“Absolutely.”
She tried very hard not to smile at the irony of him trying to gain respectability by marrying a murderess. But then, there was no reason to offer that information. What she needed to do was convince him to give her the bookkeeping job without insisting she marry him. She really wanted that job but really didn’t want a husband.
* * *
Preston found Miss Beamer a puzzle. Everything about the woman’s demeanor and appearance told him she should be anxious to find a husband and settle down to make a comfortable home and raise children. Instead of following that normal course of events, she was desperate for a job. Desperate enough to want a job in a saloon.
With her looks and delectable curves, men would be lining up to make her theirs. Which could only mean one thing—she was hiding something. At this point, he really didn’t care what those secrets were; he just needed her consent to marry him. And fast.
“What can I do to convince you to marry me?”
Miss Beamer blew out a huge breath of air. “Can’t I just have the job?”
He shook his head. This might be his only chance to obtain a wife quickly enough to be able to accept his deliveries and actually get his hotel and restaurant started.
“That’s sort of like blackmail.”
“Probably.” He cleared his throat. “Look, Miss Beamer, I’m not a bad sort. I’m willing to buy you a small house to start out and make sure we always have food on the table and all the little extras that ladies like. I’m fairly easy to get along with, bathe regularly, and have all my teeth. Maybe someday there would be children.”
His gut tightened at the blush that rose on her face. He’d had his share of women over the years, but there was something intriguing about this one. Never having been attracted to the innocent type, he was confused at his reaction to her. Everything about her had fascinated him from the minute she followed Crystal into his office.
He imagined marriage to her, watching as she took her hair down at night then removed her clothes. The body under her dress made his hands itch to run them over the dips and curves, feel her smooth, warm skin, touching her in places he was sure no man ever had.
The sound of her voice drew him from his musings. “I agree to your proposal, but I have one condition.”
He shifted in his seat to accommodate his body’s response to his thoughts. “And that would be?”
She raised her chin, two bright red spots appearing on her cheeks. “I would prefer a marriage of convenience.”
“What?” He really should see about getting his hearing checked.
“I believe we should think of this as a business arrangement. I will work for you and become your wife so you can build your hotel. And be respectable.”
“But what about…”
She raised her eyebrows and shook her head.
He would be satisfied with a business arrangement sort of marriage, without any silly ideas of romance. However, if he were to complete his dream of a proper life with an acceptable business and family, he needed children. Children who would never go without food or clothes. Who would not be taunted in school for their parent’s sins. Who would know the security of a father’s love. Not the sort of existence his childhood had been.
But the little minx knew she had him over a barrel. He needed a wife, and he needed her now. Again, he wondered about her reluctance to take the most natural course for a woman like herself. He sat back and studied his prospective wife. What secrets are you keeping from me, darlin’?
“I will agree with one condition of my own.” He leaned forward and gave her his best seductive smile. “You will allow me to try to change your mind.”
The pulse jumping in her throat told him she wasn’t immune to him nor unaffected by the idea of sharing his bed. Yes. It would take some doing, but he was sure he could change her mind. “Well?” As much as he needed a wife, she seemed equally desperate for a job.
“Very well.”
Preston smiled. This could turn out to be a very interesting arrangement.
* * *
“I am happy for you, Miranda, and relieved I won’t have to wire Marshal Jones and tell him you refused to marry.” Miss Nellie hugged her close, then moved her back, her hands braced on Miranda’s shoulders. “The marshal gave me enough money to see that each girl had a nice dress for her wedding. If you like, we can go shopping now so you’ll be all ready for tomorrow.”
Once Miranda and Preston had agreed on their terms and conditions, he insisted on a quick wedding. Since he wouldn’t permit her to step foot in the saloon until they married, she had no choice. She had to begin earning money.
She thought back to Preston’s edict that she allow him to try to change her mind about having a real marriage. Despite her fear and loathing of Frankie and Woody, the notion of her future husband taking her into his strong arms and making love to her appealed far too much.
This marriage was a convenience for him, but for her, also. When she packed up and left Santa Fe, she didn’t want the complication of a child or a broken heart. No, it was best to remain immune to his advances.
The trip to the mercantile produced a lovely pale-pink, long-sleeved taffeta dress with small yellow and pink flowers embroidered on the cuffs and hem. A wide, dark-pink grosgrain ribbon encircled the waist with a large bow that tied in back.
Miranda gazed at herself in the mirror at the mercantile. She hadn’t owned anything this lovely since before her father died. Once Frankie had gotten his hands on the little bit of money her mother had received from the sale of their home, there was never any more new clothing for either her or her mother. But always plenty of his whiskey.
Pushing aside the gloomy thoughts, she smiled at the clerk. “Yes, I’ll take this one.”
“You’ll make a beautiful bride, Miranda,” Miss Nellie said.
Miranda turned to allow the clerk to unfasten the back of the dress, which she then wrapped in paper and handed to her. “Good luck with your marriage, Miss Beamer. I’m sure you and Mr. Stone will be very happy.” She leaned in close, red dots on her cheeks. “And he is quite handsome.”
