Wildcat Bride
The Quinter Brides, Book Five
by
Lauri Robinson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Wildcat Bride: The Quinter Brides, Book Five COPYRIGHT 2011 by
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Publishing History
First Cactus Rose Edition, 2011
Print ISBN 1-60154-891-5
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Jeannette,
Marriage made us sisters.
Love made us friends.
Chapter One
New York City, New York April 1888
He must be seeing things.
Bug, named Brett Allen Quinter at birth,
ducked and twisted, trying to see around the dozens of heads blocking his vision. He batted aside an ostrich feather fluttering and swaying as it stuck out of the top of a hat in front of him, and peered above the crowd to where he’d caught a glimpse of someone familiar.
The ostrich-feather-hat-owning woman spun
about and glowered at him, once again blocking his view with the annoying fluff on her head. He glared back for a second, before stretching on his toes and pinpointing a location. Another feather, not unlike the one tickling the bottom of his nose quickly disappeared amongst the throng of people dressed in finery and anxiously awaiting for the clock to strike six. There was nothing spectacular about the second feather either—blue-green with a large distinct dot.
It was the rapid beat in his chest and the way his breath wanted to stop going in and out as it should that made him believe he saw more.
“Brett, what are you doing?” Jenny Staples pulled on his jacket sleeve.
He tugged the uncomfortable suit coat back in place. The sleeves weren’t nearly long enough. They made him feel bunched up, and the ribbon tie she insisted he wear was choking the daylights out of him. The uncomfortable garment aside, he grabbed Jenny’s hand and pulled her out of the long line waiting for the door half of a block ahead to open.
“Come on.”
She followed, probably because she had no
choice, he was stronger.
“Where are we going? We’re going to lose our place in line.”
“I thought I saw someone I know.” Bug pulled her in his wake, stepping into the street to bypass the crowd filling the walkway.
“That’s impossible. Who could you know in New York City?”
He didn’t answer. For one, it was none of her business who he knew in New York City, and for two, he didn’t want to waste the time explaining.
They were practically running, the long line of people barely a blur. The carriage he’d seen the familiar shape step out of started to move. “Wait!
Hey there! Wait!”
“Who are you shouting at?” Jenny asked,
breathless but still at his side.
Waving both arms over his head, he shouted again. “Wait!”
“Brett!” Jenny once again pulled on his coat sleeve. “Stop it, you’re making a spectacle of yourself,” she whispered angrily.
The driver had seen him and stopped the team before pulling the hackney completely away from the curb. Bug brushed Jenny’s hand aside and jogged forward. Pulling himself up on the side of the buggy, where he could face the driver, he asked, “The woman that just got out, where was she going?”
Tipping the edge of the stiff brimmed top hat that matched the rest of his black suit, the driver indicated the building the long crowd was waiting to open. “To the art show, Sir.”
Art show? Bug’s heart triple-stepped around in his chest. It couldn’t be. Could it? “Is her name Eva…” His mind, spinning with more thoughts than a rabbit had babies, went completely blank. Hell!
She was just Eva to him. “Robertson!” he half shouted when the name planted itself in his head.
“Eva Robertson,” he repeated for himself as much as the driver. “Is her name Eva Robertson?”
The driver shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Sir, I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Not at liberty—”
“Brett, get down from there!” Jenny interrupted, now tugging on his pant leg.
“Sir,” the driver said while Bug tensed his leg, wanting to shake off Jenny’s hold. “Sir. Please, you’re holding up traffic.”
The noise of the city penetrated his thick skull.
Shouts and curses, as well as all consuming sounds of traffic and folks in general. More people graced the city streets and boardwalks than Bug figured lived in the whole state of Kansas. All in all, it reminded him of just how much he missed the peace and quiet of home.
“Brett, get down!”
“Sir?” The driver, though not sounding nearly as annoyed as Jenny, looked at him questionably.
Bug glanced left and right, acknowledging the traffic and ignoring it at the same time. He set his stare back on the driver. “Just tell me, was that woman Eva Robertson or not?”
“Sir, I’m not—”
“I know,” Bug said, “at liberty.” He settled his eyes on the man, and wished like hell he hadn’t complied when Jenny said he had to leave his Peacemaker back at the hotel. Didn’t matter though, he didn’t need the pistol. Bug fisted his fingers into the front of the driver’s starched collar. “Let me tell you about liberties, Dodge City style.”
The man’s eyes bulged out of their sockets, and his Adam’s apple bobbled against Bug’s knuckles.
There was something about Dodge City that caught an Easterner’s attention every time. They were either as curious as a cat about the cow town and those who lived there, or scared witless. He’d go for witless with this driver.
“Was that Eva Robertson?” he asked again.
“Yes,” the man mouthed.
