Boot Hill Bride (4 page)
shoulders. All of a sudden it was as if they were the only two
people in the tent—in the world.
Howard tried to pull his gaze off the girl, but it was
impossible. An indescribable flush had rushed from his toes to
his ears and paralyzed him as if he were drowning in those
big brown eyes and could do little more than sink lower. He
blinked and dug deep in his reserve to find the strength to tug
away from the invisible force, then turned to glance around
the tent.
This couldn't possibly be happening. Not to him. His
mother had used her shotgun to marry off two of his older
brothers, but both of those situations had been different. Kid
had to marry Jessie to keep Russell from hanging, and
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Skeeter had to marry Lila 'cause she'd been pregnant. This
was a simple misunderstanding. Somehow this Randilynn
girl...she certainly had a pretty name. It matched her pretty
face.
He clamped his teeth together, forced his mind to stay
focused. For some reason Randilynn had been sleeping in his
bed. Due to the fact he hadn't slept in two days, he'd been
too tired to notice. That was it, nothing had happened. End of
story. There was no need to contact the sheriff. No need for a
wedding. He opened his mouth, ready to explain.
The tent flap opened again.
"Ma, this is the best we could find," Bug said. He and
Snake struggled to lead a stumbling man into the tent. They
each held an arm of a tattered, stained suit coat as the bone-
thin man wearing it tried somewhat unsuccessfully to find his
balance.
Ma spun around. "What the...That man's drunk."
"It's Dodge City, Ma," Snake said with a shrug.
Howard took a deep breath. "Ma, I told you there's—"
She stomped her foot and sent an angry gaze to the bed.
"And I told you there is." Tucking the gun against one hip,
she used the other hand to grab the preacher's arm. The man
swayed, then stumbled as she dragged him to the foot of the
bed. "Get ta preachin'!"
The preacher hiccupped. His head weaved as his bulging
red eyes settled on the bed. Both hands fumbled to pull a
tattered book from his breast pocket. "Beerly belobubbed," he
mumbled between little wet-sounding belches.
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"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Howard started to flip the covers
off, but as cool air blasted his skin, he remembered his lack of
clothing. Stark naked, he tucked the edge of the blanket back
in place. "Ma!"
She lifted her gun. "Hush up, now." Glancing back to the
preacher, she said, "Keep preachin'."
Howard waved a hand in the air. "Put that damn thing
down. You ain't gonna shoot me."
Faster than a bullwhip, Randilynn's father snatched the
gun from Ma's hands. The man reminded him of a snake oil
salesman, fancy duds, oiled hair, and not an ounce of honesty
in his short squat frame. Howard steeled his eyes and met the
man's gaze. A frog croaked in his throat. The man's beady
dark eyes held more raw hatred than a member of the Dalton
Gang.
"Maybe she won't, but I will." Pointing the barrels of the
gun directly at Howard's chest, where his heart beat against
his rib cage with enough ferocity to cause a heart attack,
Thurston Fulton growled, "Don't say another word." The
man's angry gaze went to the wobbling preacher. "You heard
the woman. Hurry up!"
Howard knew when he saw a man who meant business,
and at that moment he'd swear he was inches away from the
small cemetery on the outskirts of town which got its name
from the number of men who'd died with their boots on. Boot
Hill. The thought made him shiver from head to toe. He didn't
have any boots on but highly doubted that was a requirement
to be planted there nonetheless.
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He glanced at Randilynn. She trembled just as hard.
Having no idea what else to do, he settled his arm around her
shoulders and patted her arm as the drunken preacher
stumbled through the reading of their nuptials.
The preacher hiccupped again, and let out a slushy burp
before he proclaimed, "I preenunce youz huzbund 'n waf."
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Tears the size of raindrops trickled down Randilynn's face,
and Howard swore he had the fixin's for the worst headache
imaginable. It felt as if his brain was being squeezed and
would soon ooze out his ears. He patted her shoulder and
pinched at the bridge of his nose with his other hand.
The preacher, still swaying as if a stiff wind was whipping
him about, started mumbling something about getting paid,
which made everyone else in the room start talking at once.
His head was going to explode. The pressure had become
more than he could take. "Get out! All of you get the hell out
of here!" Securing the end of the blanket across his hips with
one hand, Howard reached over with the other and grabbed
the end of the shotgun. A hard yank forced it to slip out of
Thurston Fulton's hands. Flipping it around, he tucked it in the
curve of his elbow and waved it at the crowd. "Get out! Now!"
Everyone froze, their stares glued on the double barrels of
Ma's prized gun.
He cocked a finger, pressed it against the second trigger
hard enough to make a soft click emit and let everyone know
the slightest move would send the shell exploding out the
end.
They scrambled. The preacher was the fastest. He'd gained
his balance, and as if the devil himself nipped at his heels he
ran for the doorway closely followed by the half-dozen others.
The tent flap fluttered, snapping in the wind, and then
slapped shut.
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Howard stared at the canvas doorway for several minutes.
Watched how the wind tried to flip it open. Maybe if he sat
here long enough he'd awaken and praise the Lord it had all
been a bad dream.
The silence became thicker than bread pudding. He could
easily cut it up and serve it with raisins and whipped cream. A
hiccup, moan, or some other such noise beside him made him
realize there was no waking up from this dream. He laid Ma's
gun on the floor and twisted to gaze at the woman next to
him.
