The Lassoed by Marriage Romance Collection

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

  “Why aren’t you talking?”

  She kept her face averted. “I thought my talking annoyed you.”

  “Harriet.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Why did everything with Brax go wrong?

  “Look at me, Harriet.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. He threw the chicken bone as far over the pasture as he could. Cawing, a flock of crows rose from a tree.

  Only Brax possessed the power to fulfill the longings of her heart. Like a bolt of lightning, the touch of his hand at the jailhouse earlier sizzled her brain. Sometimes she’d caught his gaze upon her over the last few days when he believed she wasn’t looking. How she wanted him to say the words she yearned to hear. How she desperately longed for him to take her into his arms and pledge his heart to hers forever.

  “What am I going to do with you, Harriet?”

  Not the words she wanted from him.

  Hattie choked back a sob. “I’m sorry.” Cheeks burning, she pillowed her face in the pink calico. How much clearer did a man have to be? Brax didn’t want her. He didn’t love her. Braxton Cashel would never love her.

  Chapter 7

  Anything a horse can do, a mule can do better.

  FOR THE LOVE OF A MULE

  Why must everything you do, Harriet, involve the outrageous?”

  Harriet’s chin dropped, distracting him from his anger. Her hair fell forward and shadowed her face. That hair…

  Brax took a breath and blew it out slowly between his lips. Never having had a father, Brax worked extra hard to maintain his respectability. Which Harriet seemed determined to destroy. “I have a reputation to uphold as sheriff.”

  He’d no idea what possessed him to make such an absurd bid for chicken, potato salad, and deviled eggs. The pie he planned to eat as soon as he and Harriet finished this little talk in the meadow.

  “I’ll pay you back every penny. I’m sorry,” Harriet whispered.

  Brax didn’t like not being able to see her face. And he didn’t like Harriet’s unnatural quiet. Far as he could tell, every thought in her head usually came out of her mouth. And another thing he didn’t get—the more preposterous the exploit, the more Hitching Post loved Harriet Brimfield and her brothers.

  What Brax did like was the puffy-sleeved pink calico on Harriet. She looked as pretty as the wild roses growing along the fence rails. And combined with the silky yellow of her—he gnashed his teeth. Stop. With. The. Hair.

  “Two days, Harriet. Two days before the judge returns, and we get this marriage thing settled. All I’m asking is a little forethought before you decide to do something ridiculous. A little decorum as long as you’re the temporary wife of the sheriff. Don’t worry about repaying me. Truth is, the price of a mule is well spent if I can get back my peaceful life.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Whatever you want, Brax.” She swept the hair out of her face and secured it with a pearl-studded clip.

  Brax’s eyes locked on to a curl dangling at her earlobe. “What I wanted was a real pa. I wanted to be good enough.” Easing closer to Harriet, he rested against the rough bark of the tree. “What I got was a mother who made a mistake during the war she paid for the rest of her short life. One I’ve been paying for ever since.” He raked his hand over his head. Where had that come from? He’d never said that out loud to anyone, not even Uncle Wilbur.

  She jutted her chin. “Braxton Caldwell Cashel has always been good enough. I wish you’d see yourself the way I do. And understand how the whole town respects you.”

  Brax fidgeted. “Respect has to be earned. Don’t know I’ve done such a good job of sheriffing.”

  “One mistake, Brax.” She held up her finger. “You’re new to this sheriffing business. You learn and you move on. This isn’t New York City. The biggest part of sheriffing Hitching Post is your personal relationships in the community. At which you excel. The rest?” Harriet fluttered her hand. “I pray you’ll never be called upon to exercise those types of skills. But if you do? You’ll do as well as you do everything else.”

  Brax stared at her. She believed in him that much? Nobody ever—

  “Least you didn’t kill your mother like I did.” Harriet folded her hands in her lap.

  Brax frowned. “You didn’t kill your mother.”

  “She birthed five brawny boys just fine and then died birthing one scrawny, brawling girl.”

  “That’s not what happened, Harriet.” Brax laced his fingers through hers. “Our mothers were friends. I was real little myself, but I remember one afternoon the teacup perched on her stomach rattled. The baby—you—were kicking like a mule, she said.”

