The Lassoed by Marriage Romance Collection

by Bell, Angela; Breidenbach, Angela; Carter, Lisa

  Frantically digging Harriet out, he’d experienced a panic only equaled when his mother took her last wheezing breath later that same day. Probably why he’d forgotten the cave-in. He shouldn’t have locked Harriet in the cell. If he’d remembered… Well, he didn’t know what else he’d have done with a female prisoner, but not that.

  Brax fiddled with the key. “I’m sorry, Harriet. Took me longer than I thought.” He jiggled the key. Nothing happened. He should’ve gotten the blacksmith to fix this.

  He didn’t like the glazed look on Harriet’s face. Catching, the lock clicked open. “There.” He wrested out the key and tossed it with a clank onto the desk so he’d remember to get it repaired as soon as the storm finished wreaking havoc.

  Brax swung wide the door and stepped inside. Like a blazing meteor, Harriet skedaddled off the bench toward freedom. Breath hitching, he instinctively grabbed for the iron bars of the door and yanked it shut. At the metallic clatter, Brax went rigid with disbelief, realizing what he’d done.

  Harriet throttled the bars. “Of all the stupid things you’ve ever accused me of, this takes the cake.”

  Brax agreed with her, although he’d never give Harriet the satisfaction of knowing so. She made him crazy. So off his stride. Still, the anger was a far better thing than her white-faced fear.

  Harriet whipped around. “Now you’ve gone and trapped both of us in this hole.”

  Brax gazed at the set of keys perched out of reach on his desk. Best-case scenario, someone would come looking for him. He’d be the laughingstock sheriff all over again. The sheriff who locked himself in a jail cell with his mule-rustling female prisoner. During a blizzard.

  He gripped the bars. Stuck in the slammer with the likes of Harriet Brimfield. Lord—he sighed—I thought we were friends.

  Never taking his eyes off the she-cat known as Crazy Hair, he retreated until the back of his knees hit the bench. “Might as well sit down, Harriet. It’s going to be a long night.” He dug a biscuit out of his jacket pocket.

  Her lips pursed, Harriet condescended to take it from him. His conscience smote him, and he wondered how long it’d been since she ate. Since she chose to eat, Brax defended himself. The Brimfields weren’t exactly hurting for money.

  The fiery orange of the coals glowed from the open stove. At least they’d be warm. Brax surveyed the neatly folded pile of garments Harriet had used to disguise her identity. Harriet scooted to the conjoined angle of the two benches, her spine pressed against the wall.

  “Are you okay? I should’ve remembered how you wouldn’t like being closed up.”

  Her mouth quivered. “I’m fine with you here.” A spot of pink tinged the fair skin above her lace collar.

  Brax took in the blue calico dress. She’d scooped the hair on both sides of her smooth oval complexion out of her face. He’d wondered if Harriet could do girl. Question answered. She could.

  Her mane captured in a garnet-studded clip, she tucked a stray tendril behind her ear. His eyes followed the movement of her hand. And with the greatest of effort, he managed to tear his gaze away from the locks of her hair. Pulse racing, Brax reminded himself Harriet was a felon.

  Brax flopped onto the bench to stare at the ceiling. He’d never figured out why she’d chosen him to be her hero. The penniless son of the town seamstress. The one the other children taunted for never having a pa. Taunts that launched Harriet, fists flying, to his defense.

  “Sheriffing long, Brax?”

  He grunted and closed his eyes. “Go to sleep.”

  “Your uncle was good to you, wasn’t he, Brax?”

  Brax’s eyes shot open.

  “I prayed he would be after you left so sudden-like when your ma died.”

  Harriet—Crazy Hair—Brimfield had prayed for him? Brax didn’t often think of those painful days after they lowered his mother’s body into the ground. Probably why he’d chosen to bury the memories of pesky Harriet right there beside his mother in the grave, too.

  A tough, fierce little thing, Harriet was also kind. He’d sat forlorn on the church steps until Harriet Brimfield plopped herself beside him. He’d forgotten how she’d been practically his last sight of the one-horse town where he’d spent the first fourteen years of his life. From the stagecoach window, he’d watched as Harriet waved good-bye from the middle of the deserted, dusty street.

