Lasso the Moon: Book One in the Wild West Romance Series

by Beth Ciotta

  DEDICATION:

  For my mentor, Sandra Chastain. You believed in me. You taught me. Thank you for giving me the courage to fly.

  Published 2006 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

  is a registered tradmark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 2006 by Beth Ciotta

  Cover Illustration by Adam Mock

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ciotta, Beth.

  Lasso the moon / Beth Ciotta.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-932815-28-7

  1. Actresses–Fiction. 2. Arizona–Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.I58L37 2006

  813’.6–dc22

  2005029013

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

  My eternal gratitude to Cynthia Valero—-my friend, critique partner, and artistic soul mate. From beginning to end, it’s been a long and wild ride. Thank you for hanging in!

  My heartfelt appreciation to Tammie Weaver—-my friend and a spiritual inspiration. You opened arms and home to me. You opened my eyes and heart to Arizona. I am forever changed.

  Also I’d like to thank Mary Stella and Julia Templeton for … everything. What would I do without you?

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  PROLOGUE

  Heaven, California, 1867

  Her birthday was yesterday, William.”

  “I know that, Elizabeth. It couldn’t be helped. If we lived in San Francisco instead of Napa Valley—”

  “We’ve been through this. I don’t want our children to grow up—”

  “Surrounded by culture?”

  “Too fast.” Elizabeth rubbed her temples and sighed. “She cried her eyes out.”

  “I’ll make it up to her.”

  “With another gift? Your daughter doesn’t need another music box or an autographed playbill. The boys are used to your neglect, but Paris—”

  —couldn’t bear to hear her parents argue. Worse, to be the cause of their row. She’d been plunking out a melody on the piano in an effort to chase a repetitive song from her mind when she heard her papa’s cheerful, “I’m home!” With a whoop, she’d hopped off her cushioned stool, brushed cookie crumbs from the front of her calico dress, and raced across the parlor, pigtails flying. She’d almost made it to the foyer of the elegant Garrett home when she heard her mama’s voice. Her smile drooped at the sight of Mama, hands on hips, shoulders squared for yet another battle, and Papa frowning back.

  “You’re home!” she shouted past the lump in her throat.

  Her parents started and turned. They wouldn’t fight in front of her. She wished they wouldn’t fight at all, but that was like wishing one of her four brothers had been born a girl.

  A striking man of substantial height, William Garrett dropped to his knees and threw his lanky arms wide. “Morning, Songbird.”

  Paris ran across the room and jumped into the smiling theater owner’s embrace. “Morning, Papa!” She snuggled her nose against his neck. He smelled of cherry tobacco and spicy cologne. He smelled of success.

  William hugged his youngest child tight, kissed her forehead, and then pushed her to arms’ length. “You know how much I love you, pumpkin, don’t you?”

  Paris chewed her lower lip and nodded, her heart thumping wildly, the world a zillion times brighter because he was home! Oh, how she wished Mama wouldn’t fuss. It wasn’t easy managing a theater. She should know. Before she’d been a mother, she’d been an actress. A gifted performer who’d enchanted audiences with her operatic voice and dramatic flair. “You could have been a star,” Papa often said. To which Mama always replied, “I chose marriage.”

  Paris had always wondered if her mama had made the wrong choice. Papa seemed to think so. But then Paris and her brothers wouldn’t exist. Certainly Papa wouldn’t be happier if they’d never been born. Would he?

  “I wanted to be here for your special day, Paris,” he said, looking powerful sorry. “But Lily lost her voice. She had an understudy, of course. But the understudy was nervous. Rehearsals ran long. There was a problem with costuming.” He quirked a lopsided smile. “You understand, don’t you?”

  Paris nodded. “It doesn’t matter,” she lied, willing her toothy grin strong and true. “It’s just a stupid birthday.”

  “Eight years old,” William said, “and destined for greatness. Just like your mama.” He looked at Elizabeth with disappointment. The gaze he bestowed upon his daughter brimmed with pride. He tugged at one of her long, dark braids. “Always remember, Songbird. Reach for the stars.”

  Paris pressed her tiny hands to her chest. It felt like one of her brothers had plopped down on her ribs. She ignored the uncomfortable ache as well as her mama’s frown. Mama always frowned whenever Papa encouraged their only daughter’s musical talents, saying she’d do better to concentrate on sewing and cooking. Paris didn’t see the point. It’s not like she ever aimed on getting hitched. Marriage equaled broken hearts and dreams.

  “I’ll do better than that, Papa,” Paris promised, beaming up at her hero. “I’ll lasso the moon.”

  Territory of Arizona, 1877

  He’d kill Mason Burke if he weren’t already dead. Damn his will and that damned stipulation. Joshua Grant threw back a shot of rotgut, marveling at the dead man’s tenacity. Six feet under, and his uncle had still managed to get in the last word.

  “Can I get ya’ anything else, Sheriff Grant?”

  “Yeah, a wife.” Josh glanced up from the bullet nicked bar to the scrunched-up face of its owner. “Never mind. Hit me with another shot. On second thought, make it a double.” His future as a wedded theater owner flashed before his eyes. “Hell. Just slide me the bottle and be done with it.”

