Prisoners of Love: Miranda (Prisoners of Love Book 4)

by Callie Hutton

  Prisoners of Love: Miranda

  Callie Hutton

  Contents

  About the Book

  A Note From Callie Hutton

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Miss Miranda Beamer, the only child of a preacher, sits in jail in Dodge City with three other female prisoners. They are in for various crimes, but Miranda is by far the most serious. She just killed her stepfather. Marshal Dale Jones needs to get rid of the women who are not safe in Dodge City, even in jail. He comes up with a plan to ship them to Santa Fe on a wagon train, with a former brothel owner as their chaperone with the idea of being mail order brides. Miranda, however, has a plan of her own. She knows her stepbrother will be coming after her when he learns she killed his father. She will travel to Santa Fe, but instead of marrying, she'll get a job, save some money and disappear.

  Preston Stone, up and coming businessman in Santa Fe will not be allowed the permit to build his hotel and restaurant unless he is married to a respectable woman. He is the child of a prostitute and the owner of a gambling house and saloon. Not respectable enough on his own to get the nod from the Town Council. When Miranda comes to his saloon looking for a job, Preston knows she is the one to help him. He offers her a job as his bookkeeper, but with the condition that she marry him first. No amount of persuasion on her part will change Preston's mind. Job and marriage, or nothing at all.

  She agrees and begins to save money to bail out as soon as she has enough. But she didn't count on the feelings this near perfect husband brings out in her. Certain that her stepbrother is headed this way, should she run, or take the chance on being killed when he catches up with her?

  Thank you for choosing to read Prisoners of Love: Becky. I love my fans, and as a special treat, I have something extra for you at the end of the story. Enjoy!

  A Note From Callie Hutton

  Miranda is the fourth book in the Prisoners of Love – Mail-order Brides series. It’s always a thrill to start a new series and discover the stories of these heroes and heroines as I write each book. Who are these Mail-order Brides and how did they become Prisoners of Love? Let me tell you where each story begins…

  In 1877, at the height of craziness in Dodge City, Kansas, four women sit in jail, awaiting their fate. The marshal has no idea what to do with them, and certainly can’t let them back out on the streets. Too dangerous.

  He tells the women they have two choices. They can either join a wagon train headed to Santa Fe, New Mexico, as mail-order brides or be sent to the state prison. When the women agree to his plan, he hires a brothel owner whose business just burned to the ground to chaperone the ladies on the wagon train.

  A brothel owner as a chaperone? There’s bound to be trouble for Adelaide, Miranda, Cinnamon and Becky with Miss Nellie in charge.

  The series includes:

  Adelaide, Book 1

  Cinnamon, Book 2

  Becky, Book 3

  Miranda, Book 4

  Nellie, Book 5

  Prologue

  "Dodge is the Deadwood of Kansas; . . . her principal business is polygamy without the sanction of religion; her code of morals is the honor of thieves, and decency she knows not. . . The employment of many citizens is gambling, her virtue is prostitution, and her beverage is whisky. She is a merry town, and the only visible means of support of a great number of her citizens is jocularity." —Hays City Sentinel, 1877

  Dodge City, Kansas

  April, 1877

  Miranda Beamer held her breath as she gently slid open the top drawer in her stepfather’s dresser. Her eyes immediately darted to the gun in the front side corner. She covered the weapon with her hand and slowly drew it out, nervous at the heavy feel of the weapon in her sweaty palm. The coolness of the metal made a stark contrast to her warm, damp skin.

  Sweat beaded her forehead as her stepfather, Frankie Smith, slammed his fist into the wall in the kitchen, cursing loudly and stumbling around. Any minute he would call her, and she wanted to be ready. She’d borne his fists and beatings for as long as she intended to put up with them. He’d vented his anger on her beloved mother until the poor woman died of a crushed skull, then turned his attention to Miranda.

  Dropping the gun into her apron pocket, she tiptoed from the room. Not that he would hear her with all the noise he was making. She licked her lips and waited outside the kitchen.

  “Where the hell are you, girl?”

  Miranda slipped into the room and leaned against the wall. “Right here.”

  Moving remarkably fast for being so drunk, Frankie lunged across the space and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her forward, causing her to fall to her knees. “Why ain’t my supper ready?”

  She winced as he tugged harder, bringing tears to her eyes. “It was ready four hours ago. I put it away, not sure if you would be coming home.”

  He brought his hand back and cracked her across the face. “Heat it up.”

  Miranda’s heart pounded as he shoved her from him. She climbed to her feet and, on unsteady legs, fetched the food from the pantry. The heavy gun banged against her leg as she moved around the kitchen. Tears streamed from her left eye where he’d hit her. She would have another black eye in the morning.

  “Where’s Woody?” Frankie sat at the kitchen table and lifted the bottle of whiskey to his lips. Another bane to her existence. Frankie’s son, Woody, was as violent and nasty as his father. He came and went as he pleased. She was sure he was involved with the gang holding up stagecoaches between Dodge City and Mud Flats on a regular basis.

