The Rancher's Inconvenient Bride

by Carol Arens

  She needed him to look contrite, his head hung low in regret for forcing her to remain indoors.

  But no, here he came, his hair neatly gleaming in the beam of sunlight he crossed through. His jacket was buttoned and his shoes polished. He smelled like shaving soap. The Stetson was just low enough to make him look—drat, she could not think about how it made him look.

  Rather than appearing repentant for his high-handed treatment of her, he was smiling.

  Oh, the nerve of the—the—king! The ruler of everyone!

  Stopping in front of her, he bent at the waist to drop a sweet, light kiss on her forehead.

  “I don’t believe you love me. No more than you would a bird in a cage,” she said.

  He straightened up. “I told you I did, twice.”

  Standing, she still had to look up in order to face him eye to eye. No wonder he was bossy. He was taller than almost anyone else.

  “You said the words, but there was no passion, no sincerity in them. There ought to be fire in your eyes when you tell me that.”

  “Yes, there ought to be.” He glanced at the shine on his shoes, or possibly the ivy pattern on the rug.

  For some reason he hid his expression from her. He hid his expression but not his heart. In spite of his distant attitude, the pulse in his throat beat hard. She doubted it was because the ivy beneath his shoe was all that interesting.

  As naïve as she was, she could tell that he wanted her, knew the reason he would not show it.

  They had discussed his need to protect her. It was normal for a man to want that, but she was not going to be sheltered to the sacrifice of her happiness.

  In the very instant she was about to leap upon him, plunder his mouth and claim what he was keeping from her, someone pounded on the door.

  “Wonder if it’s the mayor they’re here for or the sheriff.”

  “Better find out.” She sighed.

  Going toward the door, he stopped, came back and kissed her cheek, very close to the place where the curve of her lip nearly lifted in a smile.

  And there it was, a quick and revealing flash in his eye—a yearning for more.

  She waited ten minutes after the door closed before she moved. When he did not return, she put on her bonnet and smoothed her skirt. She was ready for battle. Ready to tell addicted women about a better life.

  Opening the door, she was blown back two steps by a great gust of wind. Dust so thick she could not see across the street blew sideways.

  The dust storm hadn’t been there a moment ago. It was unlikely that William had made it to wherever he was going without losing his new Stetson.

  Even worse, the ladies would not be hanging out their windows.

  She would have to come to them at night, appeal to them between customers. At least she had the rest of the day to figure a way to do it.

  * * *

  For her adventure into the night Agatha put on her darkest gown. Hopefully she would blend in with the shadows.

  Even though it had taken William far too long to retire this evening, and during that time she had made several sincere yawns to help him along, he did at last go up the stairs.

  Walking upstairs beside him, she continued to yawn and stretch. She’d declared how she would be sound asleep the instant her head felt the give of her pillow.

  Luckily, he had not visited her room last night. She only hoped he would not tonight either.

  In spite of the delay because of the wind, luck had been on her side.

  As it turned out, both Mrs. Bea and Miss Fitz used to work at the Bascomb Hotel. After spending the afternoon with them discussing its former glory she had a fair idea of the floor plan.

  Now all she had to do was step off the front porch and walk the two blocks to the Palace.

  If the moon wasn’t a bare sliver over the horizon, too low and too small to light her way, she might not hesitate to step off the front porch.

  If the wind wasn’t racing down the road, whistling around corners and moaning under eaves, she might be halfway to her destination already.

  If, if, if! The problem did not lie with elements of nature. The fact could not be denied, she was acting more timidly than Ivy’s pet mouse.

  Well then! She lifted her skirt and stepped down to the street.

  A tumbleweed careened toward her but she stepped out of its way. A large wolflike dog on a front porch saw her and charged the fence. Instead of barking, it wagged its tail.

  Hugging a shadow, she stood across the street from the hotel. Red-globed lanterns sat on the sills of upstairs windows. Raunchy laughter spilled out of the front doors. Men lounged on the boardwalk, some smoking and some drinking.

  Pete Lydle came out to join them, both smoking and drinking.

  Was the man so much worse than Frenchie Brown? Was Pete’s Palace more decadent than the circus?

  Probably not. Understanding the underbelly of the circus as she did, she knew that perhaps it was worse. At least the saloon was what it was. There was no mistaking what one would find when entering a saloon.

  But the circus? Folks brought their families, unaware that beyond the thrills and bright colors lay corruption.

  All of a sudden she was grateful for the moon that was too weak to light the street, for the wind that muffled her steps as she dashed across the road and behind the building.

  Thanks to Miss Fitz and Mrs. Bea, she knew there was a back stairway. In order to get to it she would need to pass by the kitchen door, which was open and spilling light into the darkness.

  Easing along the wall, she heard voices—at least six of them mostly women and at least one man, and he seemed angry that a steak was taking too long to prepare.