  Brax cleared his throat. “Uncle Wilbur was great. Former sheriff of Hitching Post. He taught me everything I needed to know about being an officer of the law.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And a man.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  Another good thing about Harriet? You always knew where you stood with her. Happy or sad. Mad or glad. Wore her heart on her sleeve. Her every thought on her face.

  He fidgeted on the hard bench. “What about you? What other havoc have you wrought in the decade since our paths blessedly parted?”

  She laughed. The sound rang high and clear and true. Brax smiled. He’d also forgotten about Harriet’s inordinate—and sometimes wildly unfortunate—sense of humor.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Like when you rescued that mule from the miner’s pack train. Must’ve been when this fondness for nature’s stick-in-the-mud started. Like calling to like.”

  She eased down, turning on her side, and faced the top of his head. “How about those kittens we rescued from the mean farmer when he threw the sack of them into the crick?”

  Brax hooked his thumbs through the loops of his jeans. “When you forced me to dive in to the watering hole to drag them out and I near ’bout caught pneumonia.”

  “How could an itty-bitty girl like me force a strapping big boy like you to do anything he didn’t want to do? You wanted to save those kittens as much as me. You just needed me to prod you in the right direction.”

  Brax caught a whiff of flowers. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “So you’ve managed to avoid trouble until this latest misadventure?”

  Harriet propped her elbow and rested her chin in her hand. “After Pa died, the boys sent me East to finishing school until I ditched the city and headed for home again.”

  “Finishing school?” Brax chortled. “Obviously a job that only half baked.”

  She slapped the top of his head.

  “Hey!” He rubbed his scalp. “Can we stop the chatter and get some shut-eye before dawn?”

  Hattie pushed back her shoulders. “What’s the real reason an eligible bachelor like yourself isn’t married?”

  “I’m a bachelor sheriff like my uncle. The job and matrimony are a disaster waiting to happen. Although…”

  “Although what?”

  “Every winter I think about how nice it’d be to have supper waiting…”

  Hattie sat up. “I can cook.”

  Brax ignored her like he always did. “And a sweet, quiet woman. A real womanly woman. Pretty as a Montana meadow in spring.”

  Her heart sank to her boots. She was definitely not the stuff of Brax’s dreams. Nobody’d ever called her pretty. Much less sweet. And quiet? Hattie was about as quiet as a Kootenai war cry.

  Brax was right. She was destined to forever live out her days an old maid. Rustling ill-treated mules and kittens till she dropped in her tracks. A dried-up old spinster. Unloved. Unwanted.

  If only Braxton wasn’t always so guarded with her. “You need to loosen up a notch, Brax.”

  “And you, Harriet, need to tighten up at least a couple of notches.” Brax released a breath. “Oh, and one more thing, Harriet?”

  “Yes, Braxton dearest?” She said that just to hear him gnash his teeth.

  When he stopped growling, he added, “I think if we can regather the mules I can convince the owners to drop the charges, and we can send you on your way. The sooner the better. To wherever you were going.”

  Hattie wasn’t ready to vacate Hitching Post or Sheriff Braxton Cashel any sooner than necessary. Because she wasn’t sure until she ran into Brax�
��s cocked gun she’d actually been heading anywhere.

  Chapter 4

  The big secret to a mule that never kicks is to handle it firmly but gently from the time it is born, or from the time you acquire the mule.

  FOR THE LOVE OF A MULE

  Braxton opened his eyes as a shaft of sunlight poured through the jailhouse window. A sliver of blue sky. The storm had blown itself out. Bones aching, he slid his back up the wall. He stretched, and his hand brushed against something soft. Harriet Brimfield’s soft golden hair. Brax snatched his hand away.

  On her side with her hands tucked under her chin, Harriet resembled a sleeping angel. An illusion until she awoke and opened that big mouth of hers. But he resolved to enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasted.

  Brax feathered a springy coil of hair off her cheek. Unable to fight the urge, he wound the silken strand around his finger. Her brown eyes fluttered open. Her gaze landed on the curl entwined around his finger. Outside, the wooden planks on the boardwalk creaked.

  “It’s morning.” Brax cleared the hoarseness from his voice. But for the life of him, he couldn’t seem to let go of her hair.

