Bret moved to where he had both men in sight. Vance braced his arms on the desk and leaned forward. “Threaten me, beat me, shoot me. If you want the room, you can have it, but your woman can’t stay here.”
“She isn’t my woman,” Bret said through his teeth.
“By your own words, she isn’t your wife either.”
“Is there another place in town to get a room?”
“There’s a rooming house at the other end of the street. Four men to a bed.”
Vance straightened and took a step back as he said it, as well he might. Hassie half-expected Bret to go over the desk and grab the man by the throat.
“I mean a safe place for a woman, and you know it, you self-righteous prig.”
“There’s a big white house at the end of First Street where women live. Maybe they’ll rent her a room.”
The checker player giggled. Hassie couldn’t see Bret’s eyes turn to ice but knew they did. Vance and his friend both flinched as Bret’s hand snaked under his slicker, but the hand came out with a gold coin, not a gun. Bret slapped the coin down on the desk. “As of right now that room is mine. You hold it. You come up with a hot bath by the time I get back here. Where’s the nearest preacher?”
The two men stared at him with twin expressions of amazement, their mouths half open. As seconds ticked by, Hassie realized hers was open too, closed it, and started for Bret. He met her halfway, one hand closing around her upper arm in a familiar, steely grip.
“Where!”
The checker player pointed. “Third Street. Turn right on Third. First house after the church.”
Bret marched her past the hunched, dripping horses and along the walk in the direction the checker player had pointed.
“No!” Hassie pulled back against him. He couldn’t pretend not to understand that word.
He stopped and pulled her into the shelter of a doorway. “We’re going to be stuck here for days. If the rain stopped right now, it would still be another day before the mud dried up, and it’s not going to stop. So there’s not a thing we can do except satisfy that narrow-minded, self-righteous little pis— prig.”
Even if she had the slate, by the time she wrote one word, it would be too wet to write a second. She mimed sleeping with both hands folded beside her bent head, then pointed at the horses.
“No, you’re not sleeping in the stables. The only way you’d be safe is if I slept there too, and I’m not sleeping in a cold hay loft when there’s a warm, dry room with a bed in that hotel. It’s not like we’ll really be married. We’ll say some words, get a piece of paper to show Vance, and we’ll both be warm and dry tonight. We’ll bundle.”
She wanted to argue, make him see how insane this was, but had no way to do it. As if he understood, he looked at the sign on the door behind them. Assayer.
“That will work,” he muttered, as he opened the door and led the way inside. “We need paper and a pencil,” he said to the man who looked up from his desk when they walked in.
The assayer handed over the paper and pencil willingly enough then stood at the counter, curious and not trying to hide it. Bret sent him back to the desk with a look.
Hassie and Bret both bent over the paper on the counter, heads close together.
“We cannot marry for a hotel room,”
Hassie wrote. In small letters because she suspected she might need every bit of the paper and both sides.
“I told you. It won’t be real, just some words.”
His voice was a lovely low rumble, all signs of temper gone. Hassie had to remind herself to pay attention to the meaning, not the sound.
“Those words are vows before God.”
“God will know we don’t mean them.”
“How will He know that?”
“Omniscient. Don’t you ever listen in church?”
“It’s not right.”
“Not letting us have that room isn’t right. No decent man would turn any woman out in this weather. You want to set up camp on the mountain?”
She didn’t have to answer that. The very thought started her shivering again.
“You will want to marry for real some day.”
“More likely you will, and a few white lies in this town won’t make any difference. The whole place will disappear when the silver runs out.”
“I cannot lie to God.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, and she wanted to take the words back. He was as cold and tired as she was. More probably. He’d been up in the night taking care of things, taking care of her. What would it hurt to do what he wanted?
“Things were easier when you were afraid of me.”
She laughed, not much of a laugh but a laugh.
He straightened and half-turned as if to leave, and she thought he’d changed his mind, but after a moment he leaned down again. “All right. Don’t think of it as lying. We’ll be married on paper for the rest of the season. I’m so tired of raised eyebrows and snide remarks I’m going to shoot someone over the way they act about you soon, and this will save me the bullet. Come fall I’ll do whatever’s necessary to get it annulled. You know it’s not a real marriage until we do more than bundle.”
