The Bride Lottery Page 12

  “Sleep,” he said. “I’ll watch over you.”

  All day, all night, they remained like that, cocooned beneath the covers. Miranda drifted in and out of a restless doze, never quite awake, never enjoying the full respite of sleep. A few times, Jamie got up to take care of some errand—speaking to Nordgren, fetching a glass of water for her, getting a damp cloth to bathe her swollen eyes. Once, he led her down the rear steps to the privy and waited outside, ready to guide her back upstairs.

  During the day, Miranda could hear the clanking of the mine, like the heartbeat of the town. When dusk fell, the Carousel came alive again, perhaps more subdued than normal, but the piano played and the gambling resumed and the girls took their clients up to their rooms, their laughter and voices ringing through the thin walls.

  Life went on. Her life would go on, too, Miranda knew. Tomorrow, she would have to face her future, leave Devil’s Hall, go back to being Miranda Fairfax, instead of Miss Randi who sang in a saloon, took care of a little girl and was married to a bounty hunter with gray eyes that no longer seemed as cold as ice.

  Chapter Fourteen

  For Jamie, the day of mourning and the night that followed were bittersweet. He held Miranda in his arms, her body tucked against his. He no longer knew which loss would be greater, having said goodbye to Nora, or giving up Miranda.

  And yet he knew he’d have to do it, as soon as possible. Trying to hold on would be foolish. Foolish and wrong, and bound to lead to more suffering in the long run.

  When the morning dawned, he shook Miranda awake. Jamie felt no fatigue, for the half-awake, half-asleep slumber of the last twenty-four hours was no different from his usual rest.

  But he understood Miranda would be drained and disoriented from lack of sleep. Her eyes were puffed from crying, her face pale, her hair in a tangle. Despite looking worn and disheveled, she was more beautiful to him now than she had ever been before, for she had shared her grief with him, had turned to him for consolation.

  “Let’s get up,” Jamie said. “We have things to do.”

  Things to do. It seemed as if those were magic words, for a sense of purpose sparked in Miranda’s red-rimmed eyes. She stirred, scooted up to a sitting position on the bed and swung her feet to the floor.

  “I want to see the headstone,” she told him.

  “Fine.” Jamie got up, too, rolled his shoulders to get rid of the stiffness. He took his guns from where he’d placed them, one beside the pillow, the other hidden beneath his hat on the table, and strapped them on. He added the knife to his belt and propped his hat on his head.

  “I’ll bring you water to wash and then I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  He was standing by the counter, on his second cup of coffee, when Miranda came down. She seemed more alert now, although still pale and drawn. She halted beside him, made no move to sit down, but did not resist when he led her to a table and made her eat two biscuits heaped with butter and jam.

  Autumn seemed to have arrived in a rush. Wind blew across the eastern plains, whistling along the boardwalk, tossing up dust and dry leaves. They made their way to the cemetery. The stonemason from the mine had been to chisel another engraving to the simple headstone.

  Louise Blackburn 1857–1889

  Nora Blackburn 1879–1889

  No “devoted mother and wife” or “beloved child,” for a bond as strong as theirs needed no mention. It occurred to Jamie that without the exact dates, a stranger looking at the inscription might assume the mother and child had perished together, perhaps in an accident. It did not matter.

  He watched Miranda stand by the grave, her head held high, golden hair whipping in the wind. A little color was coming back into her cheeks. He’d never seen her wear her hair completely unbound before, and it made him realize how distracted she must be, not quite in touch with reality. He called her name to get her attention.

  When she looked up, he spoke in a firm, efficient tone. “We’ll take today to pack up, say goodbye to the people at the Carousel. If you have any business to take care of, or if you want to send any letters or telegrams, you’ll need to do it today. Tomorrow morning we’ll ride out. I’ll take you to the nearest railroad station and put you on a train to your sister.”

  Something sparked in Miranda’s eyes. Good, Jamie thought. She was returning to full awareness and rational thought. “Where is Gold Crossing exactly?” he asked. “Is it in the Wyoming Territory or in Colorado? Is it east or west of here?”

