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Authors: Lauri Robinson

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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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Boot Hill Bride

by Lauri Robinson

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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Boot Hill Bride

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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."

[Back to Table of Contents]

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Boot Hill Bride

by Lauri Robinson

Chapter Three

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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Boot Hill Bride

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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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Boot Hill Bride

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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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Boot Hill Bride

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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

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