  “Sure ‘nuff, Sheriff.”

  “Stop calling me that.” He snatched up the quart bottle of whiskey Jimmy Hell slid his way. “I told you. I turned in my badge yesterday.”

  The proprietor of Hell’s Drinkin’ Hole indicated the rowdy clientele with a flick of his tattered bar rag. “So that’s what this party’s for?” Smirking, the hairy-knuckled wiseass braced his beefy forearms on the splintered ledge of his bar and leaned forward. “Funny, but
I can’t recall your reason for leaving town exactly.”

  Josh leaned forward as well. “That’s because I never said exactly.” He straightened with a smile and let the taunt settle. Maybe it was the liquor or maybe he was just plain out of his head, but he almost felt giddy when Jimmy narrowed his eyes. He’d been spoiling for a fight for days. Since Mason wasn’t available, he’d settle on the nearest pair of fists. Even if those fists were the size of Christmas hams.

  Only Jimmy Hell’s attention had cut to the swinging doors. “What the …?” His bushy brows cut into a stern V. “Here comes trouble. Good thing you’re here, Sheriff. I can’t afford another brawl this week. I’m down to six good tables and I’m lucky if I got ten chairs with all their legs.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” Josh ripped the cork out of the bottle with his teeth. Spitting it clean over the barkeep’s shoulder, he muttered, “I’ll be mindful of where I sit. And stop calling me Sheriff. I’m not the law anymore.” That said, he tipped the bottle to his lips and turned to see what form of trouble had stumbled into the saloon. Just for curiosity’s sake. He’d figured on spying Rosco Timbers or Newt Gibbons, two of Yuma’s more cantankerous yahoos, seeing that the mean-spirited Riley brothers were already in attendance. So he near about choked on his half-swallowed drink when he spotted the fresh-faced half-pint standing in the doorway, a bulging carpetbag in hand.

  From a distance it was right hard to tell if the kid wearing baggy denim trousers, a faded blue, kneelength shirt, and a dirt-brown fedora was a boy or a girl. A heartbeat later the half-pint stepped forward and tripped over Moe Wiggin’s king-sized boot. The hat went flying and ebony, waist-length hair spilled out.

  One mystery solved.

  Moe scooped up the fedora and plopped it back on the young woman’s head. She smiled at the old coot as she elbowed her way through the redeye-guzzling, cheroot-smoking crowd.

  Josh knew everyone in and around Yuma. He didn’t recognize her. Cute as a baby coon, and his gut warned twice as bothersome.

  The kid navigated her unwieldy bag through the maze of occupied tables and chairs, offering apologies as she bumped arms and legs along the way. Intrigued, Josh trained his gaze on the determined runt as she cut a deliberate path through the boodle of pokes and doves, suggesting she knew exactly where she was headed.

  “If you got any four-legged chairs in the vicinity of the piano, Jimmy, I suggest you clear ‘em out.” Josh grabbed his quart bottle and trailed the girl. Maybe he’d get his fight after all. Unfortunately, his progress was hindered by a slew of well-wishers. Assorted doves kissed him for old-times sake. Friends and acquaintances slapped his back or pumped his arm in enthusiastic handshakes. They all wished him good luck. The law-abiding men of Yuma had insisted on throwing him this going-away party. Which was fine, dandy, and thoughtful, except he wasn’t all that pleased to be going.

  That had been Mason’s idea.

  “Damn him,” he muttered again for good measure. Miserable, and not near drunk enough, he tossed back a healthy swig of whiskey before vying for a spot behind Moe Wiggins, who stood on his one good leg outside a two-man-deep crowd. “What’s going on?”

  Moe squinted at the kid who was in an animated discussion with the saloon’s pianist. “Ain’t sure. All I know is that Fingers was in the middle of Buffalo Gals and that gal elbowed her way in and put a stop to it.”

  “Why?”

  Moe squinted harder, as though it might somehow improve his hearing. “Can’t hear what she’s sayin’.”

  Neither could Josh. His party had grown from loud to deafening. Jimmy Hell was right about one thing.

  Trouble was brewing. He could see that even in his bleary-eyed state.

  “Whatever she’s up to,” Moe said, “it ain’t good.”

  “It ain’t my concern.” But, for the life of him, he couldn’t tear his gaze from the petite girl. A cute little bunny trapped by a pack of mangy wolves, the sharpest teeth belonging to Burgess and Billy Riley.

  Moe drained his beer, sleeved a dribble of brew from his pointy chin. “You’ve never been one to let a boilin’ pot overflow.”

  “I’m no longer the law in these parts.” He figured if he repeated it enough times, he’d get used to the idea. Still and all, he couldn’t bring himself to ignore the baby-faced tomboy. The need to protect was a right hard habit to break.

  Unable to resist, he moved closer to the action.

  “You don’t understand, sir.” She dropped her bag near the rickety piano and shook a cramp out of her hand. “This is an emergency. I’m in desperate need of your instrument. If you would only accommodate me—”

  “Accommodate ya’?” Fingers raised an amused eyebrow above the rim of his wired spectacles. “Ain’t never heard it called that before, honey.”

