The Lassoed by Marriage Romance Collection

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

  She leaned into him. “Brax…” And on tiptoe, she kissed one corner of his mouth.

  His lips curved. And parted. But she let go of him and stepped back. Smiling as if imminently satisfied about something.

  Though not as surprised as he, he’d wager. Because strangely, Brax already missed the warmth of her hand. And the sweetness of her lips on his.

  Chapter 5

  The key to handling mules is to call your mule’s bluff.

  Once you do that, you have won.

  FOR THE LOVE OF A MULE

  Glaring at her brothers perched astride their mounts—Winchesters butted against their shoulders—Brax gathered Hattie into his arms. “Soon as the judge quits cowering in Helena, this farce of a marriage is over.”

  His muscles moved as he shifted her weight. “As soon as I get my gun back,” Brax yelled, “you’re going to regret you crossed the sheriff of Hitching Post, Montana Territory.”

  Brax kicked open the door to the farmhouse on the outskirts of town he’d inherited from his late uncle. Hattie stole a glance at his shuttered face. And wished she hadn’t.

  White-lipped with anger, Brax strode across the threshold. Her brothers had insisted on “escorting” the newlyweds to their new home to make sure Braxton did right by their baby sister. They also tossed a coin to see who’d walk down the aisle to secure a cook for the Bronco B. Deut won the honor—or lost, depending on your point of view.

  Brax back-kicked the door. It slammed into the frame and vibrated the house. He dumped Hattie onto her feet. Collapsing into a ladder-back chair at the table, he dropped his head into his hands.

  She took her first good look around her new home. One main room used for cooking, dining, and living. A pantry. Another door ajar at the back. A bedroom? Her cheeks pinked. “Maybe it won’t be so bad married to me as you think.”

  Brax gave her a baleful glance. “That why you didn’t say something? ’Cause married to me is better than the railroad man?”

  Hattie busied herself in the kitchen, opening cabinet doors searching for a skillet. “You could’ve let them knock you out. You couldn’t have married me if you were unconscious.”

  Brax huffed. “Or shot dead.”

  She seized a skillet. “They wouldn’t have shot you. They were just funnin’ with you.”

  “Didn’t look like they were joking. Figured even married to you was better than swinging from a rope or gut shot.”

  Hattie banged the skillet onto the range.

  Brax loosened his collar. “Feels like the noose still ended up around my neck, though.”

  Hattie pinched her lips. Saying those vows to Braxton, Hattie felt a rightness like nothing she’d experienced. Not since Brax rode out of her life all those years ago. She’d always had this fondness for him. But nobody liked to be forced to do something they didn’t want to do.

  The judge hightailed it out of town soon as the boys let go of him. At best, Hattie figured she had a week to change Brax’s mind before the judge returned, probably with a marshal.

  Hattie liked being Mrs. Braxton Cashel. And she was determined to do everything in her power to convince Brax that he liked it, too. Starting with breakfast. She got busy. Brax eyed the plate of fried ham and sourdough biscuits swimming in redeye gravy with trepidation.

  “Go ahead. It’s the best I could do. You don’t have many supplies in your pantry.”

  He picked up a fork and stabbed the ham. “Eat my meals at the hotel.”

  She crossed her arms over her apron. “Now you have a wife, you won’t need to eat there anymore.”

  He squinted at the ham as if it might rise on its hoof and attack. “How do I know you aren’t trying to poison me?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Suit yourself. Starve if you’ve a mule-headed mind to.”

  Brax sawed off a corner of the biscuit. “It ain’t me who’s the mule-headed one.” He stabbed the chunk of bread with his fork.

  Hattie did a slow circle, her skirts swirling. “This is a right nice place with those oak trees and view of the hills. Just needs a few feminine touches.”

  “From you?”

  “Curtains.” She gestured. “A few rag rugs on the floor.”

  “Knock yourself out, Harriet. But you won’t be here that long.” Brax stuffed the fork into his mouth.

  She held her breath.

  Brax chewed. A funny look crisscrossed his face. He chewed some more.

  She clasped her hands under her chin. “How is it?”

  Brax swallowed. “Not bad considering you’re the one who made it.”

  Hattie deflated.

  “Reckon it’ll do.” He shoved another forkful into his mouth.