  Woody had always watched her in a way that made her skin crawl, and she knew it was only a matter of time before she would have to fight him off. She prayed nightly he would be caught and thrown into prison.

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t been home in weeks.” The man asked the same question every night. Since Frankie was either drinking from the whiskey bottles Woody kept him supplied with or passed out, and Woody arrived home in fits and starts, father and son rarely crossed paths. But for some reason, there seemed to be a strong bond between the two men.

  Frankie grunted and tilted the bottle to his mouth again. “If you married him, he would be home more.”

  Nausea climbed up the back of Miranda’s throat. Oh, God. Married to Woody?

  Staying as far away from Frankie as she could, she filled a bowl with the stew she’d made earlier and placed it on the table.

  “Where’s the bread?”

  “I didn’t make any today. We’re out of flour.”

  He dipped the spoon into the stew. “You know, girl, if you ain’t gonna marry up with my son, it’s time you did something around here to earn your keep. Margie, down at The Wild Cat, is always looking for new whores.” He shoveled the food into his mouth, bits of it dropping onto his already filthy shirt. “Yeah, that’s a fine idea.”

  Frankie ate in silence until he belched and pushed the bowl away. Narrowing his eyes, he said, “I been talking to her—Margie. She likes you, said you would bring in good money. Made me think.”

  Think. The man didn’t have a relationship with that word. Miranda backed away, worried about the turn in conversation. She slid her hand into the apron pocket and fingered the gun. Could she actually shoot him?


  “Come here, girl.”

  Miranda shook her head. “No.”

  Slowly, Frankie got to his feet, his bulky six-foot frame towering over her. “Get yer bag packed. Yer going to Margie’s tonight and earn some money for us.”

  “No.”

  He circled the table, his eyes moving up and down her body. “Maybe you’re worried about going to Margie’s not knowing what to do. I can take care of that for you, girl. It’s time I showed you what a woman does to make a man happy.”

  Oh God, if he touched her that way, she would kill herself.

  Or him.

  He studied her with his bleary eyes. “I seen the way you look at me. I know you’re wondering what it’s like to have a man between your legs.” He cupped his groin. “Get yer clothes off, and I’ll show ya what ya need to do. Do it now, girl!”

  She broke into a sweat. “I’m warning you, Frankie. Don’t come near me.”

  He leered and then lunged. She backed into the wall and pulled out the gun. “Get away from me.”

  His eyes widened. “You ain’t gonna shoot me. Put that down, girl, afore you hurt someone.”

  Miranda licked her dry lips and held the weapon in front of her with two shaky hands. “I will shoot you.”

  Dear God could she actually do this? Put a bullet in his body? Did she have a choice?

  Frankie rushed forward as Miranda pulled the trigger. His eyes widened as he sucked in a breath and stumbled back. “Son of a bitch. You shot me.” He gripped his chest where blood poured between his fingers. “You goddamn shot me.”

  Miranda released the gun which landed on the floor with a thump. She covered her mouth with her hands and watched in horror as Frankie dropped to his knees and fell forward with a thud. The scream coming from deep within her lodged in her throat.

  Panting, her body covered with sweat and her thoughts scattered like the wind, she backed away, her eyes glued to the man. She raced through the door, her mind numb, her only thought to get away from the house as quickly as possible.

  She would hang for murder. There was no doubt. Woody would see to that. Undeterred by the future, she made the three-mile walk to the marshal’s office in half an hour. She yanked open the door and stumbled inside, the lack of air in her lungs causing little black dots to form in her eyes.

  Marshal Dane Jones jumped from his seat behind the desk. “Miranda, what is it?”

  “I killed him, Marshal. I killed my stepfather.” Her knees buckled, and she slid to the floor.

  Chapter 1

  Miranda sat on the hard, narrow cot shoved up against the wall in the jail cell she shared with three other women. Every once in a while, a peeling paint chip would fall off the wall of the cell to land on the floor or one of the women. A smelly slop bucket had been shoved under her cot, and cool damp air seeped in through the windows. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

  The cell had been filling up with the women for the past couple of hours. One of the young women, dressed in the skimpy costume of a saloon girl, had been pacing up and down for the twenty minutes she’d been in the cell.

  “Marshal, when you gonna let us the hell out of here?” The saloon girl ran her shoe across the bars of the cell, making enough racket to block out the rowdy sounds from outside.

  “Shut up, Cinnamon,” a man’s voice called. “The marshal left me in charge, and I ain’t letting you out until he says so.”

  “Well, where the hell did he go? He can’t just throw me in here and walk off. I demand to have my say. And don’t call me Cinnamon, Blaine Parker.”

  “There ain’t nothing to say, girl. You hit the mayor over the head with a pitcher of beer.”

  “The old lecher deserved it.”

  “Shut up and settle down. You’re making enough noise to raise up the dead.”

  The girl, whose name was apparently Cinnamon which she didn’t want to be called, flounced over to the cot where another woman sat. She plopped down, crossing her arms, pushing up her breasts dangerously high. She looked over at her very frightened looking cot mate. “What are you in for?”

