His Rip-Roarin' Bride

by Martha Hix

  After they both reached another climax, she whispered, “I bet that painted lady taught you.”

  “Don’t ask, my love. Just know I am yours from here on out. Until death do us part.”

  * * *

  “Shit fire! I thought you were dead!” Lisa-Ann had no trouble recognizing her visitor. Seeing her in person was the shock of it all.

  Short and dark, the woman resembled her graven images, including the unfortunate eye.

  Wes’s mother looked her up and down. “Heavens! I thought you’d be normal sized and prettier.”

  “Pl-please come in, M-Mother Alington.”

  Wes’s mother shoved his wife aside to stomp inside the house. In the parlor, she removed her hat and gloves, hooking both to the hall tree. She fingered her ringlets, evidently to freshen them. “You may address me as Mrs. Orrey-Alington.”

  Lisa-Ann Alington had two choices: Grovel or fight. “As you wish. Mother.”

  “Hmmph.”

  As her mother-in-law marched toward the kitchen, Lisa-Ann took the opportunity to wonder why her husband and Deputy A.J. led her down a garden path. And what did it mean, his mother’s return? Was this her house or Wes’s? From what she’d heard of “Mother,” should she run for the hills? Then again, Lisa-Ann did have need for a motherly figure.

  All she could think to say was: “I thought you passed on, back in February.”

  Wes’s mother grabbed an apron from a hutch drawer, then started to set canisters and cooking paraphernalia to rights. “Obviously, I didn’t. What’s the matter with your eyes?”

  “You mean these eyeglasses?”

  “I imagine so”—she sealed a canister—“unless that’s a hearing harp you’ve got on your nose.”

  No wonder people never ask after her, never offered condolences at her passing. “I wasn’t finished with those. I’m baking pound cake. I trust you like it.”

  “I hate it.”

  All the ruckus startled the cat, who slept atop the icebox. She took one look at the returned resident before bowing her back. Lisa-Ann just knew Cassandra would raise hackles. She didn’t. She jumped to the floor and flew into the old lady’s arms. Cassandra’s purrs were loud enough to reverberate through the kitchen.

  “Missed me, have you? Good. I have a stuffed mouse in my valise.”

  Cassandra couldn’t have been happier.

  “Pardon my curiosity, Mother, but where have you been?”

  “In San Angelo with Temperance—is that her pinafore you’re wearing?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Made yourself right at home, have you?”

  “This is my husband’s home. Bridegrooms do take brides to their home.”

  Mother’s lips crimped into a zigzag design. She changed the subject. “Temperance and I were in Sugar Land, visiting my parents’ graves and inspecting the sugar interests that belonged to my father. You may have heard of Marmaduke Orrey. He was a well-known sugar king. He brought on an early death. Alcohol poisoning.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Lisa-Ann replied honestly.

  “To answer your question, I received wonderful news about our Orrey bluebloods. We were—what nationality are you? You appear Scandinavian. Thick-headed, those Vikings. Dumb as a box of rocks. What’s the history of your family?”

  Never had Lisa-Ann even dreamed of bragging of her lineage, since it wasn’t much to talk about, but she did feel compelled to say, “Actually, I am of German descent. My father was—”

  “Germans! Those heathens were scribbling on cave walls while my family built castles and roads.” Wes’s mother opened cabinet doors to snoop. “Temperance and I were set to sail on the American Line to Southampton.”

  “Did the ship sink?”

  “Her husband tracked us down. We were at the dock, our steamer trunks on the gangway. He insisted Temperance leave with him. Blasted man! I’m no good alone. I need a partner. So I turned around.”

  She said no more, but did pick up the bottle of vanilla to read the label. Emptying the contents into a scraps bucket, she frowned. “Shame on you, allowing alcohol in my home.”

  “Cakes aren’t fit to eat without vanilla.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Absolutely, Mother dear.”

  “Maybe that’s why no one ever wanted to buy my cakes at church auctions. Westford always had to bribe them.”

  Lisa-Ann gauged her mother-in-law. “I’m disappointed in you, greeting your new daughter-in-law by pouring out her flavoring.”

