The Bride Lottery

Right to the point. She was smart. Perceptive.

“No,” he said. “It’s not that kind of job.”

“Will I have to harm anyone?”

“No.”

“Will I have to break the law?”

“No.”

“What will I have to do?”

“Clean in a saloon. Just sweep and scrub and dust.”

“Sweep and scrub and dust for a few months? And then I can go?”

“That’s about it. There’s a bit more to it. You’ll find out.” He got up, tossed another branch into the fire, pointed at a big rock a few yards away. “Sleep next to the stone. It’s better not to leave your back exposed. I’ve put a bedroll and a blanket down for you.”

“You didn’t buy a bedroll for me.”

“I gave you mine. I’ll sleep with a blanket.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That is kind of you.”

That is kind of you. Jamie suppressed another twinge of guilt. If he were kind, he’d put her on the next train back to Boston and take care of his problems without her help.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he told her. “If you need to wake me up at night, call out from a distance. Whatever you do, don’t creep up on me and touch me. I’ll most likely slit your throat.”

He saw her shrink into that tight ball again. Idiot, Jamie berated himself. He’d planned to reassure her, not to scare her out of her wits. He’d best shut up before he made things even worse.

He walked off into the darkness and stretched out beside another rock. After setting his pair of guns and the knife he carried in his belt down on the ground within easy reach, he wrapped up in a blanket and closed his eyes.

Years ago, he’d learned to go to sleep at will, or at least fall into the half-awake doze that served him for sleep. But tonight the restful slumber didn’t come. His ears attuned to a soft feminine voice singing some kind of a song in the darkness, so faintly it sounded almost like the wind whispering. When he finally dozed off, he dreamed of an angel choir, complete with halos and wings and shimmering robes.

* * *

It had been unwise to boast about her skills as a rider, Miranda thought as she cantered behind James Fast Elk Blackburn, following the course of a wide, shallow river. He had decided to make the journey in three days instead of four, and after bragging about her horsemanship she felt unable to complain about fatigue and sore muscles.

So far, the weather had favored them. Dry, crisp days, with dewy mornings and starlit nights. They had crossed hills and valleys, followed creeks and streams, but however far they rode, the snowcapped mountains on the horizon never seemed to get any closer.

Since their talk by the firelight on the first night, they had barely exchanged a word. The bounty hunter didn’t expect her to help with the chores, so she didn’t even try. She ate what he put in front of her, rode when he told her to ride and slept the minute she’d finished chewing and swallowing whatever he had shot and cooked each night.

Ahead of her, Blackburn lifted his arm in a signal and halted his horse. His bay gelding was called Sirius. If Miranda had known, she might have called the gray Appaloosa Orion instead of Alfie, but she’d gotten used to the name and didn’t wish to change it now.

“It’s over the next hill,” Blackburn told her when she caught up.

“What’s the town called?”

“Devil’s Hall.”

Devil’s Hall. Miranda hoped the place didn’t live up to the name but she decided not to ask. Blackburn probably would ignore her question anyway. As they set off again, at a slower pace now, to allow the horses to catch their breaths, a sudden boom shook the ground, followed by a muffled rumble, like the sound of distant thunder.

“What’s that noise?” Miranda asked.

“They’re blasting at the mine.”

A second later, the acrid odors of an explosion blotted out the smells of parched grass and drying buffalo chips. Unlike the eastern end of the prairie, where the buffalo had been hunted to extinction, in Wyoming the herds still roamed. Miranda had seen several groups of the huge, bulky beasts in the distance.

When they crested the ridge, a long valley spread before them. A river flowed through the middle. The town seemed quite a big place. There was a main street, with two-story buildings on both sides. The rest of the houses were scattered about in random clusters. On the opposite slope of the valley, the mine workings cut an ugly black crater in the earth.

As they drew closer, Miranda could pick out at least two saloons. “Carousel” boasted a brightly colored banner with the name on it in big letters and a balcony over the porch. “Purgatory” had no porch or balcony, and the name was daubed directly onto the timber wall. Miranda said a silent prayer that she’d end up at the Carousel instead of the Purgatory.

They had made good time, and it was only the afternoon. Miranda saw several people in the street, all men, dressed in drab clothing and bowler hats. She’d discovered that the kind of wide-brimmed hat she had chosen was useful in the south to keep out the sun, but this far north the winds were fierce, and people preferred hats not so easily blown off their heads.

Blackburn drew up outside a small, two-story, timber-frame house. He dismounted, tied Sirius to a post, far enough from the flowerbeds that decorated the front yard to protect them from the appetite of the horse, and then he turned around to hold Alfie by the bit.

“Get down,” he ordered.

“I thought you said the saloon.”

“We’ll stop here first.”

His manner was terse. Instinct told Miranda she was about to find out what Blackburn had meant when he told her there would be “a bit more” to her task than cleaning. Whatever it was, it was bad enough for him to have refused to talk about it.

She jumped down. Blackburn tied Alfie to the hitching post, marched to the front door and pounded the iron knocker. A woman opened. Tall and thin, with graying hair pulled back into a tight bun, she had the kind of pinched, sour expression that reminded Miranda of Mrs. Matheson, the least favorite of their governesses at Merlin’s Leap.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Van Cleef,” Blackburn said. “I’ve come for Nora.”

The woman dried her hands on her apron and gave a nod. “I’ll get her.”

Who is Nora? Miranda wanted to ask, but something in Blackburn’s manner warned her into silence. They waited. She heard the clip of Mrs. Van Cleef’s footsteps and a lighter tapping sound, and then a little girl shot forward from the woman’s shadow. She was perhaps eight or nine, fragile of build, with sallow skin, dark eyes and shoulder-length black hair in a blunt cut, with a straight fringe across her forehead.

“Uncle Jamie,” the child cried and ran out, skirts flapping around her feet.

So intent had Miranda been on staring into the hallway that she had failed to notice Blackburn had dropped to his knees. He spread his arms wide and the little girl barreled into him, babbling in a voice that rang with joy.

“Uncle Jamie, I missed you so much. I missed you more than the moon and the sun. I missed you more than all the planets and the stars.”

Bittersweet memories flooded into Miranda’s mind. She and her sisters had played that game with their parents, too, competing over who loved whom the most, but it had been the sea for Papa and arts and music for Mama. I love you more than the ocean. I love you more than the east wind. I love you more than Mozart, more than Michelangelo.

“Easy, Skylark,” Blackburn said. “You mustn’t run. You’ll wear yourself out.” He pushed up to his feet, took the little girl’s hand in his and turned toward Miranda. “Look what I got for you, Skylark. A new mama. What do you think of her?”

Chapter Eight (#u6263ff93-6fa5-55f7-bcef-2e846db924ff)

A new mama? The words went off like a gunpowder explosion in Miranda’s head, destroying all rational thought. She stared down at the little girl, who was staring back at her.

Slowly, the joy in the little girl’s face faded. She darted a glance at Blackburn and whispered, “She doesn’t like me...” Then the child twisted around to glance back at Mrs. Van Cleef with a nervous expression that spelled Any more than this one does.