The Bride Lottery Page 6

  For an hour, Miranda rode in meek silence, and then she could no longer tolerate the uncertainty. She had to know what he wanted from her. She urged Alfie forward, until she was riding alongside the bounty hunter’s bay gelding.

  “Where are we going?” she called out to him.

  He kept his eyes straight ahead. “You’ll find out.”

  “Why can’t you tell me now?”

  He shot her a sharp glance. “Shut up and ride.”

  “I can ride and talk at the same time. Can’t you?”

  “Be quiet. You’re annoying me.”

  It was not a playful retort. It was a surly, brooding complaint. Perhaps he regretted spending all that money on her. Ten dollars might have seemed cheap for a wife, but she had quickly turned into a bottomless pit of additional expense.

  The path narrowed and Miranda fell back behind the bounty hunter’s horse. For the rest of the day, they rode across the grassy plateau at a steady lope, pausing frequently to stretch their legs and to let their mounts rest. The bounty hunter ignored her, except to issue an order or to warn her to keep out of the way. Tension ratcheted up inside Miranda. When they stopped for the night, the bounty hunter set a soot-covered coffeepot to boil on a fire he had built from dead branches in a circle of stones on the ground.

  Miranda gathered her courage and perched beside him on the fallen log where he had sat down. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

  “I don’t like to talk.”

  “Why did you marry me?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  “You’ll find out, you’ll find out,” she mimicked. “You sound like a parrot in a cage.”

  “And you talk too much.” He shot her a frowning glance. “Can’t you do something useful? Like cook supper, or groom the horses, or build a fire, or clear a place on the ground to sleep, instead of hovering around and annoying me?”

  Miranda spoke quietly. “It is not my fault that I’m gently bred. Unlike you, I’m not nasty and surly by nature. I’m asking because I want to know. If I prepare myself for whatever it is you want from me, I might be able to perform the task better.”

  She had never heard anyone heave out such a loud sigh. It made the air vibrate with frustration and irritation and exasperation and aggravation and impatience. James Fast Elk Blackburn might not like to talk, but it seemed he had no trouble communicating his bad temper without words.

  Miranda walked away, but she was not giving up.

  She was merely regrouping for another attack.

  * * *

  A fire crackled in a circle of stones, casting shadows in the darkness. The soft night breeze whispered in the trees. The horses, hobbled to stop them from straying, grazed on the long grass by the brook. The aroma of roast turkey, already eaten, lingered in the air.

  Jamie drank the last of his coffee and studied his little bandit princess. She sat beside him, staring into the flames. He could sense her fear. During the evening, she had drawn tighter and tighter into a ball, shoulders hunched, knees pressed together, as if she wanted to disappear into herself.

  He should have been gentler with her, but the emotions she stirred up in him had made him morose. It grated that she looked down on him, the way his mother’s family had looked down on his father. The physical reactions she sparked in him didn’t help, either. It was best to keep his distance. Healthier for them both. The worst of his feelings was guilt, though. It was clear she was on the run, perhaps from being tied to a man twice her age, and now she had ended up married to a savage who killed people for a living.

  The right thing would be to explain what he wanted from her, but Jamie couldn’t talk about it. Death might be his trade, but when it came to the death of his mother and his sister and his niece, his mind locked up. He didn’t know if it was because they were women, or because they were family, or because they were the only people he had ever loved.

  “Who is Woods?” he asked. When the girl didn’t reply, he added, “Your husband. Are you a widow or not? Is he still living?”

  As Jamie considered the question, it occurred to him that if Woods still lived, it would simplify things. The marriage would be bigamous, invalid as such, and he would avoid the trouble of seeking an annulment when the time came.

  The little princess kept picking bits of bark loose from the log they sat upon, her eyes intent on the task, the way a hungry sparrow might concentrate on the search for a worm.

  “He doesn’t exist,” she muttered.

  “He doesn’t exist?”

  “That’s right. He is a figment of my imagination.” She shot him a glance. “I thought it might make it easier for a woman traveling alone to be assumed a widow.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “I thought you didn’t like to talk.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Boston.”

  The flickering flames sent shadows dancing over her face and hair. She looked frightened, but also fierce, strangely untamed. She’d probably fight back if he tried to bed her. Scratch and claw and bite. The thought reassured Jamie.