  “Neither,” she replied. “It’s south. Arizona Territory.”

  Jamie stared at her. Recollections of conversations rattled through his mind. She’d never said where, it dawned on him. He’d just assumed, because she’d talked about a mining town, and they were in an area with a heritage of gold rushes. “But you were on Union Pacific Railroad,” he protested feebly. “On a train headed for San Francisco.”

  “So?” She gave a small, very feminine shrug that seemed to suggest logic was the preserve of men and fools. “I got on the wrong train in Chicago.”

  “It’s a heck of a long way to go on the wrong train.”

  “By the time I realized, I thought it might make more sense to go on to San Francisco and then double back on a southbound train. I’d see more of the country that way.”

  See more of the country. So spoke a woman who a few days ago had told him she only knew one life—the safe confines of her parental home near Boston, along the civilized Eastern Seaboard.

  Jamie stepped away from the grave. Crouching down, he picked up a stick from the ground and used it to draw a diagram in the dirt. “Here’s Devil’s Hall, Wyoming Territory. Here’s Gold Crossing, Arizona Territory.”

  He didn’t know if the place was north, near Flagstaff, or south, near Tucson, but it made little difference. He poked the second dot in the ground a good distance below the first one. He added another dot, way over to the right. “Here’s Chicago. And here’s San Francisco.” He punched one more dot over to the left. “You can go this way. Or you can go this way.” He drew two big arrowheads, the first pointing to the right, the second to the left.

  Miranda squatted beside him. She put out her hand. Jamie passed the twig to her. She drew a vertical line from the dot representing Devil’s Hall down to the dot representing Gold Crossing. “I want to go this way. The shortest way. South.”

  An uncomfortable feeling settled in the pit of Jamie’s belly. “There are no trains going south. Trains go east-west, apart from spur lines, and those are dead ends to connect with the main lines.”

  “The shortest way between two points is a straight line.”

  “That might be true when you sail a ship on the ocean.”

  “I want to go south.” Miranda scraped the stick over the vertical line again and said the words Jamie had feared she would say. “You have to take me.”

  “I can’t take you. It’s almost a thousand miles. It’ll take more than a month.”

  “It will take a long time on the train, too, whichever route I take. I’ll be sitting idle for days on end. Alone. With nothing to occupy my mind except grief. I can’t take it. And what else will you do for a month?” She turned to look at him, her eyes suddenly sharp.

  It didn’t seem fair to Jamie for her to switch tactics like that, as if logical argument was suddenly a woman’s birthright. “I have business to take care of,” he protested.

  “You can hunt for outlaws along the way. And you have no reason to remain in Wyoming now. You might as well head south for the winter, enjoy a milder climate.”

  Jamie hesitated. He didn’t want this complication. Up to now he’d spent no more than a week with her in total. The first three days had been with suspicion and hostility standing between them, and then another four days with their focus on Nora.

  How would it be if they traveled together for a month,
sharing every moment of the day? If each morning the first sight he saw was Miranda? If each night he sat awake, watching her while she slept, her golden hair like a ray of light in the darkness?

  How much harder would it be to stay away from her? How much further into his heart could she burrow? How much deeper would the pain cut when they finally parted?

  He couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take the temptation of constant proximity. Couldn’t take the risk of doing something that might tie them together for good. Couldn’t take the strain on his emotions.

  It occurred to Jamie that his thoughts were like holding up a mirror to what Miranda had said a moment ago—that she couldn’t take the solitude and boredom of sitting on the train, immersed in her grief. Deep down, he already knew he’d lose the argument, but he made a valiant effort.

  “You’ll hate overland travel. You’ll freeze on the high ground through Colorado. You’ll get saddle sores on your delicate skin. There’ll be outlaws. You’ll have to learn to defend yourself. Kill, if need be. It’ll be more than a month of bad food and sleeping rough and getting wet when it rains. You’ll have to go thirsty and hungry and without sleep.”