Hassie stared blindly down at the paper, feeling heat rush across her face.
“Yep, you know.” His knuckles brushed her cheek. “What do you say? Let’s make the next couple of months easier.”
She nodded, crumpled the paper, and put it in a pocket. At least he had asked, talked her into it. Cyrus had just taken her to church, and the preacher had said the words without requiring any sign of a yes, no, or maybe from her.
She was going to get married in trousers and a dripping slicker with days of trail dirt and mud on her. She was going to be Mrs. Breton J. Sterling for a couple of months. On paper.
At least he asked.
H
ASSIE CROWDED CLOSE
to Bret on the stoop of the first house past the church, convinced Bret’s knock would summon a huge man with a long white beard who would point an accusing finger at them and spout Scripture, starting with the Third Commandment and probably giving the Ninth at least a mention.
To her surprise, a thin young man opened the door and regarded them nervously until Bret explained their purpose.
“Oh, yes, a marriage. That’s good news. I was afraid it would be a funeral. Cave-ins, all this mud, you know. Do you mind waiting in the church? My wife is trying to cope with children who have been cooped up inside all day.” He no more than finished the words than an unhappy wail sounded from deeper in the house, joined almost immediately by another.
“The church is unlocked,” he said. “I always leave it unlocked. I’ll get Mr. and Mrs. Zane from next door. They’ve done this before.”
The preacher, who had still not mentioned his own name, was still babbling away as he draped an oilskin over his shoulders and started for the next house along the way.
The church was another plain building, benches instead of pews, everything made from raw lumber, including the cross at the front. Bret lit two of the lamps along the wall. His breath puffed white in the cold air as he did it, but at least when he finished, the soft yellow glow of the lamps gave an illusion of warmth.
Hassie sank down on one of the benches. Bret sat beside her.
“There were times in the war when I was wetter, colder, and tireder,” he said, “but not many, and I was younger then.”
He wasn’t exactly ancient now. Hassie flashed all her fingers at him three times and gave him a questioning look.
“Thirty-one last month,” he said. “How about you?”
Birthdays hadn’t mattered for so long she had to consider before flashing ten fingers twice then six more.
He nodded, leaned forward with his forearms on his thighs and said no more until voices sounded outside, the door opened, and three figures shrouded from head to toe in rain gear approached.
Everyone was cheerful, sympathetic about Hassie’s voice.
“A good, strong head bob will do fine,” the preacher declared. “Now do you have a ring?”
“No,” Bret said.
Hassie nodded yes, pulled the chain with Mama’s locket and wedding ring out from around her neck, and felt for the catch so she could take the ring off the chain.
“You’re not using your old wedding ring,” Bret said.
She tapped the locket, but for once he showed no sign of understanding.
“No. I’ll buy you one of your own tomorrow if you want one, but you’re not wearing that.”
The preacher and his neighbors lost their cheerful expressions. Hassie fingered the ring sadly. Using it for a lie would be wrong anyway. She tucked the chain back under her shirt and smiled brightly at everyone.
The ceremony took no time at all. Bret folded the piece of paper they needed into an inner pocket and brought smiles back to everyone’s faces with gifts of a few dollars.
Taking Bret’s offered arm on the way back to the hotel, Hassie leaned in, needing the support. Her fatigue had reached the point she staggered a little now and then. Nothing else moved in the town. The only sounds were of water pouring off roofs and pattering against their slickers. Their boots thunked wetly on the sodden boards of the sidewalk.
For bad weather on a wedding day to matter, the marriage would have to be real, Hassie assured herself. Besides, she didn’t believe in superstition and portents. The sun had been shining when Cyrus married her.
B
RET SLAPPED THE
marriage certificate on the hotel desk under Phineas Vance’s nose. Nailing it to the man’s forehead would be better, but this would have to do.
“Is Mrs. Sterling’s bath ready?”