The bright sunlight as they left the store offered her a sense of hope. Maybe this would work out well. She would begin work at the saloon, save her money, and catch a stagecoach out of Santa Fe. No more looking over her shoulder to see if Woody’s gun was pointed at her back.
“Now that we are all married, Miss Nellie, what do you plan to do for yourself?” They both lifted the hems of their skirts to avoid the mud and manure as they stepped off the boardwalk to cross the street.
“I’m thinking of running a mail-order bride service. I really enjoyed watching you all select fine men for your husbands. It was so different from my past business; it gave me a warm feeling to know you are all well taken care of and won’t have to worry.”
This was the first time she and Miss Nellie had actually spoken of her life as a brothel owner. From what little Miranda knew of that type of work, Miss Nellie sure didn’t seem to fit, except when she’d first seen her with her red satin dress and face paint as Marshal Jones introduced her to the girls.
“Then you will stay in Santa Fe?”
“There isn’t anything for me in Dodge City. My business burned down, my girls scattered. It was time for me to move on.”
“What about Marshal Jones?”
Miss Nellie’s head snapped in Miranda’s direction. “What about Marshal Jones?”
Miranda shrugged. “Nothing. I thought maybe the two of you were friends.”
“Yes. Well, we are friends.” She smiled brightly. “But he’s in Dodge City and I’m here.”
Miranda got the feeling Miss Nellie was trying very hard not to say something. But she had her own worries. Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, Mr. Preston Stone, gambling hall and saloon owner, and aspiring respectable hotel proprietor, would be calling for her. They would present themselves at the church to stand before Preacher Finn where they would be married.
Till death do you part.
Or as soon as she saved enough money.
Chapter 5
Woody Smith slid off his horse, his knees buckling, landing him face down in the dirt. Bracing one meaty hand on the side of his horse, he cussed and climbed to his feet. He lurched to one side, then the other, until he tripped up the steps and tumbled into his house, his eyes bleary from too much liquor and not enough sleep.
“Pa?” He squinted in the dark. “Why the hell ain’t there any lamps lit?” He made his way through the dark house to the kitchen where he collapsed onto a rickety chair, the weight of his body daring the chair to hold him. “Miranda?”
No answer. Where was the bitch? She was supposed to be here, taking care of him. He could get up and find the whiskey himself or fix a sandwich. Maybe make some coffee. He shook his head to clear it. The thought of food soured his stomach. He didn’t hear his pa snoring from the bedroom, which was odd.
His brain spinning with questions, he crossed his arms on the table, laid his head down, and fell into a sound sleep.
Hours later, bathed in warmth from the sun coming through the kitchen window, Woody awoke, his head pounding. Damn! For the way he felt, he better have had a good time the night before. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and looked around. Where the hell was everybody?
“A man leaves for a few weeks and everyone scatters.” He ambled to the sink and stuck his head under the water pump and worked it until his hair was saturated and his head cleared. Pulling his shirt off, he used it to dry his face and hair then tossed the garment in the corner.
“Miranda?” He searched from room to room, but she wasn’t there. Then a smile graced his lips. He remembered Pa saying he was thinking about taking the bitch to Margie’s place to put her to work. Bring some money in instead of freeloading off them. The old man must’ve done it.
Instantly cheered, he decided to make a visit there immediately and avail himself of her services. She’d always looked at him as if he’d crawled out from under a rock. Well, Miss High-and-Mighty couldn’t say no to him anymore. His money was as good as anyone else’s.
Aroused by the thought of looking down at her blond head while she knelt naked in front of him, servicing him just fine with her warm mouth, he grabbed the coffeepot and dumped in water and coffee beans. Striking a match against the wall, he lit the kindling in the stove then threw a small log in. He’d make himself breakfast then head into town.
Maybe he would even take a bath before he visited her. Nah, let her suffer with the road dirt and smell he’d collected on his recent trip. And it had been a good trip. He and his boys had held up four stagecoaches and pulled in a lot of cash and jewels. It amazed him how easy it had become to relieve passengers of their money.
As he twisted open a jar of peaches from the pantry, he was still confused on where his pa was. The man rarely left the house, choosing instead to have Woody keep him supplied with whiskey to drink at home. Now and again, he would ride into town to spend his money at the poker table, but most times he was planted here in the kitchen like a long-forgotten guest.
A breakfast of plump sweet peaches and a few swigs of whiskey restored his spirits. Leaving the dirty dishes on the table, he pulled on a wrinkled shirt and left the house. His horse, Red, the chestnut he’d won in a poker game, stood in front of the house, still saddled, his head hanging down, looking forlorn. It wasn’t the first time Woody had arrived home too drunk to take care of the animal.
“Sorry, old boy, but you’ll have to take me into town before I can rub you down and feed you. Important business, ya know.”
As he got closer to town, he checked the gold timepiece he’d relieved one of the passengers of. A few minutes past ten o’clock. Margie’s was open, but she generally didn’t allow the men to avail themselves of the girls’ services until after two. He was sure if he waved a large enough bill under the madam’s face, the greedy bitch would agree to let him have his tumble with Miranda now. He’d been waiting for this for months. Hell, for years.