He knew it! Though he’d barely got a glimpse, something deep inside him said the woman he saw was his… Clearly defined memories of him and Eva spun in his head faster than a Kansas dirt devil. Eva was his what? She was Ma’s neighbor, a family friend, but he didn’t have a claim on her. Well, sure she was his friend, too, but it wasn’t like he could say she was his…As in his . Yet he had—for years—and probably always will.
Bug let go of the driver’s shirt and patted the white material back in place for good measure.
“Thanks,” he offered, jumping down the ground.
What the hell was Eva doing in New York City?
The driver leaned over the edge. “Sir?” he whispered.
Bug wasn’t sure if what the man had to say was a secret or if he just hadn’t gained his voice yet, either way, Bug once again grabbed the rail and pulled himself up to hear what the man had to say.
“Are you really from Dodge City?”
“There about.”
A faint grin formed on the man’s face. “Nice to meet you, Sir.” He glanced around before adding, “Here, in New York, she’s to be referred to as Eloisa Reynolds.”
Bug frowned with confusion. “Eloweesa Raynoids?” he asked, trying to repeat the name the driver had said. He was close, but couldn’t get his tongue around the sounds the way the o
ther man had.
The driver nodded.
Eloisa Reynolds? Bug’s heart hit the ground before his feet did. Eva was married. His Eva had gone and gotten herself hitched to some fella named Reynolds. A shiver raced up his spine. Bug slapped his thigh with one hand. Damn it, Ma!
His mother had made it a habit of marrying people off—usually in the middle of the night with the assistance of her shotgun. But, why would she have married off Eva? To someone else? He was supposed to marry Eva. Someday. That’s why he was here.
The hackney pulled away from the curb, finding its spot in the long train of wagons, coaches, and buggies of every shape and size. Bug would never get used to how the city traffic never stopped. Even in the dead of the night, wagons rolled up and down the streets, squeaking and clanking to the point a man couldn’t get a good night’s sleep no matter how tired he was. And the stench—even to someone used to mucking out barn stalls—was disgusting. The street sweepers couldn’t keep up; the traffic never slowed long enough for them to pick up the refuse before it was ground deep into the road. Not even Dodge, in the rainy season and with pens full of cattle, smelled this bad.
“Brett? Brett? What has gotten in to you?”
He spun about. Jenny, looking about as happy and flustered as a wet kitten, stared up at him. The pink, lace covered hat, which once had been perched perfectly on her blonde curls, now hung over one ear.
The cockeyed hat, along with the red flush covering her cheeks, made her sweet little face, all the cuter.
A twinge of guilt caught his guts. He shouldn’t have pulled her down the street like that. That wasn’t very gentlemanly. His mind caught up with him, and he spun back to the building. There wasn’t time to dwell on his actions now. The doors had opened.
“Come on.” He grabbed Jenny’s wrist and pulled her toward the front of the crowd.
“We can’t budge.” She planted her feet on the boardwalk. “We have to go to the back of the line.
Hopefully, we’ll still be able to get in.” A pout sat on her lips as she stared at the line stretched from block to block. “I never imagined there would be this many people.”
“We’ll get in,” he insisted and hooked her elbow, so he wouldn’t lose her amongst the crowd. “Excuse us,” he offered, shouldering his way through the mass of people. Jenny stuck at his side as he elbowed and pushed his way forward. Folks were huddled up like cattle at a feed bunk. “Excuse us,”
he continued, seeing the door.
“Hey!” A man grabbed his arm. “You can’t—”
Bug shot the pipsqueak his best menacing glare.
He’d learned the stare from Buffalo Killer. The brave could make a diamondback cower with one look. Not that it mattered. Right now Bug could have stared down a rattler—and spit in its eye.
Tugging a derby hat lower on his heavily
greased hair, the little man stepped aside.
“Excuse us,” Jenny offered in their wake.
Several minutes later, Bug tapped his toe, growing more impatient as another man ahead of them fumbled with admittance tickets. The ticket-taker, in a suit of red and blue so brightly decorated with gold that Bug wanted to holler ‘ the British are coming’, finally took the tickets, and Bug handed out the two he’d drawn out of the pocket inside his suit coat. Glad to get away from the crowd, Bug shot from the door and strolling across the room, he searched for Eva.
“Brett Quinter!” Jenny came to a screeching halt, her hand once again pulling on his coat sleeve.
Short of dragging her across the room, he stopped.
6
“I demand to know what has come over you. It took me two weeks to talk you into attending this show with me, and now you’re practically knocking people down to get in the door.” She followed up her demand with a little squeal.
He spun about, half expecting to see someone ready to throw them out. Instead, he realized Jenny had just caught a reflection of herself in one of the mirrors lining the back wall.
“Oh!” she gave him an icy glare and stomped forward, plucking the long pin from the back of her crooked hat as she moved. He followed, taking in the room with each step.
Of course he hadn’t wanted to attend another ‘show’ with her. The last one had men dressed in their underwear bouncing across the stage like deer frolicking in the meadow. And the women on stage with the men…He shivered. They had singing voices that drove through his eardrums like three penny nails. The mere thought made his ears start to throb again.