  She smiled at him. A sweet smile. “A good morning.” Faint lines crinkled out at the corners of her eyes just as he remembered.

  Brax’s heart constricted. His breath hitched. Brax moved closer. Her eyes widened.

  His hand slid to cradle the nape of her neck, further entangling his fingers in her hair. And his mouth took on a mind of its own, edging nearer. He nudged her chin with the tip of his finger. Her lips parted. He held his breath. And—

  The hammers of a half-dozen guns cocked.

  Brax froze.

  “Step away from our baby sister, mister, and get your slimy hands in the air.”

  He scrambled away from Hattie so fast, she placed a hand on his arm to prevent Braxton from crashing into the wall.

  She gaped at the five men—guns extended through the bars of the cell. “Not you guys.”

  “You know these outlaws?” Brax’s mouth thinned. “That figures.”

  Those wonderful lips had been about to kiss her before her knuckleheaded brothers interrupted. “What,” she hissed, “are you doing here, Gen?”

  Brax’s nose wrinkled. “Gen? What kind of name is that for a man?”

  Her oldest brother growled.

  She stepped between Gen’s gun and Brax’s chest. “He doesn’t appreciate being teased about his name. It’s Genesis and these are my other brothers. Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy.” The boys—never much for book learning—left the schoolhouse long before Brax’s time.

  Brax laughed. “You’re kidding me.”

  Deut, the closest to Hattie’s age, shrugged. “Pa was a chaplain in the war before he came west. A man of the Word.”

  Lev squinted. “Is that your little friend Braxton Cashel in that thar cell with you, sis?”

  Ex peered through the bars and scrunched his face. “The same Brax Hattie was plumb nutty about? Why, she cried her eyes out for a month after you left town.” Brax’s eyes darted to her, and he frowned. The heat rose up Hattie’s neck. Num, always more trigger-happy than the others, narrowed his eyes. “Won’t be laughing when we put a hole in this snake for dishonoring Baby Sister.”

  Brax’s eyes enlarged. “I never—”

  “I’m not a baby.” She stamped her foot. “How did you find me?”

  “Hattie, you’re ’bout as subtle moving across the land as a mule in a room of fine china.” Gen, the thinkingest brother, released the hammer on his gun. “When you ran away from the nice railroad man we picked out for you to marry, sis, you knew we’d come after you. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Cashel.” The other boys relaxed their stance and murmured their howdys.

  Brax tapped the badge on his vest. “I’m the sheriff here in Hitching Post, and—”

  “Woo-whee!” Lev tucked the barrel of his pistol under his armpit and folded his arms. “Little Braxton Cashel made sheriff. Congratulations.”

  Brax’s brow furrowed. “Thanks. But your sister let loose a herd of mules—”

  “Figures”—Ex pursed his lips—“it had something to do with mules if Hattie’s involved.”

  Num twirled his pistol around his finger. “We came across the mules after the storm on our way into town. Left ’em at the corral. Folks appeared mighty happy. A festival going on?”

  Brax’s shoulders relaxed a tad. “People round Hitching Post love their mules. Mule Days is a good excuse to get together every spring after a long winter to do some courting. The judge and circuit rider come every year to perform the weddings. It’s how we got the name, Hitching Post. It’s where folks in the territory come to get hitched.”

  Ex straightened. “Say, with Hattie getting married—”

  “I’m not marrying that railroad toad.” Hattie crossed her arms.

  Lev gestured toward Ex. “I’m not ready to return to your cooking, either.”

  Deut waggled his shaggy head. “Maybe one of us should tie the knot and bring another cook home to the Bronco B.”

  “Glad you boys came along when you did. Looks like things are going to work out for everyone.” Brax’s tone was crisp. “I’m sure with their property recovered, the owners will drop the charges against Harriet.”

  Lev snickered. “Harriet?”

  “I think it’s sweet.” Deut smiled. “That’s what Pa used to call Ma.”

  God, please. Hattie dropped her head. Take me now.

  Brax motioned toward the key ring on the desk. “If you’d be so kind as to unlock the door?” He reddened. “There was a most unfortunate incident…. A silly accident really…”

  Gen’s bushy eyebrows arched. “Only unfortunate thing I see from this side of the bars is you spent the night with my baby sister. Nothing silly about ruining her reputation.”