  Harriet swallowed. “I guess I’m still kicking life like a mule.”

  “When I was older, I asked my mother what happened to yours. Ma said your mother was sick before she got in the family way. Some female—” How did he get into these conversations with Harriet? “Some female trouble killed her not long after you were born.”

  Brax draped his arm around Harriet’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault. Didn’t you ever talk to your pa and brothers about it?”

  “Every time I mentioned Mother, their eyes got wet. They brushed me off. So I stopped asking.”

  Brax hugged her closer. “I bet they were embarrassed because of their tears, not because of anything you’d done.” The flowery fragrance she wore sped up his heart.

  She tucked her head into the curve of his neck. “I tried my hardest to be one of the boys so Pa wouldn’t remember I’m the girl who killed his wife.”

  He brushed his lips against her hair. “They love you to pieces, Harriet. I always wanted big brothers like yours. And you don’t need to prove anything to anyone.” Her alluring scent filled his nostrils. Violets? Brax’s mouth went dry.

  She wrapped her arms around his torso. “Trouble is, no one ever said it was okay to be a girl. Gunslingers or Indians, I can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the best and hold my own. That’s me, Harriet Margaret Brimfield.”

  No, she was Harriet Margaret Brimfield Cashel. Brax’s heart thumped. Why did that sound like sweet music to his ears? “I like the way God made you, Harriet.”

  She raised her head. “You do?”

  What in the blue blazes had gotten into him? Harriet’s recklessness must be contagious.

  “I do.” Brax let go of her. “I’ve got to get to work.”

  Harriet was dangerous to his sanity. Good thing he’d see the last of her soon.

  “But first?” He reached for the plate on the quilt. “I’m going to eat my pie.”

  Hattie scanned the crowd in the hotel ballroom.

  Couples dosey-doed. The auctioneer—now square dance caller—put the Mule Days sweethearts through their paces. The fiddlers sawed relentlessly. It was toetapping, boot-stomping fun. But where was Brax?

  Hattie swayed to the rhythm of the music. She waved at Num cutting a fine figure on the dance floor with the spinster schoolteacher. Her brothers had taken Hitching Post by storm, a storm of love. Ex won the mule jumping event with Sugarfoot. He was courting Mayor Bledsoe’s niece. And looked like Clarissy had come to her senses, too. Leastways from the way Jimbo twirled the redhead around the dance floor.

  And since this afternoon under the oak tree? Life was once again full of possibilities. The possibility of a future with Brax. If Brax was glad God made Hattie the way she was, who was she to argue with Sheriff Cashel? Or with God? Her heart felt as light as dandelion fuzz blowing in a spring breeze.

  Brax had told her in secret—the Virginia City Silver Co-op was sending an armed coach with silver bars for safekeeping to the Hitching Post bank until the federal marshals arrived and arranged a permanent transfer to Helena. He’d be busy, so Brax warned Hattie not to expect to see him anytime soon as he coordinated a secure transition of the silver ingots. But she hoped—wildly hoped—he’d manage to sneak away for one teensy dance with his shotgun bride.

  After five more lively songs, Hattie gave Brax up as lost. Disappointed, Hattie reminded herself Brax h
ad made no promises. Such a shame, though. She’d taken special pains with her lavender dress tonight. The boys declared lavender Hattie’s best color.

  Humming, she descended the curving staircase to the grand foyer as the strains of a waltz began. The front door opened and closed below.

  “Mrs. Cashel?”

  She halted mid-step.

  Brax stood at the bottom of the stairs, clean shaven for once and his dark mane hatless. His broad shoulders in his best suit coat tapered to his hard-muscled waist. The badge glittered in the sparkling diamond light of the chandelier.

  His gaze landed on the silver comb adorned with violets with which she’d scooped the ringlets of her hair. “Would you dance with me?”

  Brax held out his hand.

  Her heart beating faster than the three-four time of the waltz, Hattie took his hand. Brax’s scrutiny never wavered as he drew her to level ground. One hand around her waist, he led Hattie in the box step.