After Jenny had restored her hat and poked and pinched and patted every inch of skin on her face, she spun back around to face him.
“Are you ready?” His eyes returned to scanning the space, looking for the ostrich feather he’d caught a faint glimpse of outside.
“Am I ready?”
“Yes,” he repeated.
“Brett Quinter—”
“Eva!” His shout rose above the murmur of voices, and hit target. The woman, with a blue green feather sticking out of her hat like a tail on run away mustang, twisted around. Her startled face transformed into happiness as her big, brown eyes settled on him. “Eva!” he repeated.
“Bug? Bug!” She turned to a man beside her briefly and then spun back around, rushing forward.
7
His feet barely touched the floor. The crowded room might as well have been empty, for he saw nothing, heard less, as he crossed the room in record time. They met, and all of a sudden, Bug became as unsure as a chicken trying to fly. She’d changed.
With her long, russet colored hair that held the light brighter than a flame, and her slender, willowy figure, she’d always been pretty. But, here, tonight, dressed in finery and with tiny spirals of hair dangling beneath her lacy hat, she was breathtakingly beautiful. He didn’t know what to do, where to start.
Eva, however, appeared to know just what to do.
She wrapped her arms around him and fell against his chest. “Bug Quinter! I am so happy to see you!”
He folded his arms around her. God, she felt good. Right. A deep sense of homecoming filled his soul. “It’s good to see you, too, Eva girl. Damn good.”
His eyelids closed, and he held her tight, wishing his legs and torso had extra arms, so they, too, could wrap around her, for he never, ever, wanted to let her go.
She leaned back far enough to tilt up her feather-decorated head. As adorable as ever, her big eyes searched his face, as if she was making sure it was him. He grinned.
She giggled and hugged him again. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Pennsylvania.”
“I am. I’m just visiting the city for a few days.
What are you doing here?”
Eva attempted to step out of his hold, but his arms didn’t want to let her go. She patted his shoulders. He had no choice but to ease his hold, let her go.
With one hand, she gestured around the room.
“I’m here for the art show.”
For the first time he noticed the paintings 8
covering the walls. More stood on easels. People flocked the framed art work. One picture in particular held his attention. It was a soddy, surrounded by the rolling plains he knew and loved so well. Memories lassoed his mind, mystically dragging him into the scene.
Eva held her breath. Not only was her blood pounding hard enough to steal her hearing permanently, her heart threatened to explode. Ever since Jack had said they were going to New York, she’d hoped to see Bug, but had feared the opportunity wouldn’t materialize.
He looked fantastic. Extremely handsome in his black suit coat and tie. Then again, Bug, with his coffee colored hair and even browner eyes, was always handsome. Even in work clothes, covered in wheat dust, grease from oil seeps, or crusted Kansas dirt he was the best looking man around. Always would be. From the moment she’d seen him, eight years ago when she was fifteen and he sixteen, she’d lost her heart. Since then she’d thought they would be together, as in man and wife, bu
t over the past two and a half years, she began to fear that wasn’t meant to be. He most certainly was her true love, but oil was Bug’s true love.
“That’s your soddy, Eva,” he said, sounding in awe. “Yes, yes it is.” Her breath sat tight in her lungs again. That painting was one of her favorites, even though she’d painted it five years ago—when Willamina still took pride in having the brightest whites in Kansas. Memories, including the bitter scent of Willamina’s strong lye soap washed over her. Things that would last forever yet would never happen again.
“Why? Why would you paint your house…” Bug glanced at the people fawning over the painting.
“And put it on view for all these people to gawk at?”
His tone was so sharp the air gushed out of her chest.
“I—” she started.
“Eloisa!” Jack interrupted her explanation.
“What are you doing? You can’t start socializing until after we make your introduction.” He took her arm. “Come along, my dear.”
“Jack, this is—”
“Excuse us,” Jack interrupted again. “Feel free to explore Miss Reynolds’s work,” he said, barely glancing at Bug. “She’ll be free for questions later.”
Bug stepped forward, as if he was going to stop Jack from leading her away, but a blonde woman wrapped both of her hands around Bug’s arm. Eva’s heart constricted. The woman’s touch looked unmistakably familiar, like she was used to touching Bug. Jack kept pulling. Eva had no choice but to go with him. “I’ll see you, later?” It was most certainly a question. Then again, maybe it was a plea. She didn’t want Bug to leave. Not without a chance to visit. It had been so long since she’d seen him.
Almost three years. Ever since that day he’d stopped by to say good-bye and kissed her. He’d said he was taking a sample from one of his oil seeps to Pennsylvania—and would be back in a few months.
His kiss had lingered well beyond the months, and lasted throughout the years. Even right now, in the middle of the crowded room, if she closed her eyes she’d be able to remember how astonishing it had been.
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