  The woman cleared her throat. “Vagrancy.”

  “What’s that?”

  She shrugged. “No job, no home, and no money.”

  “Well, hell, if ya ain’t got no job, then there’s no way to have a home or money.” She adjusted the straps on her dress and tugged the neckline up. “My name’s Cinnamon O’Brien. But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll call me Mindy. What’s yours?”

  “Adelaide Markham.”

  “You look like what my ma calls a ‘good, God-fearing woman.’ How’d you end up with nothing?”

  The woman fumbled with the pendant she wore around her neck. “My husband and little girl died of influenza. Gerald was a gunsmith, and since I didn’t know the first thing about guns, I couldn’t keep his business going.”

  “No family?”

  “I’m an only child, and my parents drowned right after Gerald and I were married. Their buggy went over the side of a bridge during a rainstorm.”

  Mindy reached out and touched her hand. “I’m so sorry, girl. You’ve had it hard, haven’t you?”

  Adelaide nodded and swiped at the tears that slid down her face. Mindy then directed her attention to the woman sharing Miranda’s cot. “What are y’all in for?”

  The pretty young brunette shrugged. “I worked with Doctor Snodgrass, selling medicine out of his wagon. I thought it was real good stuff. But it turns out it was just water that he colored with beet juice. He skipped town and left me. People filed complaints so the marshal arrested me when they wanted their money back and the hotel wanted the room fee. I don’t know why I’m here since I never got any of the money. Dr. Snodgrass took it all.”

  “Damn men. What’s your name?”

  “Becky Davidson.”

  Mindy gestured with her chin to Miranda. “What’s your story?”

  Miranda felt an instant liking for the friendly girl. She wasn’t crazy about the idea of confessing to these ladies, but since the others had owned up to their crimes, she took a deep breath and said, “I killed a man.”

  All three women stared at her, a combination of wide-eyed and open-mouthed expressions.

  “Did he need killing?” Mindy asked. “Looks to me like he gave you a nice black eye before you did him in.”

  Miranda ran her palms up and down her arms. “Yes. He needed killing,” she whispered.

  “Good.” Mindy nodded and looked to the other women for consent. They slowly nodded also. Mindy flopped back on the cot, her hands behind her head. “Seems to me we’re all in here because of men.”

  Gunshots outside the jail had all four women jumping up from the cots. “What was that?” Adelaide asked.

  “This town is crazy. I’ve been wanting to get out of here as soon as I saved enough money.” Mindy climbed up on the cot and looked out the window. “Another drunk cowboy shootin’ up the place.”

  Within minutes, the marshal barreled through the doorway, dragging a man by his collar. He got as far as the jail cells and came to an abrupt halt. He stared at the women as if he were confused by their presence. “Aw, shit, I plumb forgot about you.”

  As soon as the marshal locked the prisoner’s cell door, he turned to the four women and shook his head, mumbling to himself as he left the jailhouse.

  The man the marshal put into the cell next to the women had been passed out and snoring for the past two hours. The smell of sweat and alcohol drifted from his body to where the women sat, making Miranda’s eyes tear up.

  Miranda had spent that time wondering about her fate and how she’d come to this time in her life. As the only daughter of the town preacher, she and her mother had sat in the front row at church each Sunday, Miranda in a freshly pressed dress with a matching bow in her hair. She would stare up at her father in the pulpit, and with the sun coming through the window behind him, confuse him with God.

  Reverend Beamer was not of the fire and brimstone i
lk. He preached love and forgiveness, so different from other preachers. When he died, Miranda had been devastated. She and her mother had been forced to leave the rectory for the new pastor’s family. They rented a small apartment behind a tavern where Mother took in sewing, but with little work in their small town, she eventually packed up and headed to Dodge City.

  Within a year, her mother had been coerced into marriage with Frankie who moved them into his rundown shack in Dodge City. She hated both the house and the town. It was the perfect place for Frankie and his son, Woody, though. Gunfights, saloons, and brothels. Even if she was hanged for his murder, she wasn’t sorry Frankie was dead.

  Her cellmates had warmed up to each other and had swapped stories about their pasts. The general concession was they all wanted to get as far away from Dodge City as they could. They continuously jumped as shouting and gunshots peppered the air while they talked quietly amongst themselves.

  The front door of the jailhouse opened, and Marshal Jones walked up to the cell, a woman wearing a low-cut red satin dress, dangly earrings, and face paint alongside him.

  “All right, ladies. I want your attention.” He turned to his companion. “This here is Miss Nellie. Until about an hour ago, she was the owner of one of the finest brothels in Dodge City.” He smiled at the woman and continued. “The place just burned to the ground, and all her girls left to work for another house.”

  Miranda’s head snapped up. Surely, the man wasn’t suggesting they take the places of the runaway girls? She’d just killed a man to keep from doing that very thing.

  “What the hell is this about, Marshal?” Mindy said. “If you think I’m going to work for Miss Nellie, you’re crazy.” She nodded at the woman. “No offense, Miss Nellie. It’s just that I don’t have a hankering for spending my time flat on my back.”