  Hattie’s heart pitter-patted. High praise coming from the pay-for-every-word Braxton Cashel. Round one for her culinary charms.

  Later, a southerly breeze heated up the temperature. “Escorting” them back to town, her brothers returned Brax’s gun—on a trial basis only. The boys proceeded to win the hearts of Hitching Post by promising to shovel the remaining snow from the streets. And the town fathers voted to restart the festival come the morrow.

  A rotating brother also vowed to remain at Brax’s elbow as he went about patrol. But once their horses were stabled, Brax bolted down the block—with his current shadow Lev—as if the hounds of hell were on his booted heels. Hattie climbed down from the buckboard. How could she convince Braxton to love her if all he wanted to do was run away from her?

  Hattie looped Sugarfoot’s reins around the fence rail. The same eleven-year-old molly mule once upon a time Brax helped rescue from a cruel silver miner. She patted the mule’s neck. And pondering how to yet win the war for Brax’s affections, Hattie ran smack into Clarissy outside the mercantile.

  “Couldn’t get him to marry you without your barbarian posse of brothers, Miss Brimfield?”

  Small-town grapevines being what they were, news of their shotgun nuptials had already leaked.

  Hattie lifted her chin. “It’s Mrs. Cashel.”

  Clarissy arched her delicate brow. “Not for long. I bet by the end of Mule Days, he’d have married me without putting him at the end of a gun. Maybe once the judge gets back, he still will.”

  Hattie curled her hands into fists. And released them. It wouldn’t do for the sheriff’s wife to punch this carrot-top in the nose and instigate a public brawl. Not very ladylike, either. She mustered her dignity and marched toward the feed store to buy a sack of grain for her palomino molly. Wrestling the sack out the door, Hattie stopped and took a breath.

  “Need help there, little lady?” Jimbo, the cowboy, leaned against a post, legs extended and boots crossed at the ankle.

  Hattie shaded her eyes with her hand. “If it wouldn’t be any trouble…”

  Jimbo grinned. “Way I heard it, you ain’t been nothing but trouble for our poor old sheriff.”

  Hattie dropped her eyes.

  “But I reckon you done me a favor. And one good turn deserves another.” Jimbo hefted the feed sack and threw it onto his shoulder. “I’ve had my eye on Clarissy for ages.”

  “I guess there’s no accounting for taste.” Hattie bit the inside of her cheek. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that against you.”

  Jimbo removed the sack from his shoulder. It landed with a dull thud into the wagon. “No offense taken. Clarissy, to be sure, is an acquired taste.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Jimbo reclined against the side of the wagon. “Clarissy’s fooled herself into thinking the good sheriff is more her sort. But now you’ve taken Brax off the market, I aim to win her heart by the end of the week.”

  Hattie’s spirits rose. “You mean that?”

  Jimbo resettled his hat on his head. “Perhaps we can help each other. Deal?”

  Hattie stuck out her hand. “Deal.” Jimbo clasped her hand in both of his. They smiled at each other in perfect understanding. Until Brax shoved Jimbo, sending him sprawling over the watering trough into the street.

&n
bsp; “Get your stinking hands off my wife.”

  She took hold of his arm. “Brax.”

  He shook her off and jabbed his finger at Jimbo, who was grinning like a fool in the dirt. “And keep ’em off her.”

  “Brax, it wasn’t what it looked like. Jimbo—”

  “It never is with you, is it, Harriet?” Brax’s mouth thinned. “You women are all alike.” And he stalked down the street toward the livery.

  Hattie put a hand to her throat. “What does he mean?”

  Jimbo plucked his dripping hat out of the water. “Last little filly who strolled into town made a real effort to catch Sheriff Cashel’s eye. And succeeded by all accounts.”

  Hattie’s breath caught. What had she done? Had she forced Brax to marry her when he was in love with someone else?

  “Besotted and blindsided while she and her oily partner cleaned out the church treasury. Got to Helena before the marshal there caught them and returned the money. Love has left a bad taste in Sheriff Cashel’s mouth. Reckon Brax feels he’s got a lot to prove. His uncle left tall boots to fill.”

