Even across the room, Starla heard her. “My guess is that he was thinking you had the drive and the know-how to own a business.”
Miranda stopped in her steps. “A well-bred lady does not have drive and know-how.” Her face pinched at the thought. The words tasted sour in her mouth. She continued on toward the bar, shaking her head. “At least, not when it comes to being a saloonkeeper.”
She cringed, still having a hard time believing that that’s what she was. For two-and-a-half whole weeks, that’s what she had been. It was inconceivable, unbelievable, and also true. She’d arrived on the train in Mistletoe, Montana on December 1st, answering a summons sent by the executor of her late Uncle Buford’s estate. The man had handed her the deed to the saloon with a wide, teasing grin, wished her luck, and hopped on the very train she’d just stepped off of.
And that was how proper, modest, respectable Miranda Clarke had ended up as the saloonkeeper of The Holey Bucket. Well, she’d drawn the line at the shingle over the saloon’s door. It had depicted a sacrilegious bucket leaking sudsy beer, hanging on a shining cross. That had been the first thing to go. The next had been the ladies of ill-repute. Not only had they made a habit of loitering around the Bucket’s tables and occasionally kicking up their skirts on the small stage at the front of the room, Miranda suspected they’d transacted other business in the saloon’s tiny backrooms. She chased them all away, but she hadn’t been able to get rid of Starla.
If she was being honest with herself, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
“Being a clever, competent woman with a head for business does not make you any less of a lady,” Starla said, joining Miranda in cleaning up the remnants of the day’s customers at the bar. “If you ask me, it makes you twice the woman those vapid, preening ladies who do nothing but sit around on overstuffed furniture drinking tea are.”
Miranda sent her a dubious look, but secretly her heart stirred with the compliment. Even if Starla didn’t know it was a compliment. Her whole life, Miranda had sat, stiff and unnoticed, with those vapid, preening ladies, never feeling quite accepted. Her younger, prettier sister, Vicky, had been the darling of those ladies…and most of the gentlemen, even though she never, ever obeyed their rules. Miranda obeyed every rule, smiled at every slight, and where had it gotten her?
The Holey Bucket.
“I just wish the men wouldn’t drink so much,” she added with a sigh, piling the last of the empty, dirty glasses onto a platter. She’d wash them in the sink behind the bar as soon as the platter was full.
Starla laughed. “That is the reason most men come to a saloon, you know.” She took a rag and began wiping the bar clean.
“I can’t say I entirely approve of alcohol.” Miranda walked over to the table where the card-players had been seated and began gathering their bottles.
“There’s nothing wrong with a little nip now and then,” Starla advised her. “It’s when they drink too much that it becomes a problem.”
“Poor Teddy can’t stop himself,” Miranda spoke softly, carrying an armful of bottles to the bar.
“Mmm,” Starla hummed in sad agreement about Teddy. “And you watch out for Chet Jamison when he’s had too many in a bad mood. There’s sorry drunks and then there’s violent drunks.”
Miranda blew out a breath as she fit the empty beer bottles into a crate she had started keeping behind the bar. “Which is why I question Uncle Buford’s wisdom in leaving me this place. It’s unsuitable. It’s unsavory. It’s ruined my chance—” She snapped her mouth shut, sending Starla a guilty look, and picked up a cloth to wipe down the counters behind the bar.
“Ruined?” Starla prompted her. She’d wiped her way to the end of the bar and sauntered back now, that knowing, almost motherly look in her wise eyes. That was the reason Miranda had no real desire to banish the woman from the bar.
There was no point in hiding things from her sudden confidant. Miranda turned from the back counter to face Starla. “It’s ruined any chance I might have had left of finding a respectable man to marry. Not that those chances hadn’t been ruined already.” She leaned heavily against the bar.
Starla reached out and rubbed her arm. “It’s never too late, honey.”
Miranda arched a brow at her. “What kind of man would want to marry a female saloonkeeper?”
“You might be surprised.”
Miranda’s brow arched higher. “What kind of man would want to marry a woman who threw herself at her sister’s fiancé?” She flushed scarlet at the memory of that afternoon with Micah Lewis.
