Boot Hill Bride (3 page)

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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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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"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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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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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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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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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