Quick as a wink, the woman shot a little foot out and
kicked the man in the leg. "There's nothin' to explain." She
gave the man on her other side another whack on the back of
his head, hard enough to send his hat askew. "Bug, I told ya
to go find a preacher. Now get to it."
The one called Bug held up his hands to protect his head
and looked at the man in the bed next to her for a silent split-
second before he turned around. The other man shook his
head as he too swiveled about to follow the first one out the
flap of the tent.
"Ma, we don't need a preacher," the man on the bed
beside her said. His voice was deep, sounded almost like a
growl. Randi shivered harder.
"I say we do." The woman took a step closer to the bed,
peered at them with eyes filled with fire.
Randi pulled the covers tighter beneath her chin.
The man beside her started to say something, but stopped
when jumbled voices sounded outside the door. She didn't
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Boot Hill Bride
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have time to swallow the lump forming in her throat before
someone else flew into the tent.
"Randi?" Aunt Corrine, dressed in her customary bloomer
costume, slid to a halt near the foot of the mattress. The dark
blue lace-fringed trousers were drawn in at the ankles with
silk ribbons, and as usual, her matching dressing sacque
wasn't tied shut. The open front flaps exposed a low-cut lace-
covered silk camisole.
The pounding in Randi's chest overrode any initial
embarrassment. Her aunt was alive, but why would Corrine
leave Danny J's before dressing? Had he kicked her out?
Aunt Corrine's startled eyes fell on the torn and stained
nightgown lying across the bed. "Oh, Randi!" she exclaimed,
slapping a hand to her exposed cleavage.
Randi pressed a hand to her breastbone, and then stifled a
groan. Just when she thought things couldn't get any worse,
she realized she had on less than Aunt Corrine. Her cheeks
burned. Why couldn't the ground just open up and swallow
her whole?
"Is she here?" a familiar voice asked from outside the
opening.
The air she gulped in was hotter than a full-stoked oven.
Her head snapped up, and her chin fell down. "Daddy?" Her
voice sounded like a screeching kitten.
The man beside her shuddered, and his head whipped
around to gape at her. He eyed her with a startled,
questioning gaze. "Daddy?"
The flap flew open.
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Boot Hill Bride
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"What the hell is going on here?" Her father flew through
the opening, slowing only because his feet stumbled upon
something. His arms flayed as he skated through a pile of
clothes before he caught his balance near the foot of the bed.
Men's britches, shirt, and unmentionables flew about as
her father kicked them from beneath his polished boots. She
glanced to the man beside her and froze at the sight of a
massive bare chest. Lord, was he as naked as she? Her face
blazed. Unable to think of anything she could possibly do, she
pulled the blanket up and ducked her head beneath the heavy
wool.
"Who are you?" The voice of the short woman demanded
with all the fury of a ten-foot giant.
"Who are you?" her father questioned in reply, just as
heated.
"Stephanie Quinter, that there's my son, Hog."
A groan, sounding much like a rusty hinge, rumbled in
Randi's throat.
"I'm Thurston Fulton. The girl is my daughter, Randilynn."
"I done sent my other boys to get the preacher."
"Thurston! Thurston! Did you find her?" another female
voice, high-pitched and irritated, rang out.
Randi slipped farther beneath the covers, tried with all her
might to disappear into the mattress.
Not Belinda too
. Had
the doors to hell just opened and were calling her to enter?
Confusion made her brows tug. What were they doing here?
How'd they know where to find her? Better yet, how had she
ended up in bed with a man?
"Yes, my dear. I've found her," her father answered.
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She didn't peek over the covers, didn't dare. Her body
trembled uncontrollably. An arm encircled her back, and a
hand settled on her shoulder, giving a gentle consoling pat.
She glanced out of the corner of her eye and caught the man
gazing her way over the edge of the blanket.
The eyes were a soft gray-green and filled with worry. She
tilted her head a touch to get a better look. His face, round
and friendly-looking, was suntanned and made the short
blond hair on his head look gold. The yellow waves were
disheveled, sticking out here and there, and did little more
than make him look all the more likeable.
Likeable! What was she thinking? Did she know him? No,
she hadn't met anyone since arriving in Dodge. Was he one of
the customers from Danny J's? Had he followed her last
night?
All of a sudden the blanket was snatched from her face.
She caught the edges before they fell below her chin and
exposed her lack of clothing.
"Randilynn, how dare you!" Belinda screeched, reaching
for another handful of the covers.
Mid-air, the man caught Belinda's hand, kept it from
yanking the blanket away. His eyes narrowed as he gave her
step-mother a menacing stare while his other hand tugged
the wool from Belinda's fingers.
Startled, Belinda took a step back and twisted her neck
about. "Thurston!"
The man resettled the covers below Randi's chin, and his
arm, still looped around her shoulders, tightened a touch. The
friendly gesture made her want to fold into his shelter. Randi
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Boot Hill Bride
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fought the urge and glanced to her father. His angry frown
made tears well in her eyes. She hung her head, wished again
she could just disappear.
"Thurston, this is terrible. Absolutely the worst thing
possible," Belinda said. "It's all your fault."
"My fault?" Aunt Corrine questioned with disbelief.
Randi glanced up to see the two women furiously flaying
their index fingers at each other.
"I'd say it's all your fault. You're the reason she has no
home." Corrine took a step closer, poked Belinda in the chest
with her finger.
Belinda thrust her finger below Corrine's nose. "We've
given her everything! Everything!" Belinda screeched, as she
twisted her long neck. "Thurston!"