A sympathetic, but also mischievous, grin sparkled its way up to Starla’s eyes. “I haven’t met your sister, but the man sounds like a complete boob to pass up a determined, energetic woman like you.”
The warmth of the compliment swirled through Miranda even as it deflated her. Determined and energetic, not beautiful or graceful.
Starla straightened. “You know what? I bet Buford left this place to you because he wanted to prove to you that you’re as good as any of those shrinking violets.”
Miranda latched onto the hope of the comment. “Really?”
“Sure. I bet he wanted you to have this place so you could learn to loosen up and live a little too.”
Miranda huffed impatiently and set to work scrubbing the already clean bar top. “I tried loosening up once. It brought me nothing but disgrace.”
Starla laughed out loud. “Then it seems to me that all you need is more practice.”
“Practice? Being loose?” She stopped cleaning and planted one fist on her hip. “Loose women do not exactly have the best reputations, you know.”
“Maybe not, but we sure do have more fun.” Starla winked.
Too late, Miranda realized she’d insulted her new friend. “Oh, Starla. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”
Starla shrugged. “Honey, I’m as loose as a schoolboy’s front tooth. I have to be to survive.” She leaned across the bar as if confiding a great secret. “But let me tell you, you don’t have to be as loose as me to loosen up a little.”
Miranda pursed her lips in doubt. “That hasn’t been my experience.”
“Then you need new experiences.” She shifted to rest her weight on one hip. “Take a chance. Open yourself up to life a little. It’s Christmas, after all. You never know what sort of miracles will walk through your door at Christmas.”
Miranda couldn’t help but laugh. “No miracles are going to walk through my—”
She didn’t have a chance to finish her sentence before the saloon’s front door burst open with a gust of icy wind. The first thing that entered was a huge trunk with the faded words “Mendel’s Marvelous Brushes” painted on it. The owner of the trunk came staggering through the door afterwards. He set the trunk down with a thud, then straightened, brushing tiny flurries of snow from his wool-clad arms. He was tall, with broad shoulders and thick, curling, brown hair, which he revealed as soon as he removed his hat.
“Good afternoon, uh, ma’am. My name is Randall Sinclair, and I come to you today…” He paused, met her eyes, and smiled.
Chapter 2
If she hadn’t had the bar to lean against, Miranda suspected she would have been knocked clear to the ground with the force of Randall Sinclair’s smile. It brought about such a transformation on his handsome, weary face that she caught herself smiling too. It took half a second for her to determine that there was no one else like this man in all of Mistletoe, maybe in all of Montana, although she couldn’t put her finger on whether it was his tailored coat, his high cheekbones and straight nose, or just the air he had about him.
Outside, the flurries were changing over to steadier snow, and it was the smack of the door flapping against the wall as another gust came through that startled the smile off of Mr. Sinclair’s face.
“I’m so sorry.” He rushed to put his trunk down and spun around to shut the door.
“Hold on a second there, sweetheart.” Starla pushed away from the bar with a knowing, teas
ing grin for Miranda. “I was just about to leave.” Before she did, she leaned closer to Miranda and said, “Just you remember what I said about loosening up and letting miracles happen.”
“He’s a man, not a miracle,” Miranda whispered in return.
Starla laughed. “Honey, in my experience, every man is some kind of miracle.” She ended her statement with a saucy wink and sashayed toward the door.
Mr. Sinclair was still in the entryway, and as Starla reached him, taking a light grey, wool coat from the row of hooks by the door and shrugging into it, he held the door for her with a slightly baffled, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
Starla sent a glance in Miranda’s direction, chuckled, and patted Mr. Sinclair’s slightly shadowed cheek as she marched out into the snow.
Mr. Sinclair watched her go, shook his head and shrugged, then closed the door behind her. When that was done, he put his smile back on and strode a few steps deeper into the room. “Like I said,” he began again, “my name is Randall Sinclair, and I come to you today from the…”
His smile vanished once more. His hands dropped to his sides as he looked around the big, empty saloon.
