The Other Bride

But as the space between them disappeared and he came to within a hairsbreadth of touching her, Phoebe was shocked to discover that she wasn’t resisting the possibility nearly as hard as she should. There was a part of her that wanted to be kissed, that wanted to think she could attract such a man as Gabriel Cutter. A primitive man…a handsome man…a—

A sneaky, conniving, no-good rounder!

Just in time, Phoebe realized that she was about to help Gabriel Cutter prove his argument—and without so much as a whisper of protest.

Anger rushed through her again—anger at him, but even more at herself.

In that last second before his lips touched hers, she moved, bringing up a knee in a way she’d once been told to do by Mrs. Pritchard. Her aim wasn’t entirely true, but the surprise of her attack allowed her to push past Gabriel Cutter. In doing so, she snatched at the revolver holstered at his side, then whirled and pulled back the hammer, leveling the gun at him.

“Don’t move,” she warned fiercely. Biting her lip, she tried to steady the heavy gun, but her hands were trembling so badly that the tip of the revolver wavered. Nevertheless, she closed one eye and sighted down the barrel.

Cutter watched her with patent amusement, and the fact proved galling. How dare he treat her as if she were of no consequence? She was the one with the gun!

Clenching her teeth, she aimed at the bedpost next to him and pulled the trigger.

An explosion rocked the room. The gun kicked back, nearly causing her to lose her balance. Then her eyes widened in horror as she realized that she hadn’t shot the bedpost as she had supposed, but had nicked the upper corner of his sleeve.

Her stomach churned sickeningly as she waited for the blood to flow, but as Gabriel pulled the fabric aside to examine his arm, it was clear that the bullet had miraculously left him unharmed.

She was shaking so badly now that she nearly dropped the gun altogether. But when Cutter gazed up at her, his gaze dark and speculative, she knew that he hadn’t known her aim was off.

“Next time I’ll draw blood,” she said, mustering all of the bravado she could. “We’re going West with you, Mr. Cutter,” she insisted.

“Not without a male escort.”

The man was infuriating, positively infuriating!

Phoebe was about to argue with him further when she had a sudden thought.

A male.

Any male? Any male at all?

Her eyes narrowed. “What if we can find a male escort who is willing to accompany us tomorrow?”

He snorted in a way that made it clear he thought such an event unlikely. “If you can find a man to traipse halfway across the country with a passel of giggling mail-order brides before nine tomorrow morning, then you’re welcome to join us.”

Her heart pounded in her chest—this time with excitement. “I have your word on that?”

“You have my word.”

“Do I need your promise in writing, Mr. Cutter?”

A little muscle at the side of his jaw flickered. “My word is binding, Miss Gray.”

“Good.”

Without further explanation, she tugged at the strings of her reticule and dropped the revolver inside.

“I’m sure you have other guns, Mr. Cutter. As for this one, I intend to keep it until the end of our journey, to remind you that we aren’t nearly as helpless as you think.”

And with that parting shot, she whirled and marched out of the room, not stopping until she was once again in the hot afternoon sunshine. She had the matter of an escort to arrange.

By this time tomorrow, she would be on her way West.

Hurrying away from the Golden Arms as quickly as her feet would take her, Phoebe found the other brides waiting for her at the park. Judging by their hangdog expressions, it was clear they had prepared themselves for bad news.

“Well?” Mable breathed when Phoebe was nearly upon them.

“He’ll let us go if we supply a male escort.”

The women visibly wilted in disappointment.

“Then we’re in the same pickle we were in a few minutes ago,” Betty mourned.

Phoebe couldn’t prevent the smile that tugged at her lips. “Not quite. I think I know where we can find the perfect candidate.”

The women looked doubtful.

“Where?” Edith finally asked.

“Prison.”

Twila gasped.

The others looked horrified.

“I don’t think we can break a man out of prison just to accompany us West,” Betty said, blinking in confusion.

Phoebe smiled. “We won’t have to stage an escape, you little goose. We just have to gather together a few coins to pay for the man’s passage from England.”

“Won’t Mr. Cutter object to a former prisoner serving as our escort?”

“I have his word that he will allow us to join the company as long as we have a male in tow—any male.” She patted her reticule. “I, for one, intend to see to it that he honors his word.”

Needing action to take his mind off Louisa—not, not Louisa, Phoebe Gray—Gabe returned to the makeshift office he’d made of his hotel room. Despite its tawdry reputation, the Golden Arms had large rooms, the modern amenities and enough privacy to let him get his job done.

Slamming the door behind him, he instinctively squelched his reaction to the memory of Phoebe and leaned over a table spread with maps. But he couldn’t focus.

How long had it been since he’d felt anything in the company of a woman? It had been years since the death of his beloved wife, Emily.

Not that he hadn’t tried to experience even the faintest stir of emotions. Knowing that he wasn’t the kind of man to “taint” a Sunday school teacher or a minister’s daughter, he’d found himself at the Golden Arms more times than he could count. But he’d found soon enough that he couldn’t will his body to respond. Emily’s death had been a blow to him, emotionally and spiritually. All of his tender emotions and sensual instincts had died the moment he’d found the body of his wife and small son in the orchard behind their house.

From that day to the present, Gabe had lived a life of torment. Plunged into an abyss of grief, he had not rejoined his unit for more than six months after his family’s deaths. His actions had branded him “yellow” and “untrustworthy” to his fellow officers, but he hadn’t cared. Once he’d returned to battle, he’d lived each succeeding day on the brink of disaster, purposely volunteering for one dangerous assignment after another. But the Fates had not granted his death wish.

In an effort to exorcise his memories, he’d drowned himself in his work as a Pinkerton. But never in all that time had his heart pounded with anything akin to real emotion.

Until now. In a single confrontation with a hellcat woman intent on journeying cross-country with a passel of mail-order brides, the tender scars on his heart had been torn wide open.