Damn, he might even pay enough to have the bitch flat on her back or on her knees for the rest of the day. His heartbeat sped up at the thought as he pulled Red’s reins to a stop in front of The Wild Cat. He almost tripped up the boardwalk in his haste, practically drooling at the vision of Miranda naked.
“Well, ain’t you the early bird. I haven’t seen you around for weeks.” Margie eyed him curiously.
“Yeah, well, I had business out of town.” He brushed past Margie and headed to the bar. “Whiskey.”
Margie strolled up to him and leaned on the bar. “Smells like you’ve been rolling in pig shit. And what are you all fired up about?”
“Gonna have me a couple of these”—he held the glass up before tossing the liquid down—“then I’m gonna wave enough bills under your nose to get Miranda up out of her cozy bed and into a working one.”
“Miranda? Miranda who?”
“Oh, did she pick a different name so no one would know her? Just like that sneaky little slut.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Woody, but Miranda ain’t here.”
He slammed the glass on the bar. “Don’t mess with me, Margie. I know my pa brought Miranda in. He said he was gonna do it, and they’re both gone.”
“Watch your mouth, mister. I know who I have upstairs and who I don’t. And your stepsister ain’t one of them. Not that I’d mind having her here. She’d bring in a nice penny to be sure, with all that innocence, but you’re mistaken.”
“Well then, where the hell is she?”
Two burly men who had been watching the exchange moved closer to the bar. One of them wedged himself between Woody and Margie. “I suggest you finish your drink, friend, and head on out. Margie’s already said what she needed to say.”
As much as he’d like to slam his fist into the bodyguard’s grinning face, he wasn’t in the mood to be beaten up by two brawlers. He downed another drink, threw a few bills on the bar, and strode from the building, feeling the men’s eyes on his back.
He fisted his hands on his hips and stared at the street. Shoppers were busy going in and out of stores. Mel from the barbershop stood in front of his store, jawing with the marshal. He snorted. Maybe he should stroll over to Jones and report his stepsister and pa missing. Wouldn’t that be a hoot? Get the law working for him for a change.
If this was the way the day was going, he might as well go back home and grab some more sleep. Then he’d be ready to do some serious gambling, drinking, and whoring tonight. A surge of anger rushed through him that the sweet white thighs he would settle between later today wouldn’t be Miranda’s.
He’d wanted her from the time she and her pathetic mother came to live with him and Pa. Just to keep the old lady happy, Pa had married her. A preacher’s wife, he’d told him. They’d had a good laugh over that one.
But little Miranda had just been growing tiny buds on her chest, and Woody was determined to get her into his bed. Except for some reason, Pa had forbidden him to touch the girl. So for five years, he watched her with hunger, knowing one day he’d have her. And here he thought today was the day.
The marshal waved him down as he rode past him and Mel. “Got a minute, Woody?”
“Yeah, sure, Marshal. You know me. Got lots of minutes for the law.”
Ignoring his sarcasm, the marshal waved toward his office. “Meet me at the jail.”
Woody shrugged and continued on his way. He stopped in front of the jailhouse and tied the horse’s reins over the post then followed the marshal into the office.
“Take a seat,” the marshal said as he rounded his desk and settled in.
“Whadda ya want?” He began to feel a bit squirmy at the look on Jones’s face. Serious, like he was about to deliver bad news. Woody had kept his face pretty well covered up on their stagecoach robberies, but could one of the boys have spilled his guts to the law? He slowly eased his hand toward the Colt strapped to his thigh. He wasn’t going into any j
ail cell.
Jones took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Woody. While you were gone, your pa passed away.”
A sick feeling rose in Woody’s stomach, forcing him to swallow the peaches that tried to climb up his throat. “What happened?”
“He was shot about a month ago. I tried to contact you. I sent a few wires to towns in the area, but since you’re only just back in town now, I assume you never got word?”
Woody shook his head. “Who shot him?”
The marshal leaned back in his chair. “There’s no need for you to know that.”
Enraged, Woody leaned over the marshal’s desk. “I have the right to know who killed my pa.”
The marshal ran his fingers through is hair. “Now, I don’t want you to go storming from here set on vengeance.”
“Never mind that, Marshal.” Woody’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “Who the hell murdered Frankie?”
Jones took a deep breath. “Miranda.”
His blood raced to his head which pounded even worse than when he’d woken up. “Where is she?”
The marshal didn’t look him in the eye. “I don’t rightly know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Why ain’t her pretty little ass sitting in jail? Or has she already been hanged?”
“It was self-defense, Woody. I know how you and Frankie treated the girl. Your pa tried to force her to work at Margie’s place, and when he reached to grab her, she shot him. Miranda arrived to give herself up with a black eye.”
“So why ain’t she in jail?”
“After questioning her, I determined it was self-defense and I let her go.”
He would kill the bitch. Woody jumped up from the seat and headed to the door.
“Don’t you go takin’ the law into your own hands, boy.” Jones shouted his words to the slammed door.
* * *
Prisoners of Love: Miranda Page 4