  His drunken entourage snickered.

  “You needn’t worry,” she hurried on. “I’m very good.”

  Fingers’s other eyebrow shot up. “You don’t say?”

  She smiled and nodded. “I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

  Josh bit back a groan. How naïve could one girl be not to realize how a passel of men were twisting her innocent words?

  “Listen,” Fingers said, mopping his brow as though the temperature had shot from eighty to a hundred. “I’m in the middle of a slew of requests. Give me a few minutes and then—”

  “A few minutes? It’s been days!”

  “That long?” Fingers traded a smirk with the leering audience. “Well, now. I reckon I could take a short break.” He pinned her with a smarmy look. “Just how good are ya’, honey?”

  “My brothers think I’m excellent.”

  The pianist hooted. “Your brothers?”

  Owl-eyed and eager for details, the snickering mob leaned forward. Josh swayed right along with them.

  The girl blinked at Fingers. A few seconds later a blush crept up her neck, making a beeline for her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have … it’s just that I’m … ” She waved off her words and glanced toward an empty table. “I’ll wait over there until you’ve finished your requests.”

  Relieved, Josh reached back to massage a crick from his neck. At least the kid had sense enough to vamoose before things turned ugly.

  Burgess Riley clamped his burly hand over her wrist and whirled her back around. “What’s your hurry, sweet thing? If Fingers there ain’t willin’ to accommodate ya’, I sure as hell am.”

  “Me too!” chimed his brother.

  Her face lit up like a noonday sky. “You have a piano too?”

  The crowd guffawed.

  Josh rolled his eyes. The twinge in his neck pinched.

  “No piano. But don’t worry. We’ll make our own music.” Burgess forced her hand over the crotch of his filthy trousers. “Let’s put them talented fingers to good use. What do ya’ say, wildcat?”

  Josh chucked his whiskey bottle and pushed forward. Here comes the fight.

  The kid acted faster, kneeing Burgess square in the balls.

  For the love of … Josh grimaced as the man’s wounded howl sliced through him and every other man in the gurdy.

  Wide-eyed, the raven-haired ball-buster turned to run and slammed into Billy’s scrawny chest.

  Flashing a gap-toothed grin, he snatched her up. “Gotcha!”

  She hauled back that same deadly leg and kicked him in the shin. Billy dropped her and yowled. Hopping up and down on one foot, he spewed obscenities raunchy enough to make a hash slinger blush.

  Looking only slightly embarrassed, the girl backed into a wobbly-legged Burgess.

  Grabbing her by the forearms, the yahoo hauled her backside hard against his injured region and snarled. “You messed with the wrong man, sweet thing.”

  Josh moved faster this time. When the girl wrenched left he threw a right, ramming his knuckles into Burgess’s mouth. The man flew backward, the kid with him.

  Quick as lightning, Josh snatched her up and into his arms. The fedora tumbled to the floor, allowing him a ful
l view of her heart-shaped face. The patrons’ slurred heckles faded to a drone as he studied the petite minx up close and intimate like. Her smooth complexion, almighty pale in contrast to her ink-black hair, suggested she spent more time indoors than out. A surprise, given her tomboy appearance. Even more surprising was the jolt of lust he felt when he gazed into her walnut-brown eyes, eyes that sparkled with an intoxicating mix of innocence and bald appreciation. Complicating matters, a queer lump lodged in his throat when she quirked a shy smile. “What the hell?”

  His gruff words snapped her out of a moony-eyed daze. Blushing now, she struggled like a roped stallion to gain her freedom. “Let me go, you big ape!”

  The crowd’s whoops and hollers intensified as another skirmish heated up between the Riley boys and a couple of do-gooders. Josh was too busy protecting his gingambobs from Miss Musicmaker’s deadly knee and—Christ almighty—elbows to pay much mind.

  “Watch out!”

  At Moe’s warning, he dipped the feisty minx just as an empty bottle whizzed past her pretty head. At the same time a chair sailed through the air, shattering the front pane. An out-and-out brawl erupted. Thanks to Mason, he had a lifetime of bar brawls ahead of him. From what he’d heard, the patrons of the Desert Moon opera house were a rowdy bunch.

  At least his new life wouldn’t be dull.

  He glanced down at the pissed off half-pint. “Let’s get you out of here, sweetheart.”

  “I’m not your sweetheart.”

  “Whose sweetheart are you?”

  “No one’s.” Scowling, she reached behind her and tried to pry his hands from her waist. “I … I mean someone’s. Some big fellow. An ox of a man who’s going to beat you to a pulp if you don’t let me go.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.” He hiked her higher in his arms and caught a whiff of her glossy hair. Lilacs. The sweet, flowery scent blindsided him, stealing him back to his childhood. A time he preferred to forget. Squashing the bittersweet memories before they reached full bloom, he focused on the swinging doors.

  Three men crashed into a nearby table, fists flying. Cursing, he hastened his steps, the girl’s best interests at heart. Damn if the menace didn’t struggle harder as he hauled her out of harm’s way.