  “I don’t care. I told you, I’ve never traveled much. I’ve only known one life. This is my chance for adventure. I can’t make the trip alone, but with you escorting me I can.” The twig scraped against the ground in a straight line. “I want to go south.”

  Jamie didn’t reply. Miranda lowered her voice and spoke again. Jamie knew what was coming, even before she said it. Because her words reflected his thoughts. “You owe it to me. You owe it to me not to leave me alone in my grief.”

  Earlier, when he’d won her in the bride lottery, Jamie had justified his actions by telling himself she was better off with him than she might have been with any other man. She might have been used roughly. She might have been forced to work from dawn to dusk, looking after an extended household of stepchildren or elderly in-laws.

  But last night, as he watched her consumed with grief, it had occurred to Jamie that he might have asked more of Miranda than any of those other men could have asked. He owed her. Plain and simple. He owed her. And a man of honor paid his debts.

  “South it is then, Princess.”

  He would simply have to find a way to resist the temptation, overcome the risk of doing something foolish and live with the strain to his emotions. Jamie pushed up to his feet, helped Miranda rise. “Let’s go to the mercantile. From the way I’ve seen you shop, it’s going to take all day to get you kitted out.”

  * * *

  Jamie had never thought it possible to spend so long choosing a bedroll. Miranda stroked the fabrics to test the smoothness. She lifted the bedrolls to her nose and inhaled the scent. She spread them on the plank floor of the mercantile and tried them out. Jamie stood guard, making sure no one entered the aisle where she lay like a drunk passed out.

  Next, she tried on several warm coats and rejected them all, in favor of a thick wool poncho that would fit under a rain slicker. Tin plates, utensils, a skillet and pan, every item required a thorough inspection before she made her selection.

  It would not do, Jamie decided. He’d die of boredom and it would take a week before they could start the journey. “How much money do you have?” he asked.

  “I have four hundred dollars left, but I want to give fifty to Moses and twenty-five to Eve and Jezebel each. That leaves me three hundred.”

  “Fine. I’ll pay for these.” He steered her out to the porch and pointed her toward the dress shop across the road. “Go and get some underwear. Whatever it is ladies wear beneath everything else in the winter to keep warm. Long legs. Long sleeves. Shoo.”

  He finished off with a friendly pat on her bottom and followed her with his eyes until she’d vanished into the Ladies’ Fashion Emporium. Then he went back into the mercantile, bought matches and cartridges and a few tools, two oilcloth sheets and a canvas tent, hurrying to get his purchases completed before Miranda could come back and insist that they try out every single item on the shelves.

  He need not have worried. By the time Miranda came out again with two parcels under her arm, he’d been to the livery stable to buy a pack mule, and was sitting on the steps of the mercantile, having a cup of coffee, waiting for her to emerge.

  “Food,” she informed him. “We need to stock up with food.”

  “Moses will shop for us. He’ll know what to get.” Jamie got to his feet, looked up into the sky to check the position of the sun. It was past lunchtime. “I suggest you have a bath. It will be a while before you have a chance for another one. Then we can organize our outfit. I’ll introduce you to the pack mule.”

  Her eyes went round. “You bought a mule? Why didn’t you wait for me?”

  Jamie took the last sip of his coffee. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”

  It was a diplomatic lie. If he’d waited for her, the task would have taken all afternoon, and they would have ended up with two mules, because he’d bought one of a pair, and Miranda would have refused to split up the animals used to having each other for company.

  * * *

  It was nice to have two mules, Miranda thought the next morning as they headed south across the valley. She’d named the beasts Castor and Pollux. Both were chestnut brown, almost as big as Alfie, with inquisitive eyes, long ears and mournful calls—particularly if about to be separated from a lifelong friend.

  Being on the road, leaving the sad memories behind felt good. She’d taken an emotional farewell from Eve and Jezebel and Nordgren and Moses. The prospect of one day saying goodbye to Jamie filled her with unease. He had comforted her in her grief, and in some way he had become the anchor that held her together, helped her meet whatever came next.