  “Daughter-in-law? You won’t be that for long. My son will not be trussed to some woman he met in a saloon.”

  “It wasn’t black and white, the way we met. I wasn’t there to imbibe spirits. I was there to kill a man.”

  “That’s a relief. I was disturbed when I heard about Westford being back with that Jenny harlot.”

  “Back with?”

  “She has lured him to her bedroom since he was fourteen.”

  “Evidently she taught him everything he knows. Remind me to bake her some pound cake.”

  Mother laughed. “You’ll do, girl. I do believe you will.”

  “Thank you. Mind if I call you Mom?”

  “Go right ahead.” Mom smiled. “Good for you, going after that Bellingham. I never did think much of that character.”

  “I’m with you.”

  “Daughter, does that coffeepot have anything in it?”

  Daughter? Lisa-Ann smiled. “You bet it does.”

  They drained their cups without restraint. When she was done, Wes’s mother set the spoon on the saucer slowly. “The truth of the matter is, we were set for Europe on the strength of a genealogical chart that an Englishman created for the Orrey family. While in New York, I learned he may be a charlatan. It was almost a relief when Donald swept Temperance away. It was a sign, really, returning to the field I put aside at my husband’s death. My life’s work.”

  “That would be...?”

  “Temperance, of course.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “No. Abstinence from alcohol!”

  “I’ve heard of your friendship with Carrie A. Nation.”

  “I invited her to work magic here in Lubbock. Alas, health impedes her. So I’ve decided to fight demon rum on my own. Right here, right now.”

  This didn’t sound good. Wes would have a fit. Dreading the answer, Lisa-Ann asked, “What do you plan to do?”

  “Speak at churches, on street corners. Hand out pamphlets. Any and everything that needs to be done. I will not stop until Scarlet Garter Jenny’s and others of that ilk are no more!” For a moment, her locked left eye seemed to look forward.

  Lisa-Ann recalled A.J. having a low opinion of the Garter and its frequent fights between drinkers. The clientele didn’t consist of happy Germans drinking beer and making music.

  “What are the chances that you, dear daughter, might be interested in joining me?”

  “If it involves hatchets, no thanks.”

  “Why?”

  “Wes doesn’t want me violent. I don’t want me violent. I’ll be your friend. I’ll speak on your behalf. I’ll distribute flyers, but no hatchets. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Both being headstrong, each quickly recognized a kindred spirit. Mom’s argument against Jenny Benoit? Lisa-Ann caught the fever, after hearing that the proprietress invited tinhorn boys to the saloon’s upper floor for naughty tutorials and a cloudy drink banned even in New Orleans, absinthe.

  “No one in town supports her,” Lisa-Ann said, receiving a knowing look from her mother-in-law.

  “The same has been said about me.” Mother picked through silverware, finding a fork to polish with a tea towel. “Jenny Benoit is a job requiring hatchets. Westford is a knight in shining armor to her. That needs to stop.”

  “Are you trying to cause trouble in your son’s marriage?”

  “A little bit.”

  “What are the
chances you’d stop? You could teach me to crochet doilies, I guess. Like the ones on the furniture.”

  “I bought ’em. What a waste of energy, needlework.”

  “I agree!” Lisa-Ann then said, “I used to build outdoor ovens. I really enjoyed it. Fresh air. Activity. A way to bring in money. Enough to hire a maid.”

  “I like that. If you’re after a partner, I’m in!”

  Of course, Lisa-Ann knew Wes wouldn’t approve. At all. Yet, she’d gone beyond bored, cleaning house and washing clothes. Her time with Priscilla wasn’t even enough. Meeting Mom could have been awful, but it was not.

  “I’m sure we’ll find many things to keep us occupied.”

  “Absolutely!”

  * * *

  Wes stood in the doorway to the kitchen and listened to the conversation between his bride and his mother. He did not like what he’d walked in on, the two most important women in his life with their heads together. He feared Mother would eat Lisa-Ann alive.

  Yet...they were smiling at each other. Smiling!

  “Mother dear!” He kissed his wife and had another for Mother. “I thought you’d be in London by now. What happened?”

  “My work is here.”

