The Bride Lottery

When Blackburn didn’t move, she directed an impatient frown at him. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“I’m waiting for you to get on with it.”

“Do you expect me to know how to saddle a horse?”

A worried notch appeared between Blackburn’s straight dark brows. “You told me you can ride. If I recall right, you boasted that you’ll ride faster than me.”

“And I’m sure I do. However, I never told you that I know how to saddle a horse, or brush one down, or feed one, or clean up after one. I’ve always had grooms for that.”

She ran her eyes over the bounty hunter, making it clear that she expected him to take on the duties of a groom. “Well?” she said, mirroring his brusque command a moment earlier. “I’m waiting for you to get on with it.”

Blackburn jerked his head in the gesture she’d noticed before, a bit like a stubborn mule tossing its mane. It made the thick strands of black hair swing about his shoulders. He had an expressive face, when he forgot to hide his thoughts, but the range of his expressions seemed mostly limited to anger, irritation and disbelief.

The bounty hunter heaved out a sigh but sprang into action. A secret thrill of victory rippled over Miranda as she watched him crouch down, pick up the worn saddle, walk out to the hitching post, lift the saddle onto the Appaloosa, adjust the position and tighten the cinch.

She hurried after him and came to an abrupt halt beside the horse. The animal’s gray flanks rose in front of her, like the brow of an ocean liner. How was she going to get up there, without the aid of a mounting block, or a groom to give her a boost? And she’d rather die than admit to her failure and ask Blackburn for help.

“Well,” the deep, husky voice said behind her. “The saddle is on the horse. I’m waiting for you to get on with trying it out.”

Miranda circled to the horse’s head. They had already made friends while the bounty hunter went inside to negotiate the purchase with the livery stable owner. She held out her hand. The horse nuzzled her palm, its nose cool and damp against her skin.

“I have a name for you,” she whispered to the Appaloosa. “Alfie. For Alfred Tennyson. A very famous poet, and a nobleman. That is what I’ll expect from you. Noble behavior. Please don’t let me down. See that man behind me? He is a rogue, with no manners. He is just waiting for me to fall flat on my face.”

After stroking Alfie’s long nose to emphasize her plea, Miranda circled back to his side. She grabbed hold of a stirrup, kicked up one foot. Her skirts got in the way and she almost toppled over backward. Determined, Miranda yanked her skirts up over her knees and tried again. She managed to wedge the toe of her button-up boot into the stirrup. With tiny hops, she moved closer to the horse and grabbed the saddle horn with one hand, the cantle of the saddle with the other, and bounced up.

And bounced back down again.

Peering backward beneath her arm, Miranda stole a glance at the bounty hunter. He was standing still, watching her, his long duster blowing in the breeze. The repertoire of his facial expressions seemed to be growing, but instead of the smug smile she had expected, he was staring at her, spellbound, as if witnessing a complicated circus act.

She’d show him! Miranda pushed the toe of her left foot deeper into the stirrup, bent her right knee, tensed every muscle and bounced up again. Her hands clung to the saddle. Her left foot wobbled in the stirrup as she hung poised in the air. Little by little, she managed to shift her center of gravity forward, until she found her balance and could fling her right leg over the horse’s back.

She was up! She was sitting astride the horse. Alfie beat one hoof against the ground and craned his head backward, as if to look at her and say, How is that for noble behavior? Miranda sank deeper into the saddle. She’d done it. She’d mounted on her own. She gave a tiny whoop of victory and flashed a smile at Blackburn, forgetting his arrogance, even forgetting his crude comment about her riding position.

“How’s the saddle?” he asked.

She wiggled her rump to test the fit. “It’s not comfortable.”

Dismounting was a lot easier, Miranda discovered, with gravity helping instead of hindering. She tried all four saddles, and then she claimed she couldn’t be certain of her choice and insisted on trying two of them again.

The bounty hunter kept swapping over the saddles. She could see a muscle tugging at the side of his jaw. His shoulders were rigid, his face set in stone. His gaze remained locked somewhere on the horse’s flanks, refusing to rise up to her as she sat up on Alfie and gloated over her success, both in mounting without aid and in vexing him.

“The black saddle,” Miranda said in the end, when Alfie started to get bored with the constant fussing. “I like that one best. Take off this one and put that one back on.”

* * *

Jamie gritted his teeth. He had to get her some new clothes. Did the little blonde princess not understand what she was doing? Blithely, she’d yanked up her skirts, exposing dainty leather half boots and a pair of shapely legs.