  But conflicting emotions rippled across his face. Doubt. And a fierce vulnerability. Yet his gaze traveled to her mouth. And lingered. His chest rose and fell.

  Was Brax having as hard a time breathing as she? The heat from his hand scorched her skin. Brax stopped dancing. The music continued to flow around them. His eyes went opaque, a smoky blue.

  “You are so—” He bit his lip and dropped his arms. Only to reach both hands behind Hattie’s head. Unleashing the comb, he let her hair cascade to her shoulders. His face transformed.

  “Brax…”

  With a soft groan, he plunged his hands underneath her hair. His fingers entwined in her locks. Cradling the nape of her neck, Brax drew her head upward. She strained forward, and his mouth found hers. Tentative at first. Both of them trembling and scared to death. His gentle urgency curled Hattie’s toes.

  A small sigh of contentment escaped her lips—the one breath he allowed before he breathed Hattie in again. Her knees went weak as the pressure of his lips grew stronger, and she responded, deepening the kiss. It was the happiest Hattie had ever been in her whole life.

  Her fingers feathered the damp, close-cropped tendrils of the hair above his ear. “I love you,” she whispered.

  Brax thrust her from him. “We shouldn’t—” His gaze hopscotched around the deserted vestibule. “I shouldn’t…” He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets.

  Hattie reached for him, but he dodged and yanked open the door. “Wait.”

  “I’ve got work to do.” Brax bolted into the darkness. He closed the door behind him with a decided bang.

  Hattie readjusted the comb in her hair. He loved her. She knew he did. Now he needed to stop running scared and admit it to himself. She’d change his mind. She’d always been able to talk Braxton Cashel into any adventure. Even the ultimate adventure of matrimony.

  Chapter 8

  Mules think for themselves, and that is not always a good thing.

  FOR THE LOVE OF A MULE

  During the judging for Grand Champion Mule, Sugarfoot’s palomino coat shone. The molly’s ears perked as the committee festooned the winner’s garland around her stout neck. Hattie understood now she’d loved Brax as long as she’d known him. Something within him, even as children, sparking something inside her. A fondness that blossomed into something far more.

  She wanted to stay in Hitching Post and be his wife. Fill the cabin with crazy-haired, mischief-making little girls and earnest, sweet-tempered young boys. Her children and Brax’s. And, of course, write that book.

  Love swelled in her heart at God’s goodness in bringing her and Brax together after so many years. She was sure as shootin’ Brax loved her, too. He had to, didn’t he? They were meant to be together. Forever.

  Hattie smiled and looped Sugarfoot’s reins over the railing outside the jail. She might not be the meadow flower Brax imagined he wanted. But they were perfect for each other in every way that mattered. She skipped up the boardwalk steps, but stopped at the sound of male voices drifting through the open window.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Sheriff?”

  Sounded official. Maybe she ought to wait until Brax was finished before she busted inside. Practice that restraint Brax preached.

  “I’m sure, Judge.”

  Judge Mitchell? She hadn’t realized the judge had returned to town. So soon? With the Mule Days parade in full swing, Hattie strained forward to hear.

  “Paper…ready to sign.”

  What paper?

  Brax blew out a breath. “Good.”

  Hattie pictured the love of her life seated behind the big walnut desk. His strong hands steepled. The dark hair on his forearms where he’d pushed up the sleeves of his undershirt. The brown pin-striped overshirt rolled to his elbows. She let out a sigh. Oh, how she loved, loved, loved Braxton Cashel.

  Brax cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean those words I said to her.”

  She tensed. Hattie’s heartbeat accelerated.

  “Not one of those vows I made was from my heart.”

  Hattie bit back a moan and laid her hand over her mouth.

  “I’ve got to make things right, Judge.”

  Oh God. No… Hattie staggered back. Brax didn’t love her. Not the way she loved him. He’d told her he intended to annul their marriage as soon as the judge returned.

  Why hadn’t she believed him? Why had she ever thought she could change his mind? He told her flat-out he wanted a real woman. A sweet, pretty woman. So not Harriet Brimfield.