  And Hattie, thanks to her overzealous brothers, had ensured Brax’s continuing humiliation in front of the whole town. He’d never trust Hattie, much less learn to love her.

  “Don’t despair.” Jimbo slapped the waterlogged Stetson against his thigh. “From the good sheriff’s reaction, all may not be as lost as you think. It’s Mule Days. And Mule Days in Hitching Post means love is in the air.”

  Hattie prayed Jimbo was right.

  Chapter 6

  Rather than pit your strength against the tremendous strength of a mule, you must either outthink him or outmaneuver him.

  FOR THE LOVE OF A MULE

  Brax was still right befuddled as to what came over him three days ago. A sworn officer of the law, he kept his emotions under tight control. Utilizing violence only when the situation demanded action. And if any situation warranted violence, Jimbo’s big paws touching Harriet qualified. Good thing Brax had telegraphed the judge it was safe to return. Two more days. Four days tops.

  Then Brax would be forever free of Harriet Brimfield—he grunted—Cashel. The thought of finally getting rid of her, though, didn’t bring as much pleasure as he’d expected. With Mule Days under way, the town settled into its pre-Harriet rhythm. Even if he, sad to say, hadn’t. Hunched over his desk at the jail, his stomach rumbled.

  He’d give Harriet her due. She knew her way around a kitchen. No wonder her brothers were so big. Nobody starved on Harriet’s watch. It was getting to be a pleasure striding through the farmhouse door, anticipating a home-cooked meal. A man could get used to—

  Brax scowled. He didn’t aim to get used to nothing. He’d spent his nights sleeping in the same lofted bedroom he’d used when his uncle was alive. The boys hunkered down in the barn. And Brax wanted the whole lot of them gone.

  She either pestered him to death with questions about his likes and dislikes or talked a blue streak about some book she wanted to write—a definitive guide to mules. Brax wanted his peaceful life back. And Harriet on her way to Wyoming. Before it was too late. Too late for what? The door banged open and he jolted.

  Harriet bustled into the jail. Her arms sagged with the weight of a picnic hamper. Tendrils of pretty yellow hair curled around her face. Which lit at the sight of him. Like every evening when he came home. A man could get used to—

  Brax’s heart jerked, beating wildly. His fingers twitched, recalling the softness of her not-so-crazy hair the morning after the snowstorm. If anything, the hair—neatly coiled at the nape of her neck while she cooked—drove Brax crazy.

  He hurried around the desk and took the hamper from her. She shifted toward the door without a word. “Wait.” Absurdly panicked, he caught her hand. “Smells like fried chicken.”

  She stared at his hand. A pulse thrummed in the delicate hollow above her throat. “It’s not for you. Unless you place the highest bid.”

  Brax scowled. “What?”

  He’d hardly seen her in the last twenty-four hours. She was either in the barn training that blasted mule of hers. Or shaving whiskers off her brothers in a vain attempt to increase their matrimonial prospects. Lunch was usually their time, though.

  Brax shook his head to clear his vision. Since when did he and Harriet have a “their” time? He wasn’t getting much sleep. Not with thinking about Harriet.

  “It’s for the basket auction on the steps of the hotel.”

  Somehow Harriet Brimfield—Cashel—had become the darling of Hitching Post. The church women welcomed her with open arms while he sat stiff-necked beside her on the pew. A natural contralto, Harriet threw herself into the hymnsinging with the same gusto she tackled everything else.

  “Bringing in the sheaves, we shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves”—his eyeball, Brax vowed. It’d take more than a crook of her finger and biscuits to win him over. He knew Harriet better than anyone. Mischief, not Margaret, was her true middle name.

  Yet whenever within arm’s reach, Harriet had this curious, deleterious effect on his high-minded resolves. She moved toward the door. He held on to her hand, pulling her back in place.

  Tilting her head, Harriet looked at him with those big eyes of hers, resembling a brown-eyed prairie sunflower. “We’ll be late.”

  He twined his fingers through hers, loving the feel of her skin. “What else is in the basket?”

  She shrugged. “Deviled eggs. Potato salad. Pie.”

  “What kind of pie?”

  Harriet smiled. “Huckleberry.”

  Brax’s insides quivered. “I love huckleberry pie.”

  She squeezed his hand and slid from his grasp. “I remember.” Harriet slipped out the door.