  Brax reared. “It wasn’t like that. I’m the sheriff. She’s my prisoner.”

  Num glared. “Saying it that way, when she was at your mercy and all, don’t make me feel any better, Cashel. Fact is, it makes me more riled.” He pointed the barrel at Brax.

  Brax froze.

  Ex cut his eyes around to his brothers. “You fellas thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Lev poked out his lips. “Snare two birds with one string.”

  Num’s eyes glinted. “One ring. You want me to go find the judge, Genesis?”

  “Harriet…” Brax gritted his teeth.

  “Way I see it, Cashel.” Gen rubbed a hand over his whiskers. “You’ve got one of two choices.”

  Deut, the most romantic of the boys, grinned. “I think it’s right nice. Seeing as how they were childhood sweethearts.”

  “We were not—” Brax whipped around, panic in his eyes. “Harriet, tell them nothing happened last night.”

  For the life of her, Hattie’s tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth.

  “You can either stretch out your left hand, Sheriff Cashel”—Gen and the brothers cocked their pistols, outgunning Brax five to one—“or we’ll stretch your neck for you.”

  “This isn’t legal,” Brax sputtered between clenched lips.

  Judge Mitchell, hastily aroused from bed at gunpoint, paused in reading the wedding vows.

  Num Brimfield pressed the round barrel hole against the judge’s temple.

  Judge Mitchell took a breath. “Repeat after me, I, Braxton Caldwell Cashel, take thee, Harriet Margaret Brimfield, to be my wedded wife.”

  Lev extracted a not-so-clean hanky from his pocket. “This is so beautiful. Ma and Pa would be so—”

  “A marriage made under duress or threats of violence”—Brax flexed and unflexed his fists—“is not legal nor binding in any court of law.”

  Ex jabbed the rifle at Brax’s chest. “Stop stalling.”

  “Say something, Harriet.” Brax shook the bars. “Do something.”

  But head down, her cheeks two rosy spots of color, Harriet averted her eyes.

  Gen propped his hand on hi
s hip. “Cashel, you got ’bout two seconds before I let Ex draw blood.”

  Desperation swirled. “I, Braxton Caldwell Cashel…” He repeated the rest of the vow. Why didn’t Harriet explain?

  “Harriet’s turn,” cooed Deut.

  Brax rattled the bars. “This isn’t right, Harriet.”

  Married to Harriet Brimfield of all women? This couldn’t be happening. God, I could use a little help here. Maybe a bolt of lightning or a plague of locusts?

  Judge Mitchell’s voice droned on. “You say, I, Harriet Margaret Brimfield, take thee…”

  She bit her lip and swallowed. “I, Harriet Margaret Brimfield—”

  “Don’t, Harriet, no…” Brax pleaded.

  A single tear tracked down her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Before Brax could stop himself, his hand went to her face and caught the lone tear. Where it lingered on his fingertip and glistened like a dewdrop. Brax’s eyes locked with hers. Something stirred inside him.

  The judge cleared his throat. “Miss Brimfield, let’s get this over with.”

  Harriet started again, her voice stronger this time. His heart did a funny lurch. His chest squeezed, making it hard to breathe. Like he’d been kicked by a mule.

  And stammering promises to love, honor, and cherish, five minutes later Brax found himself roped, tied, and lassoed into marriage. With Harriet Brimfield.

  Judge Mitchell heaved a breath. “I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Braxton Cashel. You may kiss your bride.”

  How had this happened?

  The Brimfields holstered their weapons and slapped each other on the back. “We got ourselves a new brother, yes sirree.”

  “Go ahead.” Deut grinned. “Kiss ’er, Brax. What ya waitin’ on?”

  Tough as a cougar, chip on her shoulder, Harriet dared and yet beckoned Brax with her eyes. Little Harriet Brimfield—Cashel temporarily—all grown up. Knees knocking, Brax moved closer. She tilted her head. He inhaled. She did smell like flowers.

  Brax tightened his mouth into a straight line against the unexpected rush of feeling. He brushed his lips across hers. Came back for more. She cupped his stubble-covered jaw. His skin tingled from the touch of her hand. “Hattie…” His voice sounded husky.