  That scared him.

  His wife took her turn. “Why in the world did you lead me to believe Mom was dead?”

  She called her Mom? And his mother wasn’t pitching a fit? “Blame A.J. Besides, it wasn’t important...until now…”

  Lisa-Ann got a pensive look. “Really? Well, I’ll be.”

  A shout from outside interrupted them. “Sheriff! Come quickly!”

  “What the hell?” Lisa-Ann said, only to have Mom shake a finger at her.

  With the women close behind, Wes went and opened the kitchen door.

  A young boy stood huffing and puffing on the stoop. “You gotta come, you gotta! There’s a ruckus going on in the Garter. Miss Jenny, she was holdin’ class upstairs. Some drunk papas got in a fight with the bouncer. Then ever’body was fightin’. Several be bleedin’ bad. Doc O’Dell says to tell you Deputy Dub got hit, and Deputy A.J. needs you quick.”

  By the time Wes reached Jenny’s place, with his wife and mother racing behind him, most of the hell had died down, mainly because the greater number of fighters were dead or on their way. Deputy Dub bled from a shot to his thigh.

  A.J. Hawkins proved that Brownwood knew how to train a fellow with a rope. He roped the fighters who needed trussing, and trussed them.

  Wes set to work collaring the few still standing, along with a couple hiding behind the bar, while Lisa-Ann and Mother walked through the fallen, giving help and comfort as they could.

  “Sheriff! The High Hopes people are here.”

  He nodded to Doc O’Dell. “Yes. I see them.”

  Jewel Craig, along with her husband, their nephew Sam, and his wife, Linnea Kincaid each rolled up their sleeves to assess need and pitch in, with the men accompanying Deputy A.J. to escort the last three belligerent, bleeding drunks to jail.

  Missing was Grant Kincaid, who had already set out for Huntsville to call on Violet Wilkins.

  Wes saw that Jenny Benoit had bent over the mahogany bar, beating her fist on it and wailing about her portrait being destroyed. Someone had blown a hole through the canvas at the upper part of her body.

  “’Tis not fair! ’Tis not fair!” Jenny kept wailing. “My portrait! My beautiful self!”

  For once, Wes saw her for what she was. A twit who cared only for herself.

  “Oh, my God! He came back.” Jewel Craig screamed. “It’s Orville!”

  Going by Bellingham’s position in death, with a corpse fallen above him, he’d been one of the first to die. Even though this was the hated Orville, Lisa-Ann had it in her heart to comfort his weeping sister.

  Dear Lisa. Lisa-Ann, his wife. Lisa, his red-hot lover. Lisa-Ann, someday the mother of his children. Lisa-Ann, who just wanted to be his woman, the mother of his kids, and a builder of clay ovens. She should have her ovens.

  Right then and there, Wes made a deal with himself. She could build as many as she sold. More, if it pleased her.

  He moved his line of sight from his wife to his mother. He also peered at Jewel, the epitome of a pioneer woman. And then there was her niece-by-marriage, Linnea Kincaid—a mail order bride who lied her way to Lubbock, then singlehandedly initiated a new local industry, cotton. It took good, sturdy, hard-working, hard-loving women to survive and thrive in a place like Lubbock.

  These were women of substance. Women who would never cry over a destroyed likeness. They were too busy fighting their own wars and making the world better for it. Even though fate backfired at times, such as when Ted Alington fell dead.

  A man could call himself lucky to have the love of one of those loving and loyal women, even the craziest of the bunch, Mrs. Estella Orrey-Alington. His father had loved her, prickles and all, even though she hastened his death. The best way to keep Mother out of trouble? Create busywork. He went to her and his wife, looping arms with them. “I’ve been thinking about honeycomb ovens. I’m wondering if we might look into building a few.”

  “What a wonderful idea, Wes!” Lisa-Ann said.

  Mother spoke up. “Lisa-Ann and I will need a maid for the housework, to free us up for oven-building. But the rest of the money? What do you think, Daughter?”

  “Let’s add a better heating system for the jail.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Westford, I’m wondering. Have you seen my hatchet?”

  Nobody said it was going to be easy.