  She was stupid. Stupid to think a fine, upstanding man—a sheriff no less—would want someone as prone to disaster as she. All she’d ever done was embarrass Brax. His whole life, she’d caused him nothing but trouble. What man in his right mind would hitch himself permanently to a rescue project like her?

  Brax… Her heart ached for the silly, beautiful dreams of a future that wouldn’t be theirs. He didn’t love her. And he never would.

  Hattie’s eyes burned with unshed tears. Her vision blurred as the proud citizens of Hitching Post marched by on their ribbon-winning mules. She had to get out of here. She wouldn’t bring further disgrace to Brax. He deserved the best.

  And with hindsight wrought through painful realization, Hattie understood someone like her would never be best for him. Brax was a good man. No need to punish him for feeling like he did. For not feeling as she did for him.

  Untying Sugarfoot, Hattie led the molly toward the stagecoach office. She couldn’t stay here, and she didn’t want to go home. Too many memories of Brax in both places. Maybe her mother’s sister would take her in. Hattie fingered the grand prize money she and Sugarfoot had won. She’d buy a ticket East. Go to the cabin and repack her valise.

  And what about her shotgun marriage? Hattie’s resolve quavered. She couldn’t stomach facing the pity in his eyes. Somehow, without involving Brax, she’d have to find the judge and sign that hateful paper as soon as possible. The paper transforming the radiant Harriet Brimfield Cashel into unloved and unwanted Harriet Margaret Brimfield.

  When the judge left, Braxton came out from behind the desk. Was that Sugarfoot he heard braying before? Striding over to the unlatched window, he twitched aside the curtain.

  The silly ruffled curtain Harriet insisted on sewing to “cheer up” the jailhouse. Brax rolled his tongue in his cheek. So not the point of a jailhouse, he’d told her. But so very Harriet.

  He surveyed the street, congested with parade revelers. No sign of Harriet. Which was good. Good because he needed to rectify a few things. He’d made his wishes clear to the judge, who promised to make the necessary arrangements.

  Dancing with Harriet last night… Brax recognized a hard truth about himself. So he’d run. And spent an endless night on the bench in his empty cell. Pondering the right thing to do. Trying to come to terms with how he felt. And his inescapable conclusion? A shotgun wedding in a jail cell under duress was no way to start a marriage. Harriet deserved better. Brax allowed the curtain to fall into place. So much better than being a sheriff’s
wife. And yet…

  He massaged his neck, trying to unknot the kinks. He’d glimpsed snatches of a happiness he’d never believed could be his this week. But despite the childish hold—pull—she’d always possessed on his heart, Brax had to love Hattie enough to do what was best.

  Best for them both. The federal marshals would arrive this afternoon. And with the responsibility of the silver off his shoulders, he and Harriet would talk. She’d be furious. Hurt and… His chest tightened.

  He wished things between them were different, but he wouldn’t have traded one moment of this week for all the silver in the Montana Territory. God, help me be the sheriff Hitching Post deserves. Help me to be a man of integrity, worthy of respect. Help Harriet—Brax squeezed his eyes shut—to understand.

  Brax heaved a breath and ambled toward the door. Wondering what Harriet was up to, his lips quirked. Up to no good, knowing her.

  The CLOSED sign on the glass-fronted bank door snagged Brax’s attention first. And the drawn blinds. Unless Christmas Day or Sunday, the Farm and Ranch Commercial Bank stayed open, rain or shine. Why—? Some instinct propelled Brax forward. Foreboding pinched his gut.

  A dire dread confirmed when he sighted the shifty-eyed no-accounts he’d spotted earlier in the week. Loitering on the marbled granite steps of the bank without any possible bank business to attend to if, indeed, the bank was closed this Friday noon. A cadre of horses were tied and at the ready. The men examined the crowd in a professional manner Brax recognized as belonging only to lawmen. Or criminals.

  Brax dodged the partygoers filling the street. At the forefront of his mind? How to stop the felons from robbing the bank and avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Because getting the drop on them without causing pandemonium meant the difference between life and death for the citizens he’d sworn to protect.

  Crossing the dusty street, various scenarios flitted through his mind. And faced with the unthinkable, an unshakable calm took control. His focus narrowed. His head filled with a strange silence as his mission crystallized.