“Oh. You’re closed, aren’t you?”
“In fact, we are.” A hot flush filled Miranda’s face. She tried to shake it away. Why did she feel guilty for stating the obvious to this man?
“My apologies.” Mr. Sinclair sidestepped to his trunk. “I should have known, what with the storm that looks like it’s blowing in. I won’t bother you.”
“It’s all right.” Miranda jumped out from around the bar, throwing down the rag she’d been clutching and wiping her hands on her skirt. “I was closing up early, but I don’t need to. Especially since you look like you could stand to sit down for a minute.” She blinked at the pun in her words, then giggled as her heart thumped hard against her ribs.
Mr. Sinclair looked confused for a moment, then laughed himself, cheeks a merry shade of red. “I get it. Stand to sit. You’re clever.”
A blossom of pleasure filled Miranda’s chest. Although she shouldn’t be so giddy about being called clever when Vicky was called beautiful every twelve minutes.
She shook that thought aside and moved a few steps closer to Mr. Sinclair, more like a hostess at a garden party than a saloonkeeper. “Why don’t you have a seat at one of these tables by the fire? I just added more wood not ten minutes ago, so it should warm you well.”
“That’s mighty generous of you, Miss…?”
“Clarke. Miranda Clarke. How do you do?” She crossed to meet him in the center of the saloon, hand outstretched.
Mr. Sinclair took her offered hand and not only shook it, he bowed over it. Miranda’s brow flew up. Obviously Mr. Sinclair was used to some degree of society. That wasn’t something she’d seen every day in the rugged little town of Mistletoe.
“Miss Clarke,” Mr. Sinclair said, letting her hand go. His smile grew, and a sort of manly mischief filled his eyes. “Say, with a name like Miranda, you don’t happen to have the nickname ‘Randi,’ do you?”
Miranda’s cheeks flushed hotter and her back went stiff. “Only at times when people wish to be nasty to me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Mr. Sinclair blushed harder, his mischief switching to embarrassment near panic. “It’s just that my closest friends call me Randy too, although with a “y” as opposed to an “i,” which I imagine is the female equivalent of the nickname. I thought it was quaint, is all. Randy and Randi.”
“Oh!” Miranda clapped a hand to her mouth. Not only did a burst of awkwardness threaten to knock her over, but she had suddenly never wanted to be called “Randi” so much in her life. She managed to swallow, pull herself together, and say, “That is an amusing coincidence, isn’t it?”
“It must be fate.” The smile came back to Mr. Sinclair’s eyes. “Of all the saloons in all the towns in Montana, I happened to step into yours for a bit of refreshment after a long, wearying day.”
Such a shame that he was having a bad day. Was she having a trying day too? Miranda couldn’t even remember. She could only stand where she was, studying Mr. Sinclair’s pleasing, personable face, and smile.
Until she realized she’d been standing and smiling in silence for far too long. She gasped and shook her head, pressing a hand to her chest. “Where are my manners? You need to sit and rest.” She moved to the table closest to the fire and pulled a chair out from the table. “Can I fetch you a drink?” she asked, less enthusiastic.
“Yes, please.” He blew out a relieved breath as he sank into the chair. “Oh!” He twisted to face Miranda as she started over to the bar. “Is there any way that I could have tea instead of whiskey or beer?”
Another, powerful blossom of happiness exploded in Miranda’s chest. A man coming into her saloon to ask for something other than liquor? There was a miracle right there.
“I was just about to make a pot for myself,” she replied with a smile, continuing on to the bar. “I’d be happy to share, if you don’t mind waiting for the water to heat and the tea to brew.”
“I won’t mind at all.”
Miranda smiled at him one last time before hurrying to prepare tea. It would have been easier to retire to the small apartment at the back of the saloon where she now lived to use the kitchen there, but she hated the thought of leaving Mr. Sinclair sitting by himself for so long. The counter behind the bar had everything she needed to make a quick, if not particularly pretty, pot of tea. She thanked her lucky stars for lighting the small stove behind the bar earlier, even if she wasn’t exactly grateful for the number of hot toddies she’d made on it in the last few weeks.