  If you enjoyed Martha Hix’s His Rip-Roarin’ Bride, be sure not to miss the first romance in the Texan Brides series,

  Keep reading for a special excerpt!

  Click here to get your copy.

  Stage Stop Dining Room

  Fort Worth, Texas

  Late March, 1904

  “What makes you think you can just step in and take this nice young lady’s identity?”

  Still feeling the shake and rattle of riding for days in a stagecoach, Linnea Powell, disgraced widow, tried to ignore her lunch companion’s question. Impossible. The dark-haired, skinny woman was jerking her thumb at the eatery’s newest waitress.

  Linnea leaned in to whisper, “Put your finger down or Mr. Philpott will notice you’re upset.”

  Jewel Bellingham did drop her hand, but her mouth flattened with disgust.

  They both glanced at the reporter, their fellow stagecoach passenger since leaving the East Texas town of Jefferson—one of several waystations on their journey from Shreveport, Louisiana. The man sat at a table for one and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. Despite his hunger for a shocking story, he always refused to break bread with the women, which suited Linnea just fine.

  The prig then wiggled on his chair and raised a forkful of pie as if to smell the contents. One side of his mouth lifted in what appeared to be distaste.

  “He could ruin everything,” Linnea said, her tone a hushed yet heartfelt plea.

  The newly hired waitress approached. Carrying a large tray of plates, Ermentrude Flanders winked as she breezed by to deliver the noonday meal to a table of four. Just this morning, when the stage pulled into Fort Worth, the pleasant, flaxen-haired girl had abandoned her seat to ask the proprietor to take down the Waitress Required sign.

  “I can understand wanting to better oneself,” Jewel remarked, leaning in to whisper, “but I have a hard time reconciling her future. She could have been a respectable matron. To take a waitress job, on the off chance she can quit if a highfalutin bunch of Fort Worth doctors will allow her to study medicine at their school? Not likely.”

  The previous evening, Linnea had listened in amazement to the whys and what-fors. Ermentrude had agreed to marry, simply to please her mother. Then she had decided to please herself, accepting a match with Mr. Kincaid by correspondence. It would put hundreds of miles between her and her mother.

  Understand
ing that part didn’t come easily, as Linnea ached for family. “Well, they were her decisions to make. I hope she’ll soon trade her serving apron for the surgical variety. And I appreciate this chance to benefit from her decisions.”

  Stirring sugar into her coffee, Jewel snickered. “You would.”

  Linnea chose to ignore that. She had ignored much worse comments over the past three years, had been deeply hurt by even more.

  When she was offered the identity switch, her battered heart had swelled with hope for the first time in months. Thus, Linnea had jumped at the chance at something far more stable and certainly more fulfilling than her shaky plans to apply for a position in the New Mexico household of a former employer.

  And now a major problem had reared its ugly head in the visage of what her late husband had called “the Fourth Estate.”

  Namely, Edgar Philpott, formerly of the Jefferson Jimplecute.

  The strange little man had now traded nostrils to get another whiff of the dessert, then dug in to his slice of buttermilk pie. The way he behaved—and had behaved since boarding the stage for his own new start—reminded Linnea of the way a dog smells around, looking for the best place to empty his bladder.

  “I wonder what Mr. Philpott would say if he knew the whole story?” Jewel said in a stage whisper.

  Linnea leaned in. “Shh! Don’t even consider telling him. Edgar Philpott knows too much already. Do you remember how he recognized my name? When we introduced ourselves, in Jefferson.”

  The reporter had hitched his britches up just a tad too high on his belly. Right in front of the driver and the other passengers, he flourished a narrow notebook and a pencil. “Tell me, Mrs. Powell,” he said while touching the pencil lead to his tongue. “How did you feel when you got the news your husband shot dead the sheriff of Rapides Parish?”

  She had let fly with her feelings. “I didn’t feel nearly as bad as when I got the news that his deputy shot my husband dead.”

  But that was days ago and this was Fort Worth. With many more jarring miles now behind them, she figured the Philpott problem would right itself once they reached Jacksboro. He had a new position waiting at the Jacksboro Bee.