скачать книгу бесплатно
Saturday had been chosen, partly because it was the payday at the mine, and partly because the preacher came over on Sundays and could conduct the wedding.
By eight o’clock, a sweaty, unkempt crowd filled the saloon. The piano plinked, the whiskey flowed and the greasy smells of frying onions and meat floated in the air. Thick clouds of cigar smoke hung over the tables where men gambled away their weekly pay. Shrieks of feminine laughter mingled with rowdy, masculine voices.
Two more miners bought a ticket and stood transfixed by the rope barrier, staring at Miranda as if she were about to sprout wings and fly. And yet she understood their reverence would do her no good at all. They lived in a tent, survived hand to mouth, and the way they pushed and shoved at each other hinted at a violent nature. She’d starve, she’d freeze, and she’d very likely be beaten once the novelty of a having an educated wife wore off.
The marshal walked in accompanied by a man Miranda had not seen before. Lean, medium height, in his late twenties, he had straight black hair that fell to his shoulders, and sharply angled cheekbones. His skin was smooth and bronzed. From the dark coloring and the long hair, Miranda assumed he might have some native heritage, but when he got closer, she could see that his eyes were pale gray, almost like chips of ice, and just as cold.
The two newcomers settled side by side at the bar, both with one boot propped on the brass rail. The stranger jerked his chin in her direction and said something to the marshal. The marshal replied, grinning. Lucille ducked beneath the counter, poured whiskey into two glasses—the good stuff, not the watered-down swill—and smiled at the men.
The stranger listened to the marshal, knocked back his drink, slammed down the empty glass and ambled over to Miranda. He stepped over the rope and came to a halt in front of her. Miranda’s kid slippers hit the floor. The chair stilled its rocking. The man might only be medium height, but it made his presence no less threatening.
“Read,” he ordered.
“Wh-what?” she stammered.
He leaned forward. With him came the scent of soap and leather and the aroma of good coffee and expensive whiskey. His eyebrows were straight, his pale eyes deep set, and they seemed to glitter, as if a flame flickered somewhere deep within. He tapped one lean finger on the book she was clutching in her trembling hands.
“Read,” he said. “Aloud.”
She opened a page at random. Psalms. Number eighty-eight.
Her eyes strayed to a verse in the middle, and she read: “‘I am confined and cannot escape; my eyes are dim with grief. I call to you, Lord, every day...’”
The man held up one hand. “Enough.”
Miranda fell silent. She noticed a scar on his palm, a star-shaped, puckered mark. Without another word, the man turned away and walked back to the bar. Miranda watched as he reached into his pocket and tossed a gold coin on the counter.
Lucille tore a page from the receipt pad, printed down a name, folded the ticket and came to drop it into the glass jar on the small table beside Miranda. The dark man with the icy eyes picked up his refilled whiskey glass and resumed his conversation with the marshal. He never once glanced in Miranda’s direction again, unlike the other ticket holders, who were jostling by the rope, craning forward and staring at her with the eagerness of thirsty men denied access to a spring.
Lucille banged a pewter mug against the counter. “Silence,” she yelled. “Bride lottery will begin. Marshal Holm will officiate. His decision will be final. Anyone who complains will spend the night in jail with the four bank robbers brought in today.”
Four bank robbers. Miranda recalled the marshal saying something about them a week ago. A bounty hunter was supposed to bring them in. They must have been delayed, and the dark man with the marshal must be the bounty hunter. Why on earth would a man like that, a transient without a permanent home, be interested in a wife?
Marshal Holm walked up to the rope and smiled. Miranda’s temper flared. She was being offered up like a sacrificial lamb and he behaved as if a smile would smooth things over. She cleared her throat and put her plan in motion—not as good as escaping but better than accepting the vagaries of luck.
“A dying man is usually granted a final request,” she announced tartly. “May I have one?”
“You ain’t dying if I win you, sweetheart,” one of the drunken miners yelled. “You’ll learn your life has only just begun.” Swaying on his feet, he waved at the prostitutes. “These ladies can vouch for me.”
Nellie and Desiree shouted back obscenities that made Miranda’s ears burn.
“Your last wish as a single woman?” the marshal prompted.
Miranda picked up the glass jar and shook it, making the tickets rustle inside. “Not a random draw,” she explained. “I’d like a chance to ensure that I end up with a man who possesses the qualities required for a successful marriage. I want to ask these men questions. Set conditions. Those who fail to give satisfactory replies to my questions or refuse to meet my conditions will be eliminated, until we have a winner. Does that suit you?”