  Soon the landscape flattened and they picked their way through the long prairie grass, careful to keep the horses from stumbling over the shallow streams that crisscrossed the earth. In the afternoon, heavy clouds rolled in, bringing blustery rain. By the time Miranda had pulled on her wool poncho and fastened the oilcloth slicker over it, every layer was damp. As they rode on, the chill seeped into her bones. The smell of wet wool and wet horse and wet leather clung to her, as if it would never wash off again.

  When twilight fell, Jamie halted in a rocky clearing bordered by stunted trees with yellowing leaves. “I can see now why it will take so long to get to Arizona,” Miranda said after she had dismounted, her legs so stiff they nearly collapsed beneath her weight.

  “This is not the worst of it. The river crossings will be the main obstacle. If there is no ferry, it can take days to find a safe spot to get across.”

  Too exhausted to worry about what lay ahead, Miranda took off her leather gloves and rubbed her hands together, blowing warm air over her fingers that seemed permanently curled from holding the reins.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked between puffs.

  Jamie was pulling an oilcloth sheet from Castor’s panniers. “Hold this end.”

  She grabbed the edge of the oilcloth sheet and held it up while Jamie tied two corners into the trees. Then he secured the opposite edge against the ground with metal pegs, making a lean-to shelter.

  “Get out of the rain,” he ordered.

  Miranda darted beneath the lean-to. Even at the high end, the shelter did not allow her to stand up.

  Jamie handed her another oilcloth sheet. “Spread that on the ground.”

  Carefully avoiding tracking dirt on top, Miranda unfolded the oilcloth.

  “Here.” Jamie held out a rag. “Wipe your boots before you crawl on top.”

  She did as he told her and huddled beneath the canopy. The rain drummed against the oilcloth. The wind stirred the branches, making them look like ghosts swaying in the twilight. A few paces away, she could see Jamie moving with quick, purposeful motions as he put up a small canvas tent, hacking d
own saplings to make poles and fastening ropes to the ground.

  She ought to be helping, Miranda thought as she watched him through the deluge. As he bent and straightened, his rain slicker flared wide, letting water saturate his clothing. The ends of his hair pulled into wet clumps. Rivulets ran down the brim of his hat.

  He seemed oblivious to the hardships—cold, fatigue, hunger. Perhaps a man developed a hard edge when he took on a profession that required him to face death and be prepared to deliver it. And yet she’d seen tenderness in him. It was that dichotomy of cool exterior and the depth of feeling inside him that fascinated her so. And the air of danger that clung to him. It excited her. What was it like, to be a bounty hunter? Perhaps with him she might get a peek into that life of peril and adventure.

  The tent, once it stood up, white canvas flapping in the rain, seemed very small, barely four feet wide. Miranda blurted out the thought as it popped into her head. “Why didn’t you get a bigger tent? It’s too small for two.”

  Shame burned on her cheeks the instant she heard her words. Spoiled Eastern girl. That’s what she’d sounded like. It would serve her right if Jamie tossed some cutting remark back at her, putting her in her place as the useless creature she was.

  “It’s meant for one,” he said. “I’m not sleeping in it.”

  She knew he intended to annul their marriage and wished to protect her reputation—even though there was little left to be tarnished. She’d been singing in a saloon, and people had seen them share a room at the Carousel.

  “I don’t mind,” she told him. “No one will know.”

  “It’s not your honor I’m thinking of, Princess. It’s your safety, and mine. It’s too easy to creep up on a man sleeping in a tent. Can’t see out through the walls. The flapping of the canvas muffles the sound of anyone approaching. By the time I wake up to an intruder’s presence, whether it’s the two-legged or the four-legged kind, it might to be too late.”

  “I see,” Miranda said.

  Slowly, the misery of the cold, wet landscape closed around her. As the darkness fell, there wasn’t even the majestic line of the mountains to see in the distance. All she could see was the inky blackness settling over them. Rain poured from the sky. Wind howled in the trees. She felt tired and hungry, with a trace of fear creeping in.