“You really...?” The little man picked up the certificate and held it long enough to read every word twice before glancing over at his checker-playing friend as if hoping for help. Letting the paper flutter to the desk, he sighed in defeat.
“No, I didn’t draw a bath, but it’s a matter of minutes. We have a boiler, you see. Hot water on tap.”
“Fine. The room better be clean, and the bed better have clean sheets on it.”
Vance straightened, the same stubborn look as earlier appearing. “Of course the room is clean. If it doesn’t meet your satisfaction....”
“Don’t,” Bret said softly.
Finally showing a modicum of sense, Vance didn’t.
A few minutes later, Bret was finally able to return to the horses where they stood tied in front of the hotel, heads low, backs hunched, and angled as much as possible to keep their tails to the wind. He untied all three animals and eyed his saddle with disfavor. Wet as he was, settling his ass on leather the rain was running off in rivulets held no appeal. Neither did leading the horses through ankle-deep muck in the street.
Blowing out a heartfelt sigh, or maybe a groan, he mounted and reined Jasper toward the livery stable.
By now Hassie ought to be up to her chin in hot water. The lock on the door of the first-floor room where they kept the tub wouldn’t have been enough for him to leave Hassie alone there, although it was hard to imagine Vance the moralizer bothering a woman.
Still, there was the checker-playing friend to consider, so better safe than sorry. Making sure those two saw and heard Bret give Hassie his revolver took care of any potential problems. They didn’t have to know Hassie would dive through the window naked and start running before she’d pick up the gun voluntarily.
Picturing her doing just that restored a little good humor, and picturing her in the tin tub, steam rising, skin turning pink, almost warmed him in spite of the cold rain in his face. It might even heat some parts if they weren’t encased in cold, damp cloth and resting against a cold, wet saddle.
He shouldn’t have gotten touchy with her over the ring, but how could she expect him to put Cyrus Petty’s ring back on her finger, even if they were playacting at marrying? And if this rain kept up for days, which seemed more likely than not, how was he going to sleep in the same bed with her when he wasn’t exhausted and keep his hands off her? Sleep on the damned floor probably.
The days wouldn’t be much better. Hours in a small room with her except for meals. He could spend most of it in a saloon, but coming back to her with a few drinks in him would be a bad idea. Considering the drunkard of a husband, a very bad idea.
He rode right to the door of the livery. Take care of the horses, get back to the hotel and clean up, and they still needed to eat. Tonight would be no problem. The only problem tonight would be not falling asleep in the bath and drowning.
T
HEIR HOTEL ROOM
was like the lobby downstairs, plain, rough, and new. The bed, a wood chair, the washstand, a battered bureau, and a small coal stove barely fit in the small space.
The luxury of the stove was the reason her hair was almost dry. Mr. Vance charged extra to use the stove, of course, but things like that never bothered Bret.
Hassie gave her hair one last stroke with the brush and stared at the bed. Bret would be back soon. He looked almost as exhausted as she felt. His muttered excuse about a last look around was just that, an excuse to leave her alone to get ready for bed. If only she could decide how to do that.
Would sleeping in her clothes make him think she didn’t trust him to keep his hands to himself? Would putting on her nightgown seem like an invitation? And what was she going to do if he decided married was married?
If she had learned anything from Ned Grimes’ boys it was that men were more than willing to couple with any woman, willing or unwilling, and didn’t think it had anything to do with love or marriage. Belle’s warnings about Bret had burned their way into Hassie’s mind, but sometimes when he did things like cover her against the rain in the night and touch her shoulder the way he did, she just wanted to burrow in against him and forget about warnings and consequences.
Tired of her own indecision, too physically exhausted to stay upright, Hassie took off her boots, suspenders, and bandana and got into bed. At least she’d left the binding off her breasts after her bath. On the trail, loosening the knots often proved too difficult and she left it.
She lay quiet, wishing sleep would come. If she were sound asleep when he returned, he’d put out the lamp, get into bed beside her, and fall asleep the second his head hit the pillow. If he would just get back here, she could stop worrying and wondering.