Oklahoma Wedding Bells

“If you say so …” Josie’s voice trailed off when four men on the boardwalk spotted them. All smiles and eager anticipation, they surged forward like an ocean wave. But then she grinned, as a brilliant idea struck her. “Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. Maybe we should accept a marriage proposal.”

Muriel stared at her as if she had vines sprouting from her ears. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Think about it.” Josie eyed the gaggle of men scurrying toward them. “If we accept a proposal we will be off the marriage market.”

A slow smile curved Muriel’s lips. “You’re right….” Then she frowned disconcertedly. “But how do we discard our unwanted fiancés after they serve their purpose? Surely we aren’t actually going to marry them.”

“No, of course not. We’ll just get a bad case of cold feet the morning of the run … while emotions are running high,” Josie suggested, warming to her bright idea.

“We can claim it is too much to deal with, too rapidly,” Muriel suggested enthusiastically.

“Other prospective suitors won’t hear that we called off the betrothals until after we claim our land,” Josie continued. “By then, the men will be too busy setting up housekeeping to bother us. For a while at least.”

Muriel stared speculatively at the approaching group. “Maybe I’ll agree to the first proposal tossed at me before lunch. Someone other than the infuriating, uppity captain, who was likely born with a silver spoon in his mouth and descended from a long line of self-important military martinets.”

Josie studied her friend for a thoughtful moment. “The way you’re carrying on, I’m beginning to think the captain’s proposal is the one you secretly want to accept.”

She gasped in outrage. “Holbrook is the last man on earth I’d want to marry!”

Josie smiled impishly. “Well, then, propose to him, since you have no intention of keeping him. If he accepts, then you will have the wicked satisfaction of jilting him before you leave him choking in your dust on the day of the run.”

Muriel snickered wryly. “Now I know why I befriended you. You are clever and intelligent. That’s an interesting notion—”

It was all she had time to say before the four cowboys descended, spewing the same nauseating flattery Josie and Muriel had heard for three continuous weeks.

Solomon Tremain led a string of a dozen prize horses into town—and drew an immediate crowd, as usual. Would-be settlers were eager to purchase swift, powerful steeds to outrun the other hopeful contestants and reach their promised land. This was Sol’s third trip to the town sitting on the eastern border of Cheyenne-Arapaho territory—which was about to be overrun by land-hungry whites.

Sol gnashed his teeth when the ever-constant conflict of his half white, half Cheyenne heritage rose within him. Although his physical appearance was more like his father’s than his Indian mother’s, Sol was Cheyenne at heart. He resented the white intrusion on the tribe’s hunting grounds and sacred sites.

Unfortunately, restraining the greedy white settlers was like holding back floodwaters. At least Sol was in a position to help his people—as much as they could be helped when the fickle government approved another land run in Indian Territory. The Twin Territories—Oklahoma and Indian—he silently corrected, and scowled.

From the time Sol became a member of the elite, highly trained fighting force known as the Wolf Warriors, within the special clan called the Bowstring Society, he had been involved in law enforcement and held positions of authority. He’d gone on to join the Lighthorse Police of the Cheyenne Nation, and then was handpicked as one of Judge Isaac Parker’s Deputy U.S. Marshals. Sol dealt with outlaws, Indian haters, greedy ranchers and pesky squatters that encroached on tribal property.

This assignment demanded that he pose as a horse trader, to gain the confidence of shysters and gather incriminating evidence to ensure convictions. Land runs were breeding grounds for trouble, and Sol was well aware of the underhanded tactics often employed in acquiring property, such as the schemes used during the Runs of ’89 and ’91.

If Sol had his way, all offenders would be watching this upcoming run from the stockade at Fort Reno. Then again, there wouldn’t be a run if he had his druthers. Which he didn’t.

Sol focused his attention on the men congregating around him, and promptly sold a half-dozen horses. When the group dispersed, he looked up to see his local contact, Captain Grant Holbrook, sitting atop his horse, staring off into space.

Sol followed the captain’s gaze to two women surrounded by four cowboys. Then three more men joined the crowd and another two. The scene reminded Sol of honeybees buzzing around a hive.

“Must be nice to attract so much attention,” he said with a chuckle. “If women flocked to me the way men flock to those two ladies, I’d be a happy man.”

“What?” Holbrook jerked to attention, then glanced sideways at Sol.

“I said those women must be something special.”

“Those two?” Grant snorted. “They can fend off their hordes of admirers by themselves for all I care.”

Sol raised a brow, then scrutinized his friend, who was two years his junior. “Am I missing something here?”