“Is it Mendel’s Marvelous Brushes that brings you to Mistletoe, Mr. Sinclair?” she asked as she worked.
Across the room, Mr. Sinclair was taking off his coat and hanging it over the back of the chair next to where he sat. He wore a fine, if well-worn, suit underneath. “It is.” He raised his voice enough to be heard across the distance but not enough to sound as though he was shouting. “Well, the brushes have been carrying me all over the West these past three months.”
“Three months?” Miranda filled a copper pot with water from a barrel she kept stocked from the pump out back and set it on the stove to heat. “That seems like a long time to be traveling.”
Mr. Sinclair let out a wry laugh. “It is indeed, but as long as I still have brushes to sell, I have to keep moving.”
“How very taxing.” She sent him a sympathetic look before turning and searching the shelves behind the bar for the tin coffee pot she would have to use for tea and the spare tin of tea she kept there. Now this was the kind of conversation and company she’d longed for since she set foot in Mistletoe.
“I’ve enjoyed seeing the sights,” Mr. Sinclair went on. “There’s quite a bit of beauty out here in the wilds of Montana.”
His comment tickled, and when she looked up, their eyes met. He smiled. Miranda’s cheeks burned bright pink, and she whipped away to continue with her work…and to grin. Heavens, what had come over her? He was just a man. A charming, handsome, well-mannered man.
“I would have liked to be home for Christmas,” Mr. Sinclair finished, “but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.”
Miranda turned back to him, schooling her expression to politeness. “Where is home, Mr. Sinclair?”
“You can call me Randall, Miss Clarke.” Her heart jiggled at the modest cheer of that invitation.
“Then we shouldn’t stand on ceremony. You should call me Miranda.”
“Not Randi?” he teased.
“Don’t you think that would get a little confusing?” she teased him in return. “Randi and Randy?”
Good heavens, was she flirting?
“Home is Chicago, Miranda,” he went on, stretching in the chair as though he was comfortable after a long time of discomfort. “And it doesn’t look like I’ll be there for Christmas this year.”
Miranda stepped away from the stove to lean against the
bar. “No luck with the brushes, then? I’m sure you could find customers here in Mistletoe.”
Randell shrugged. “I tried. I was turned away. Apparently there’s a measles epidemic in town and not too many people are in the mood to hear a sales pitch for brushes.”
Miranda sobered and stood straighter. “Yes, I’ve heard about the epidemic. It’s terrible, really.”
“Heard about it?” Randall’s expression twitched to confusion. “I would think the sick people would be your friends and neighbors.”
A wistful twist pulled at the corner of Miranda’s mouth. “I only just arrived in town on the first of the month,” she explained. “And shortly after that, I took possession of this place.” She raised her arms and rolled her eyes up to the rafters. “There hasn’t been much time for social calls, although some of the good people of this town have tried. But to be honest, I’ve been hesitant to show my face in good society.”
“Really?” He frowned, looking baffled. “Why?”
She studied him for a moment and sighed. She shouldn’t go telling all her problems to a total stranger. They were her burdens to bear. But something about Randall invited confidence. “I’m not certain a saloon owner would fit in polite society.”
Randall seemed to chew over that statement for a minute. A bubbling from behind Miranda told her the water was boiling. She turned to wrap a cloth around the handle of the copper pot, pouring the water over the tea leaves in the tin coffee pot. It certainly wasn’t how she ever would have envisioned herself entertaining polite company. For the thousandth time in the last few weeks, she tried not to feel bitter about the odd hand life—or rather her Uncle Buford—had dealt her. Instead she found a spare tray, put the coffee pot, two tin mugs, a small jar of sugar, and a pitcher of milk she hoped was still fresh onto it, then carried it over to the table.
Randall was still lost in thought, but his expression brightened as Miranda said, “All we have to do now is wait for the tea to brew.”
Wild Western Women Mistletoe, Montana: Sweet Western Historical Holiday Box Set Page 21