  If she walked past the door she was sure to be spotted. Glancing about she noticed that the space under the kitchen stairs was open.

  She would be able to crawl under it and make it to the back stairway without being seen.

  It was a small space, though. She would have to slither on her belly in the dirt for at least ten feet.

  The darkness under the stairs was inky black. It was easy to imagine being swallowed by it never to be heard from again. Perhaps she should go home and let her husband protect her every step like he wanted to.

  Silently, she went down on her knees only to discover that it was not only dark, but smelly. No doubt they tossed garbage under here—which meant there might be rats.

  Small ones though, unlike the one who owned the saloon. Holding her breath, she went down on her belly, entered the black cave-like space.

  A rustle of tiny feet skittered into a corner—many tiny feet. She would have squealed but in that moment boots thudded on the wood overhead.

  Going still, she held her breath, afraid that even her heartbeat would give her presence away.

  The person belched, sighed. A second later a splash of water hit the dirt and made a sizzling sound. The boot steps went back inside.

  Luck was on her side even though she would have sworn a second ago that it was not. Yes, she was spending a moment with unidentified creatures, but she had not been scalded by a pot of boiling water.

  Quickly scooting her body forward, she was nearly out when her elbow slid on something slick. She had no idea what it might be other than odorous. Since she had to drag her body over it in order to get out, there would be a trail of stench on her dress.

  In the end she made it to the back stairway without being discovered. Inside was a landing with two short sets of stairs, one going left and one going right. She knew that either way would lead to rear hallways with back doors to each room.

  It was an odd design with a front and rear door to each room but Mr. Bascomb had designed it that way so the cleaning staff would not be seen. Not only that, Mrs. Bea had confided that some people used the priva
te passage to go from room to room for secret trysts.

  No wonder Pete Lydle had purchased the hotel. Hopefully, his customers only used the main hallway.

  It was dark here but not like it had been beneath the stairs. A bit of light did seep out from the under the doors.

  As far as she could tell there were no vermin creeping about, either. Instead of the scent of garbage, she smelled an odd mingling of tobacco, sweat and lavender.

  On tiptoe, she crept along the hallway, listening at doors for the sounds of women who might be alone so that she could speak with them.

  This, of course, was a far more intimidating thing to do than slither through refuse. The ladies might not want to hear what she had to say. They might laugh, call her a busybody. No doubt they would alert Mr. Lydle that she was skulking the back hallways.

  But if she could help just one woman, it would be worth everything.

  Judging by the sounds coming from under the crack of the door she just passed, Agatha could tell the woman was working. Same with the second and the third doors, but not the fourth.

  Quiet weeping came from behind that door. The voice sounded young—too young. Then came the tap, tap, tap of a cane across the floor.

  Agatha knew very well what was about to happen. The old woman dressed in black was about to douse the girl with laudanum since it would not do for the customers to hear the young prostitute’s despair.

  She touched the knob, ready to burst in and carry the girl away—somehow. All at once fingers clamped over her mouth. A man’s arm banded her waist, lifted her and carried her backward down the hallway.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Standing on the front porch and staring at the night, William hesitated in going down the stairs.

  He felt the weight of the badge on his shirt, the heaviness of the gun on his hip. Even if there had been a real sheriff to turn this problem over to, he would not.

  Because this one involved his wife.

  Hilda Brunne was hiding out with Pete Lydle. No way in hell did he believe that was by chance.

  The insane woman had come for Agatha. As long as he had a breath in his body, he would not let the witch get to her.

  Luck was with him tonight, though. Agatha had been especially tired and fallen asleep quickly.

  Bounding off the stairs, he strode down the street. The neighbor’s large dog rushed the fence, barking its fool head off. He’d been hit by a couple of tumbleweeds taking aim at him but it wasn’t long before he stood in front of the saloon.

  Lydle and a few other men stood on the porch.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” he greeted from the boardwalk.

  “What brings you out in the wee hours? Sheriff at the moment, I assume?” Lydle’s voice expressed friendliness, but William knew better than to believe it.

  “Just making my nightly rounds. Folks are uncomfortable with all the strangers coming to town.”

  “They oughtn’t to be. They’re spending money, fattening everyone’s bank accounts, not just mine.” The men Lydle had been speaking with went back into the saloon. “Come on inside, have a drink with me this time, have a cigar. I don’t hold grudges.”

  “I’ve got my rounds to finish up.” He went down the steps, Pete staring after him.

  Hell, not staring so much as shooting glaring hot anger at his back. Oh, he’d be smiling in case anyone noticed, but William felt the prick of imagined daggers through his shirt.

  He walked past three buildings then turned down an alley.

  As luck would have it, a pack of coyotes had ventured into town and were yipping and carrying on. If he were still watching, Lydle would think William had gone that way to chase the pack back to open land where they belonged.

  Since he was not after that sort of predator, he circled back toward the rear of the saloon.