“Not unless you like sharp-tongued shrews who delight in the attention they receive from men anxious to acquire a fiancée before the run,” he muttered sourly. “One is a mite worse than the other, however.”

Sol assessed the two women. “Which one? The blonde or brunette?”

“Brunette. I’ve met more agreeable rattlesnakes.” He shook himself loose from his meandering thoughts, then noticed the fine quality of horseflesh Sol had brought with him to town. “Where do you keep gathering such good stock for your cover, Tremain? Last week you arrived with a dozen exceptional mares and geldings to sell, and you left with a pocketful of money.”

“My Cheyenne cousins trained these horses,” he confided. “I make sure they receive top dollar for these animals, which are well adapted to this terrain. I’m making double damn sure the tribe profits from this offensive encroachment on their property.”

Grant nodded somberly. “Another treaty discarded for the sake of white expansion. Sometimes I’m ashamed to be white.” He glanced curiously at Sol. “How many acres did the Cheyenne and Arapaho lose this time?”

“Over six hundred thousand.” Sol scowled resentfully when he thought of how the tribes had been forced to take their land allotments and relinquish the rest of their reservation to the government for settlement. “Not counting their land in Colorado and Kansas the government confiscated years ago.”

“And I’m stuck in the middle of this, just like you are,” Grant mumbled in frustration. “It’s hell trying to protect the tribes and their allotments before the white mob descends to claim the surplus land.”

The captain expelled an agitated breath. “I’m holding more than a dozen Sooners in the stockade because they sneaked in to set up camps along the creeks on the wrong side of the starting line, and refused to leave. With your help, I’ve flushed out nearly a hundred early birds, but I don’t have enough soldiers to patrol the area to keep those blasted Sooners honest.” He snorted and said, “Now there’s a contradiction in terms if I ever heard one.”

“I’ll continue to do what I can to help,” Sol promised. “I carry my special trader’s license to prove I can cross the territory as I please. If I see more illegal squatters, I’ll contact you. I can also question my tribe about the location of other whites illegally encroaching on their land.”

“Good,” Grant said. “I’ll run off as many as I can, and you do the same.”

“If I flash my marshal’s badge it won’t be easy to gain trust and gather evidence of fraud among these would-be settlers,” Sol reminded him. “But I can alert you to their location so you can take a patrol of soldiers to rout the squatters out.”

“I appreciate whatever help you can give, Marsh—I mean Tremain.”

Sol eyed him warningly. “The last thing I need is a careless slip of the tongue alerting folks that I’m in law enforcement.”

When half a dozen men leaning negligently against the supporting posts of the porch outside the Saddle Burr Saloon noticed their conversation, Sol reached into his vest pocket to retrieve his special trader’s license.

“We’re drawing attention,” he told the military commander quietly. “Look over my license thoroughly, then nod your head. I want those men to think you’re checking the authenticity of my credentials.”

Grant took the license and studied it closely. “They look like hired guns to me,” he murmured, his head bent in supposed concentration. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

“That’d be my guess,” Sol agreed. “I want to know what scheme is about to play out, who the gunmen are working for and why they chose this particular area to make the run.”

“We’ll have to confine our future conversations to out-of-the-way sites to avoid suspicion,” Grant said, returning the license with a clipped nod.

Sol tucked away the paper. “We’ll meet tonight at seven o’clock at Shallow Springs, south of the garrison. Find out what you can about those men without contacting them directly.”

Grant inclined his head in an authoritative manner for the benefit of the suspicious-looking group watching. Then he flicked his hand to shoo Sol on his way.

With a mock salute, Sol led his string of horses down the middle of the street—and drew the attention of the other crowd of men, who were fawning over the two women Grant had pointed out earlier.

From the corner of his eye, Sol surveyed the group outside the saloon, while pretending to assess the two women. Until the shapely blonde turned her head toward him, and sunlight gleamed on her thick, curly hair. The lustrous strands seemed a fascinating combination of sunbeams and moonbeams, and when she tilted her face up to him, Sol forgot all about the hired guns outside the saloon. Luminous eyes the color of forget-me-nots locked with his, and the jolt of awareness that sizzled through his body shocked the hell out of him.

According to Grant, this alluring blonde was the more tolerable companion. Holbrook insisted the stunning brunette was the devil’s sister, or at the very least a first cousin. Sol spared the fetching dark-haired woman a cursory glance, then his gaze settled on the blonde again as he halted his string of horses in the middle of the street.

“Anyone interested in prize horseflesh to make the land run?” he called loudly. “Only a half-dozen left today. Get one while you can!”