her eyes and bent her head. When she looked up, her cheeks were moist.

  “We can... I’m sorry. You can’t be happy with what has happened any more than I am. You, even less so.” The moisture that dampened her eyelashes dripped down her cheeks. “I’ve invaded your house, taken your bed and robbed you of your privacy.”

  “I always wanted a pretty wife,” he said lightly, trying to lighten the mood, but the sudden darkening of her expression told him he had made a mistake.

  Well, by damn, if he wanted to call his wife pretty, he was going to.

  He stooped beside her chair and stroked the tears from her cheeks with his thumb.

  “Becca, you are a lovely woman,” he said softly. “Why do you get so angry whenever I say so?”

  “Because I know it’s not true. When you pay me an empty compliment, it’s the same as making fun of me.”

  “I know beauty when I see it...and don’t you believe that I would ever make light of your feelings.”

  “Maybe you’re a flirt. Compliments are a game to you.”

  “I’m not a flirt.” No one had ever accused him of that before. His wife was trying to wriggle her way around the topic.

  “I’d like to know why you feel that you are not attractive,” he said, going to the heart of the matter.

  She was silent for a long time. Then she got up, went to the window and stared out at the rain.

  “You’ve heard of the ugly duckling? The great awkward fowl that grew up among the pretty little chicks?”

  “Can’t see how that applies.”

  “Oh, it does... That was my life if you insist on knowing.”

  “What I remember is that the story ends with a beautiful swan.”

  “Be that as it may, no one has ever compared me to a swan.”

  “They have now.”

  She glanced down at him and the distressed expression on her face ripped his heart.

  “My own mother liked her dolls better than she...” He watched the muscles of her throat constrict. “Did you know, Lantree, that back in Kansas City it was whispered about that if I did marry, it would be because some unlucky man was in a desperate situation?”