Corrine didn't miss a beat. She turned her gaze and finger
to her father. "And you! You know what I think of you. You
slimy—"
Her father's voice mingled with Corrine's and Belinda's and
soon shouts filled the tent. The man's hold on her shoulder
tightened. No longer able to control her urge, and as if it was
the most natural thing in the world, she turned and buried her
face in his shoulder. His cool flesh felt heavenly to her
burning skin.
The yelling increased, and she quit listening, stopped
trying to decipher who said what to whom, until, above the
rest, a deep rumbling voice growled, "Get out! All of you get
the hell out of here."
An invisible board jutted up her spine, made her head snap
up when she realized it had been the man who shouted.
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Boot Hill Bride
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The tent went silent for a moment before her father said,
"I will not get out! That's my daughter in bed beside you."
"We need to get the sheriff, Thurston," Belinda said.
"No need for the sheriff, I got the preacher coming," the
woman named Stephanie Quinter insisted.
"The preacher?" Aunt Corrine twisted about to stare at the
bed.
Shocked? Embarrassed? Randi had no idea what she felt
and gave up trying to decipher it. Bowing her head, she
moaned.
"This is my tent, and I'm telling you all to get the hell out
of here," the man insisted.
She tugged up the blankets, used them to cover both ears
as the shouts renewed. They came from all directions. Male,
female, screeches, sobs. Her mind swirled. There were so
many topics, not one settled long enough to form a solid
thought. The bellowing and bawling was enough to wake the
dead. She squeezed her lids shut again, blocked out red faces
and crying eyes, and wished she could do the same with her
ears.
A loud blast ripped through the chaos.
Instinctually trying to hide from the gunshot, her body
jolted, and her fingers searched to grab something solid. They
latched onto warm muscled flesh, and she twisted, burrowing
into the body beside her.
Silence hung in the air. After a few quiet seconds, Randi
realized the bare flesh of her breasts was pressed against
something warm and solid. She lifted her head from the crook
of the man's neck and peeked down.
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Lord! She was sitting on his lap, well almost on his lap,
and her hands were wrapped around his bare torso. One of
his hands held the blanket snugly across her shoulders, the
other rested on the back of her head, holding it in place. She
lifted her eyes, slowly raising her gaze to meet his.
"Are you all right?" he half mouthed, half whispered.
Blood rushed up her neck, into her cheeks. It burned the
flesh from the inside out.
His eyes asked the question again.
She had no idea if she was all right or not, but nodded
nonetheless before she eased her hands off his balmy skin.
Her palms burned as hot as her cheeks.
His hand slipped from her hair, held the blanket taut as
she twisted back around and scooted an inch or two away
from him. She clutched onto the edge of the cover and tucked
the wool below her chin again. The sulfuric smell of
gunpowder clung in her nostrils.
The woman who'd introduced herself as Stephanie Quinter
held a gun almost as long as she was tall. The long double
barrels pointed toward the roof of the tent. Randi's gaze
followed the barrel, up and up, tipping her head toward the
tattered edges of a large hole flapping in the wind. Sunlight
shone through the opening and blazed a stream down on the
short, little woman.
"Now that I got your attention..." The woman flipped the
gun about and stuck the stock against her shoulder. Randi
cringed as the round ends of the barrels pointed toward her
father and Belinda. "No one's gonna get the sheriff. The
preacher'll be here any minute." The end didn't wobble as the
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Boot Hill Bride
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weapon shifted, came to point at Aunt Corrine. "All that
snifflin's irritatin' me."
Aunt Corrine squeaked as she gave a compliant nod.
"Ma, there's no need for a preacher. It's a simple
misunderstanding," the man said.
The gun once again moved, stopped to point straight at
the bed. "I think we all understand everythin' just fine,"
Stephanie Quinter said, her brows arched in a distinct,
knowing way.
"She..." the man started. His gaze shifted, landed on
Randi.
Unable to mutter a word, she grimaced cowardly and gave
a slight shrug.
He started again, "I—"
"Will marry my daughter or you'll find yourself planted in
Boot Hill!" Her father pointed a finger at the two of them.
The gun swung a bit more. "We ain't gonna start shoutin'
at one another again."
"Yes, ma'am," her father said and lowered his hand. His
feet shuffled a touch.
Shocked, Randi glanced back at the gun-wielding woman.
The wide brim of her gingham bonnet flapped as she
nodded, and frizzy gray hair peeked out around her serious
face. The gun lowered a mite. "These two'll be gettin' hitched
as soon as the preacher shows up."
Belinda opened her mouth, but the other woman was
quicker. The gun barrel snapped up again, level with Belinda's
nose. "I don't want ta hear no more of your caterwaulin'
either."
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Boot Hill Bride
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Her stepmother huffed and puckered her lips. The slow,
meaningful shake of her father's head made Randi gasp.
She'd never seen him reprimand Belinda for anything. The
sight almost made her smile before she remembered the
serious nature shrouding them. Surely her father wouldn't
make her marry the man next to her. She didn't even know
his name, for heaven's sake. Dread crept up her spine.
Yes,
he would
.
Her gaze shifted and she swallowed. Hog. At one time
during the past few minutes someone had called him Hog.
That was an unusual name. She gave her head a quick,
clearing shake, trying to scold her mind for wandering again.
No wait, Howard. He'd said his name was Howard.
He stared at her. It was a thoughtful and not necessarily
unpleasant look. Calming warmth wrapped around her spine,
floated all the way up her back before rippling over her