Once again her tousled hair and rosy cheeks made the
breath in his chest stall. If he didn't know better, he'd think
just what everyone else had been thinking. After all, what
man on earth would be able to control himself waking up next
to her? Disheveled or not, he'd never seen a more stunning
woman, not even in a dream or two.
She blinked, look at him expectantly.
His befuddled mind couldn't think of a thing to say, well
nothing appropriate, anyway. Shrugging his shoulders, he
held out his right hand. "Howard Quinter." He almost groaned
aloud.
Still clinging to the edge of the blanket tucked beneath her
chin with one hand, she grasped his big hand with her other,
tiny, trembling one. "Randilynn Fulton."
Now what
,
he thought, but instead said, "Nice to make
your acquaintance," and gave her icy little hand a gentle
pump.
"Likewise, I'm sure," she murmured.
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He pulled his hand from hers, used it to scratch his head
and brush the hair that should have been cut a month ago
away from his face. "Well, I—I reckon we ought to get
dressed."
Her face became even redder, but at least big tears no
longer trickled down her face. "Yes, yes, I suppose we
should," she said, nodding her head like a little bird searching
for a flight path.
His cheeks had grown extremely warm.
Damn.
He hadn't
blushed since he was a schoolboy. He scratched his head
again. "Well, uh, you want to turn around?"
"Oh." She whipped her face toward the wall faster than an
escaping wren. "Yes, yes, of course."
He rubbed both hands over his face, took a moment to
massage at his pounding temples, before he flipped his legs
over the edge of the mattress. With a corner of the blanket,
he kept his hips covered and tried to reach his clothes with
his feet. The ensemble of unwanted guests had scattered
every article. He couldn't even reach a sock. With a
backwards glance, he checked to make sure she wasn't
looking.
At that moment, he forgot how to breathe. Simply, utterly,
forgot. The wool blanket still covered her front, but her
twisted position revealed her bare back, left it open to his
gaze. Creamy-white skin flowed from her shoulders to her
hips. It curved here and there, forming a sight not unlike
what he'd expect to see near a European fountain—a statue
made of the finest marble, chiseled into the essence of
beauty. The blanket pooled across the mattress just below
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the top of her pantaloons, the waistline highlighted by two
remarkable dimples in the lowest curve of her back. Majestic
Virgin is what the artist would title the creation.
His body jolted, then grew tight as his blood heated close
to boiling temperature. He shot off the bed, grabbed his
pants, and tugged them on in record speed. His heart beat so
hard it made his breath catch and throbbed strong enough to
make his veins bulge under his skin. Once his pants were
secure, he eased his speed, taking time to gain a reasonable
amount of control over his shaking limbs.
He pulled on his shirt and turned back to the bed. A
tattered and torn gown hung off the foot. He walked over and
picked it up. Examining the cotton, he asked, "Is this all you
have to wear?"
She scooted about, faced him. Big glistening eyes stared at
him. Her weary gaze met his, and she gave a slight
acknowledging nod.
The gray blanket was now tucked beneath her armpits.
She lifted one hand and plucked at her hair. The mass of
tousled auburn waves fell to cover her shoulders, yet left
enough creamy skin peeking out to prick at his already
heightened senses. But it was the cleavage above the edge of
the blanket that made him ogle for a moment before twisting
about.
He walked over to his storage chest, pulled out a pair of
britches and shirt. Moving back to the bed, he laid them near
her feet. "Here."
"Thank you," she murmured and pulled the clothes closer.
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"I'll, uh..." He glanced about the small space. "I'll go wait
outside."
"No!" She reached out, grabbing his arm. "Please don't go
out there without me." She struggled to keep the blanket held
tight with one hand while the fingernails on her other hand
dug into his arm. "Just turn around, it'll only take me a
second to get dressed."
There was no way on earth he could deny her pleading
look. He closed his eyes. Sighed. "All right."
She eased her hold, and he pivoted and stared unseeingly
straight ahead. The shuffle of material behind him echoed in
his ears, sounding much louder than possible. He squeezed
his eyes shut and tried to ignore the teasing visions playing
behind his eyelids.
"Done!"
He shook the quivers from his body and turned about to
gather his socks and boots. A low groan rumbled in his throat.
He should never have looked. His white shirt, though
buttoned all the way, left a large amount of glossy skin
exposed below her neck. She'd tucked the shirttails into the
brown britches he'd given her and tiny hands held the much
too large waistband in a bunched knot. She looked adorable.
His eyes strained to blink as they floated back to the shirt.
Damn! He could see right through the thin material. Leaping
back to the trunk, he pulled things out right and left, letting
them flutter to the floor. Finally, snatching what he looked
for, he held up a piece of rope and sliced it in two with the
knife from his boot.
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Boot Hill Bride
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"Here, tie the pants up with this." He kept his eyes
averted, handed the rope to her, and then started to dig in
the trunk again. This time he pulled out a red-and-black plaid
wool shirt. "And put this one over the other one."
"Oh, thank you. It might be a bit chilly out yet."
The air huffed out of his lungs. He rubbed at his now
pounding temple. Chilly? Not even a blast of arctic air could
relieve the heat racing through his body.
"There all set," she said. "What do you think?"
He turned around and swallowed, forcing his gaze to
wander from her head to her toes.
"Oh." She sat down on the bed. "I guess I should roll up
the pant legs a bit."
A small sense of relief allowed a morsel of tension to ease