“That’s a splendid idea,” Lucille called out.
Of course Lucille would think it a splendid idea, Miranda thought with a trace of bitterness. It would stretch out the suspense, keep the whiskey flowing and the cash register ringing.
Marshal Holm nodded. “I guess I can go along with that.”
Miranda closed her eyes and fought the wave of gratitude. She didn’t really care, had formed scant impression of the men who had entered the draw, but she was desperate to avoid Slater, the big hulk who picked his teeth clean with the tip of his knife.
She rose from the rocking chair and turned toward the room, like an actress on the stage. “Only clean shaven men. No beards, no moustaches. Day-old stubble is acceptable.”
Right there, in front of her horrified eyes, Slater took out his knife. He held it in his right hand and picked up the whiskey bottle from the table with his left hand and poured a stream of whiskey over the blade to clean it.
He set the bottle down again, raised the knife, pinched his nose with his thumb and forefinger and sliced off one side of his moustache. Then the other side. The sandy wedges fell on the tabletop and lay there like a pair of dead baby squirrels.
Nausea churned in Miranda’s belly. Slater was determined, she granted him that. She suspected that if he won her, he’d be just as determined to make the most of having a wife. He’d have no mercy. She’d cook and clean and carry and fetch all day, and continue her toil in bed at night. Even though Miranda’s isolated spot in the bridal display had prevented her from engaging in many conversations with Lucille’s girls, she had been able to listen and observe. Any romantic notions about a wedding night had vanished.
“Only men who can read and write,” she called out.
“How will you verify the skill?” asked Hooperman, the trim, neat banker in his early forties. He was a widower, with two children. He would have been the obvious choice, if it hadn’t been for Miranda’s experience with the boisterous Summerton girls in Boston. In two hours, the little monsters had driven her to the brink of insanity.
“Easy to check,” Lucille declared. She tore off pages from the receipt pad and handed them out to the lottery participants. “Read something aloud,” she told Miranda. “These gentlemen will write it down.”
Miranda leafed through her Bible, picked the trickiest passage she could find. After the men had found pencils, she dictated a sentence and the candidates scratched down the words. Lucille collected the pages and inspected them. Once those with too many spelling mistakes had been disqualified, only three candidates remained.
Hooperman the banker.
The dark bounty hunter.
And, horror of horrors, Slater, who was grinning with victory. Blood beaded on his upper lip where he’d sliced too deep while shaving off his moustache. His tongue kept poking out to lick away the droplets.
Miranda could feel her legs shaking. A knot tightened in her belly. She sank on the rocking chair. It would have to be the banker. An educated, well-bred man. Maybe his children would be nice, and there were only two of them.
“The next question is to test a man’s education,” she announced. Her brain went blank as she tried to come up with the right task to eliminate Slater. She could remember the Lord’s Prayer, but Slater might have been brought up in a devout home, or in a church orphanage, and there was a possibility he might know the words.
In a flash of inspiration, Miranda recalled her father’s favorite poem. She took a deep breath and called out, “‘Yet all things must die.’” Blank stares met her. Good. That’s exactly what she wanted. “It’s from a poem, by Alfred Tennyson,” she added. “What is the next verse?”
The banker put up his hand. “What happens if no one knows?”
The marshal considered. “The lady can make her choice.”
The banker broke into a smile of triumph. “I have to confess I don’t recall the words, even though I greatly admire the romantic poets. Tennyson. Keats. Shelley.”
Slater did not give up so easily. His narrow features puckered into a frown. “‘Because we were all born to die?’” he ventured.
Miranda exhaled a sigh of relief. “No.”
Slater got to his feet, as big as a mountain in his grimy duster. He scowled at her. “How do I know it’s not right? You could say that about anything.”
“Because it goes, ‘The stream will cease to flow, the wind will cease to blow, the clouds will cease to fleet.’”
The verses came in a deep, husky voice. It was the first time Miranda had heard the bounty hunter speak more than one word at a time. A shiver rippled along her skin as his eyes swept over her, cool and indifferent, unlike the hot, hungry glare of Slater, or the admiring glances of Hooperman.
Miranda swallowed. Honesty remained her only choice. “Yes,” she said. “That’s how it goes.”
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.”
