The Bride Lottery

The bounty hunter got to his feet. He raked a glance over the girls, nodded at Nellie and headed toward the staircase. Appearing confused, Nellie hovered on her toes, then trotted after the man. A paying customer was a paying customer.

At the top of the stairs, the bounty hunter paused to let Nellie pass. He turned back to survey the crowded room below. His eyes settled on Miranda. “Be ready to ride out in the morning.” He spoke in a deep, emotionless tone that made even everyday words sound threatening. “We’ll leave right after breakfast.”

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

Miranda tossed and turned on the narrow cot in the storeroom where she slept at night. She could hear the music booming downstairs, could feel the walls vibrating with the merriment. The stairs creaked with footsteps as the girls brought their clients upstairs. A few doors down the hall, her bridegroom was busy enjoying the favors of Nellie.

Did the man have no shame? It was the eve of their wedding. Miranda groaned into the darkness at her misplaced indignation. Surely, for all she cared, the bounty hunter could line up every one of Lucille’s girls and take his turn with each of them.

How had she let it happen?

How had she ended up as a lottery prize?

For a week, she had sat on display, spinning her empty dreams of an escape. She had done nothing to help her situation. She could have tried to send a telegram to Charlotte in Gold Crossing. She could have asked the marshal to track down Cousin Gareth. Anything would be better than an unknown future with an icy-eyed bounty hunter.

But no, she’d been like one of those big birds Papa had seen on his travels. Ostriches, he’d called them. When some danger threatened, they dipped down their long necks and dug their heads into the sand, pretending the enemy didn’t exist. That’s what she had done.

Pretended her problem didn’t exist.

Hoping it would go away.

But it had not.

It was down the hall with Nellie.

* * *

When morning came, Miranda awoke bleary-eyed. The storeroom had no windows, but she could hear the wind howling outside, could feel the gusts that buffeted the timber building. Summer weather in Wyoming seemed as unpredictable as the ocean storms that crashed and roared at Merlin’s Leap.

She got up and considered her dress choices. Surely, the bounty hunter would respect a widow’s grief? No, Miranda decided. The black mourning gown would remind him she was supposed to be experienced with men. She’d wear the pale blue.

Hastily, Miranda washed, dressed and packed her things into a canvas pouch she’d sewn while sitting on display. She surveyed the shelves of the storeroom, added candles, matches, canned meats, dried vegetables to her bag. After starving on the train, she wouldn’t risk having to flee without supplies again.

Even as her mind dwelled on an escape, Miranda knew it would be the last resort. She had no money, no means of transport. The frontier region offered few opportunities for a woman to earn her living. Unless the bounty hunter turned out cruel, a position as his wife had to be better than entertaining an endless stream of strangers in a saloon.

On the landing, Miranda peeked down over the balustrade. Lucille and the girls sat around one of the gambling tables, dressed in their most conservative gowns. It surprised Miranda to see them up so early, for they rarely rose before midday.

When they spotted her, Shanna started belting out the notes of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” Miranda walked down the stairs. The bounty hunter pushed away from the counter where he’d been hunched over a cup of coffee. He was wearing his tall boots and a long duster. His hat lay by his elbow and his saddlebags by his feet, ready for riding.

“Stop that noise,” he ordered.

Shanna ceased her singing. Silence settled over the room, as heavy and sudden as the fall of an ax. The bounty hunter strode up to meet Miranda at the bottom of the stairs. He curled one hand around her elbow and ushered her across the floor to a compact, brown-haired man who sat at a table, eating porridge from a china bowl.

By the look of him, he was the circuit preacher—black suit, pious expression and a prayer book open on the table in front of him.

“I want no ceremony,” the bounty hunter said. “Just a piece of paper to sign.”

The preacher lifted the napkin tucked into his collar and touched a corner to his lips. “Before I am able to issue a marriage certificate, you have to express your consent to the union.”

“I do.” The bounty hunter tightened his grip on Miranda’s arm and turned to glare at her. His head dipped in a single, sharp nod. When Miranda didn’t respond, he gave her a light rattle, as if to shake the words out of her, the way one might shake apples from a tree. “Let’s hear it,” he said.

“I do not,” she muttered.

His chin jerked. The twin slashes of his black eyebrows edged upward. His inscrutable expression cracked a little. It appeared to Miranda that the corners of his mouth were fighting not to curl up in a smile.

“Yes, you do,” he told her. Turning to the preacher, he said, “She does. Where do we sign?”

“I need to hear the lady give her consent.”

“And hear it you shall,” the bounty hunter replied. He bent closer to Miranda and whispered into her ear. “It’s me, or a jail cell with four bank robbers who don’t care about adding rape to their sins. Which do you prefer?”

Miranda pursed her lips. Always stubborn, she hated to give in to blackmail. But on this occasion resistance might be ill-advised.

“I do.” She spoke through gritted teeth.

“Good,” the bounty hunter said. “She does. Where do we sign?”

The preacher looked pained. Behind Miranda, Lucille and her girls were muttering complaints about the lack of romance. The bounty hunter turned his head and scowled at them over Miranda’s shoulder. “You worry about your own weddings and leave this one alone.”

Before Miranda could think, one of her booted feet rose and slammed down on the man’s instep. He flinched. Although no sound passed his lips, Miranda knew she’d caused him pain. Good. He deserved it. It had been a cruel comment. He must be aware of how little chance the saloon girls had of ever getting a wedding of their own.

“That was nasty and uncalled for and lacking in chivalry,” she lectured.

The bounty hunter’s mouth fell open. For a second, he stared at her, speechless. Miranda could see something flicker in his eyes. Anger. Perhaps even respect. Then it changed to a flash of amusement, and his mouth curved into a rueful smile.

“If you expect chivalry from me, you’re sorely mistaken.” He turned back to the preacher, one hand still clutching her arm. His other hand settled over one of the big revolvers in the twin holsters at his hips.

“Now, where do we sign?”

“Name?” the preacher asked, looking at her.

“Miranda Fairfax.” She had thought about it carefully. Cousin Gareth was less dangerous than the bounty hunter. She was not afraid of leaving a trail. She wanted to leave a trail.

The bounty hunter’s eyes narrowed. “I heard your name is Woods.”

She gave him a strained smile, cherishing the tiny triumph of telling him a lie, one he might suspect but had no way of proving. “That was my married name.”

“Name?” the preacher said, addressing the question to the bounty hunter. It was clear to Miranda the brown-haired pastor had chosen to cut his losses over the ceremony and wanted to get back to his cooling porridge.

“James Fast Elk Blackburn,” the bounty hunter replied.

The preacher frowned. “You sure you want the Fast Elk in there?”

The bounty hunter hesitated a moment. “You can leave it out.”

They took turns signing the marriage certificate. The preacher copied the details into his record book and handed the certificate to Miranda. The bounty hunter leaned over her, snatched the document from her fingers and slipped it into a pocket on the buckskin coat he wore beneath his long duster. “I paid good money for you and I’ll keep this for now.”

“Ten dollars,” Miranda muttered tartly. “A fortune indeed.”