  Hoisting the basket and grabbing his hat, he followed her to the crowded steps of the hotel. Brax deposited the hamper amid the dozens of other delicacy-laden containers prepared by the fair hands of Hitching Post. He retreated across the street and leaned against the jail wall. Hitching Post citizens had already staked their spots up and down Main. Brax cast a practiced eye over the assembly. Mule Days provided a great economic boost for the town. And the chance to court the ladies. Bringing ranchers, miners, and farmers out of the woodwork.

  But it also sometimes brought the disreputable element who frequented the Silver Dross Saloon. And with the telegram he’d received from the Virginia City Mining Cooperative, Brax couldn’t afford to be distracted by Crazy Hair. He grimaced.

  At this rate, the only one going crazy was him. Or perhaps the whole world had gone crazy. Like Genesis winning the pie-eating contest this morning. Brax suspected an inside job. The oldest Brimfield brother had spent an inordinate amount of time in the hotel kitchen. With the help of Sugarfoot, Deut easily won the log-loading contest. And the attention of the shopkeeper’s daughter.

  Brax’s gaze shifted to a pair of men he didn’t recognize in front of the bank. Their hat brims shielded their eyes. Scruffy ruffians, they’d bear keeping a close watch on.

  The bidding proceeded smoothly. Brax relaxed, arms crossed over his chest, one boot propped on the wall. Lev bought the doctor’s sister’s basket for the exorbitant amount of nineteen dollars. Looked like another Brimfield brother was destined for the matrimonial executioner’s block.

  His glee was short-lived when Harriet’s wicker basket came up next. And Jimbo started the bidding on the high side of ridiculous. Brax’s boot dropped. What ailed that cowboy? What part of “she’s my wife” didn’t that cow patty understand?

  “I have ten dollars bid,” the auctioneer rattled. “Who’ll give me ten dollah fifty?”

  Jimbo raised his hand.

  The auctioneer pointed. “Thank ye, young feller, I see that hand.”

  Brax sucked in a breath. His eyes cut to Harriet.

  “I have ten dollah fifty bid. Who’ll make it eleven dollahs even?”

  Brax pushed off the wall and planted his boots even with his hips.

  “Ten dollah fifty going
once…”

  Harriet’s lunch belonged to Brax by rights.

  “Ten dollah fifty going twice…”

  Something primal tore inside his chest. “One hundred and thirty dollars,” Brax shouted.

  The din of the crowd died away. All eyes swiveled to him. Except for Harriet. She never took her eyes off the auctioneer. Brax’s heart threatened to burst out of his chest. If Jimbo raised his bid again…? Brax reckoned he could sell his horse.

  “Sold!” The auctioneer pounded the table. “Sold to Sheriff Cashel for one hundred and thirty dollars.” The double-jowled man grinned. “ ’Bout the going rate of a mule. Come get it, Sheriff. Belongs to you.”

  Brax crossed the street in three strides. Yes, she did. And he wasn’t going to let anybody—including Harriet Brimfield Cashel—forget it.

  Clarissy’s eyes almost bugged out at Jimbo’s opening bid on Hattie’s basket. But when only silence from Brax greeted Jimbo’s bold move, Hattie started to sweat. She turned to stone as the auctioneer accepted Jimbo’s offer. Her own husband wouldn’t buy her basket. Then at the last moment, she closed her eyes in relief when Brax’s strong voice rang out. Okay—his belligerent, somebody’s-going-to-pay voice. But it showed he cared—if only a little.

  One hundred and thirty dollars. Not so little, Hattie’s conscience chided. That was a lot of money to someone like Brax. That was a lot of money to a Brimfield, too. Brax—Hattie’s heart thrilled at the thought—did care. Or—Hattie’s spirit plummeted—his pride wouldn’t allow another man to eat his wife’s lunch in front of God and the whole town.

  Now under the oak tree in the meadow, palpable waves of outrage radiated off Brax. And he chomped on the chicken leg like it was his last meal. Maybe on second thought, it was hers. Biting her lip, Hattie fretted at the lace collar at her throat. Skirts bunched around her legs, she rested her chin on her knees. And gazed over the wildflowers between Brax’s cabin and the forested mountain range.