  A gunshot cut the night. The coyotes’ frenzied yelps stopped at once. Someone must have taken care of the problem on their own.

  Walking past the saloon’s kitchen door, he looked inside. A woman noticed him and came out on the porch.

  “I’ll never get used to those vicious beasts,” she said, glancing toward the direction the coyotes had been. “The entrance is in the front, mister or—Sheriff, is it?”

  She squinted up her eyes, peering through the dark at his badge.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Around the front, like I said.”

  “It’s the old woman with the cane.”

  “The lunatic?” Wind fluttered the apron tied about the woman’s generous waist. A foul smell blew out from under the stairs.

  “I’d like to speak with her.”

  “She’ll be tending the girls, I imagine, but talk to Pete first. And go around the front.”

  “I reckon I’ll come back in the morning.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said then went back inside the kitchen.

  If the smell wafting from under the porch was any indication of the quality of the food they served, he wouldn’t dare to eat it.

  Luck was still definitely on his side. If the saloon owner asked around, he would be told that the sheriff had gone home.

  William opened the door to the back stairway and silently went inside. If he was going to find Brunne, he could not make a noise that might alert anyone that he was creeping behind the rooms, especially her. From what he’d seen, for all that the woman appeared crippled, she could slip away as easily as a wraith.

  Back here in the hallway he heard the noises he expected to, grunts, moans—and from behind the door he was shuffling by, a fellow getting to the point of what he had paid for.

  But further down there was a sound that disturbed him. The unhappy weeping of a young prostitute, also the tip-tapping of a cane on the floor.

  Rounding the corner, muscles tensed, he was ready to burst into the room and prevent whatever wicked thing was happening.

  He came to a sudden halt. A woman stood at the door, her hand on the knob.

  Even in the dark he recognized his wife. She was so intent on what she was doing she didn’t notice him rushing her.

  Until he clapped his hand over her mouth, lifted her and carried her away, she had been unaware of his presence.

  What if it had not been him in the hall but one of Pete’s customers? What if it had been Pete and not William carrying her away right now?

  It could have been! He felt red inside. Anger pulsed in his brain, shot through his arms and legs as he hurried her outside.

  He’d always believed Agatha to be a reasonable, intelligent human being. In the moment he did not know who she was.

  * * *

  She was not the person she used to be! It was true that she was being carried away—again, but this time she would not be forced into the mouth of a cannon.

  She would not be forced into anything.

  She kicked backward, landing a blow on her assailant’s shin. He grunted but did not let her loose.

  It wouldn’t do to scream since that might attract more men of his depravity.

  Reaching back, she yanked his hair. Something metal poked her in the back. Suddenly she was in a life-and-death struggle. She bit his fingers.

  This time the attacker yelped.

  “Agatha, stop!” he hissed in her ear.

  She did. A stone dumped on her head would not have stunned her more.

  William dropped one arm from her waist. She spun about, looking smack at the brass badge reading Sheriff. She still felt the imprint of the metal, the terror of it pressed between her shoulder blades when she’d believed it to be a gun.

  “You beast!” she mouthed at him.

  He proved she was right by hauling her once more along the hallway, then out the back door. Instead of going left past the kitchen, he took her
right.

  After ten minutes in which she was certain her arm would fall out of its socket from all the tugging he was doing and the resisting she was doing, he stopped abruptly.

  She heard the sound of gurgling water. He’d taken her to the stream that ran behind the town shops.

  “You’re right! For the first time in my life I feel like one. A red-hot-tempered beast!”

  He clutched her arm again, this time dragging her downhill past trees and through shrubbery.

  A few times, she thought she would fall but he held on to her so she didn’t.

  The water was close now. Cooler air filled her lungs, brushed her face. The earth turned softer under her boots. It smelled damp and green.

  “Do you have any idea how I felt seeing you in that place when you were supposed to be home in bed?”

  He pressed her down until her bottom thumped down on the trunk of the fallen tree.

  “Well, yes! As a matter of fact, I do.” He reached for her hand but she swatted it away. “I also left you asleep in bed. What were you doing prowling about behind those rooms? Hiding? Not wanting your reputation to be ruined if anyone saw you consorting with those women?”

  He gripped her shoulders, but gently, considering how angry he was...and completely without cause. “I think you know me better than that. I would never do such a thing to you.”

  “You were there for some reason.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “You know why! Those women are being drugged. I thought I could help one of them—and I was about to when you carried me off. Perhaps if you hadn’t been riding so high on your white horse you could have helped me.”

  His arms fell away from her shoulders, moved down her arms in a caress. He cupped both of her hands in his. This time she did not pull away.

  Probably because even in the inky dark she saw his expression change. With a blink, the anger faded from his eyes, the tension in his jaw softened.

  “You have no idea what you were walking into, honey.”

  She did. “Of course I did. I know exactly what was going to happen in that room.”

  “You didn’t know. The reason I was there is to make sure you never did.”