  “I was out East once,” he told her. “Baltimore. It was a long way there and an even longer way back.”

  She contemplated him and gave a slow nod. Jamie got an odd feeling she understood what he meant—that the journey back had felt longer because it had been without hope.

  Her gaze returned to the fire. “I live in a place called Merlin’s Leap. It’s a big old house by the ocean. I have two sisters. I’m the middle one.”

  Jamie knew he needed to put her fears to rest. On purpose, he had waited for nightfall to have the conversation. He talked better in the darkness. “I’m not going to hurt you. There’s something I need you to do for me. A job. It will only take a few months. When it’s done, you can go.”

  “Will anyone else hurt me?”

  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 sounde
d 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

  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.

  Without releasing the little girl’s hand, Blackburn lifted his other hand. His fingers closed around Miranda’s arm. He applied the same silent warning he’d used when they stood in front of the preacher and he’d dragged the consent of marriage out of her.

  “Of course she does.” Steely fingers bit into Miranda’s arm. “She’s always wanted a little girl of her own to look after. Haven’t you, Miranda?”

  Miranda studied the child. She seemed a timid little thing. And there was only one of her. Not four, like the boisterous Summerton girls who had worn her nerves into a tangle in five minutes. When Miranda didn’t say anything, the little girl blinked. A solitary tear spilled out from beneath her thick dark lashes and rolled down her cheek.

  Seeing that tear, sensing the loneliness and grief the child so valiantly tried to hide, jolted Miranda out of her stunned reticence. A new mama. That implied Nora must have lost her mother, and most likely also her father.

  Even after four years, Miranda’s own grief remained raw, and she’d been on the verge of adulthood when she lost her parents. How much worse must it be to lose a parent while still a child? Moreover, she’d had her sisters for support, but Nora had been left alone in the care of unsympathetic strangers.

  Mortified at the thought that Nora believed she didn’t like her, Miranda yanked her arm free from the bounty hunter’s grip and sank to her knees in front of the child. “Of course I’ve always wanted a little girl of my own.” She coaxed a shaky smile onto her face. “Hello, Nora. Or may I call you Skylark?”

  Big brown eyes gave her a wary inspection. A tiny hand reached out to touch the golden strands that fluttered free from her upsweep. “I like your hai
r.”

  Miranda’s smile gentled. “I hope you’ll find a lot more to like about me. I can do magic tricks, and I can sing songs from faraway lands. I can draw pictures, and I know the names of lots of stars, and I can tell how fast the wind blows.”

  The little girl looked up at Blackburn. The love and trust in the child’s gaze tugged at Miranda’s heart. “I think she’s going to be a good mama,” the little girl whispered.

  Blackburn released the child’s hand and spun her to face the hallway. “You go back upstairs and help Mrs. Van Cleef pack your things. Then you and your new mama will move to your old room at the Carousel.”

  Miranda waited until Mrs. Van Cleef and the little girl had vanished up the stairs. Then she turned to Blackburn and spoke in an agitated murmur. “Why didn’t you tell me? And what did you mean when you said it’s only for a few months? That girl is no more than eight or nine. She is going need someone to look after her for years to come.”

  “She’s sick. She won’t live much longer.”

  “Sick? What with? Who is she?”

  “She’s my niece. The child of my only sister, Louise. I’m her only living relative. Nora was born with a weak heart. As her body grows, the heart is less and less able to keep up. The doc says she only has a few months left.”

  Blackburn darted a glance into the shadowed hall where footsteps clattered once more down the stairs. He finished in a rush. “My sister died a few weeks ago. I’ve been paying for Mrs. Van Cleef to look after Nora.”

  Miranda had a dozen more questions, but Nora had reappeared and the questions had to wait. The child was moving more slowly now, and her color was poor, with a bluish tinge on her lips.

  “Let’s go.” The little girl spoke in a weak, breathless tone. She slipped her hand, not in Blackburn’s, but in Miranda’s. The child’s skin was cold, the fingers so fragile they might snap.

  “Come along,” Nora said, looking up at Miranda. “I’ll show you where we live. Uncle Jamie can follow us with my bag and the horses.”