Then, when she’d hopped around on one foot, the other foot stuck in the stirrup, knee pointing skyward, her skirts had bunched up in her lap, giving him a tantalizing glimpse all the way up to a bare, milky-white thigh and the garter that held up her stocking.

Things had gotten a little easier when she swung astride and the skirts settled around her, but even then he could see a part of her leg. He was covered in sweat, and it wasn’t just from the effort of heaving the saddles on and off the horse. He’d barely had the presence of mind to keep an eye on the entrance to the livery stable, to make sure the owner wasn’t lurking in the shadows, enjoying the spectacle.

“You’ll need a pair of trousers for riding astride,” he informed his wife.

She was crouching on the ground, admiring the black saddlebags with a fascination that made Jamie suspect she had wanted the silver-studded set all along.

She frowned at him. “Surely I can’t wear trousers. It’s not decent.”

Not decent. He made a strangled sound, something between a groan and a laugh. “It will be a damn sight more decent than the way you need to pull up your skirts when you climb into the saddle.”

She stared at him. Her blue eyes kept widening until he could see rims of white all around the irises. Hot color washed up to her cheeks. “Heavens,” she breathed. “I didn’t realize.” She peered into the saddlebag, as if wanting to crawl into it. “I didn’t mean to...”

“It’s all right,” Blackburn said grudgingly. “No one was watching.”

“No one but you.”

“I don’t count, do I?”

She pursed her lips. “I guess you don’t. We are married, after all.”

The answer took him by surprise. He’d meant he didn’t count because she had made it clear he was so far beneath her in social status he barely qualified as a member of the human race. Moreover, her embarrassment confirmed she hadn’t been tormenting him on purpose. Mollified, Jamie squatted beside his little Eastern princess and joined her in examining the saddlebags.

“These are Mexican,” he said. “Silver-studded. They’ll look good on the gray.”

She glanced up from beneath her lashes and flashed him a smile that made his breath catch. “That’s what I thought when I first saw them.” She met his gaze, earnest and eager now, and spoke without a trace of hostility. “I do want to learn how to look after a horse. I always did, but it upset the grooms when I asked. They feared for their jobs.”

“That’s good.” Jamie pushed up to his feet. “Let’s put the bridle and the saddlebags on the horse. Then we’ll go over to the mercantile. We’ll get them to open up even though it’s Sunday, and we’ll kit you out.”

* * *

“These are wonderful. Can I try them on for size?” Jamie watched his little Eastern princess clutch a pair of denim trousers in her hands, as if they were a gown made by a Paris fashion house. He was starting to suspect he might have been too harsh in judging her. The thought gave him pause. It would be better to remain enemies.

The shopkeeper, a small dark man with clipped speech and an oddly precise way of moving, pressed his fingertips into a steeple, as if praying for a sale. “Let me show you some boots and coats. And you’ll need a couple of shirts, and a hat, and a rain slicker.”

An hour later, Jamie was sitting on a wooden stool by the counter, drinking coffee while Miranda kept darting in and out of the small fitting booth at the back of the store. He shook his head as he watched her parade up and down the aisle. How did she do it? She never once looked at the price tags, but she unerringly selected the most expensive of everything.

“I like this hat best,” she informed him.

“Of course you do,” Jamie muttered.

“What?” She stilled, hands raised to adjust the tilt of the brim as she admired her reflection in the mirror. She frowned at him through the glass. “Is it wrong?”

“It’s about ten dollars wrong.”

“Ten dollars?” Her face fell with comprehension. She took down the black leather hat, fingered the band of silver beads around the crown. Her voice was very small. “I thought it would go nicely with the saddle.”

She turned toward him. Her eyes seemed very bright. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I wasn’t thinking... My parents died four years ago, and I haven’t had anything new since, and I’ve never bought any ready-made clothing before. It’s been so much fun, I got carried away.” Putting on a brave smile, she turned to the storekeeper. “Let’s start again. Point me to the cheapest hats and coats.”

Jamie let his eyes drift over her. She’d picked a pair of black knee-high boots and a short coat in black deerskin, cropped at the waist, Mexican style. The hat had straight sides and a short, flat-topped crown. She looked as if she had ridden up from south of the border. If it hadn’t been for the fair hair, everyone who saw her would expect her to talk in Spanish.