Ten seconds of icy blast, and Miranda shivered down to her bones. At least, she thought that the shiver was because of the sudden—and slightly terrifying—blast of winter’s fury outside. It could have been the way that Randall met her eyes with a streak of seriousness that was new, and an invigorating contrast to his kindness and humor earlier.
“What do we do?” She hugged herself, rubbing her arms to chase away the chill and to still her racing heart.
Randall took a few seconds to answer, his breath coming in quick, deep pants. Once he recovered, he stood straighter and stepped away from the door. “It might not be as bad as it looked.” He rubbed his chin. “Maybe I can push my way through the gale to find the hotel.”
Bravely squaring his shoulders, he marched back to the door, took a deep breath, and pulled it open once more. And once again, a powerful blast of snow and wind pushed him back. A thick swirl of heavy snowflakes blew into the saloon.
Miranda hugged herself tighter, wincing. “Shut the door, shut the door!” she called out over the whining of the wind.
Randall did as she asked, putting his shoulder into his effort to battle against the wind. He exclaimed wordlessly as soon as the door was shut.
“You can’t go out there.” As much as Miranda wanted to remain calm and continue their cheerful banter from earlier, a deep sense of worry was seeping into her. She began to notice the howling of the wind against the corners of the building, the thump of loose branches from the bushes to the side of the saloon hitting against the wall. How had she not noticed those things before?
The answer to that question stood right in front of her. She’d been distracted.
“It looks like things really picked up out there while we were having tea,” Randall said, striding away from the door and coming to join her. Once he reached her, he turned to stare at the door. “It looks pretty bad.”
Miranda nodded, but anxiety closed up her throat. She stared at the door too. To outsiders, they must have looked silly. The saloon had been built without windows in the front so that passersby wouldn’t be offended by the sight of dancing girls, poker games, and drinking. There were windows in the back, though, where the living quarters and spare rooms were. She glanced over her shoulder at the opening to the hall that led to that part of the building.
“We can probably see how bad it is back there.” She picked up her skirts and hurried toward the hall.
Randall followed close behind her, and it wasn’t until she’d turned the corner into the narrow hall, a steep staircase at the end leading to the second floor, that she thought to feel self-conscious about what he might see. The backrooms of the saloon were small and narrow, with little more in them than a bed. But then, they hadn’t needed anything else for the use they’d performed. Miranda rushed past the three, curtained doorways on her right and on to the closed door just before the stairs.
“My Uncle Buford used to live in this apartment,” she explained, not quite finding the courage to look at Randall after passing the three back rooms. “It’s serviceable enough for my needs…for now.”
She pushed open the door, inviting Randall into her small apartment. It consisted of a modest-sized main room that held a table and two chairs, a pair of worn armchairs that stood on either side of a fireplace, and a bookshelf that she had yet to fill. A door on the far side led to her tiny bedroom—not much bigger than the veritable booths along the rest of the hall. The rest of that wall held a small cook-stove, a sink with a pump, and a cupboard where she stored both her food and the pots and utensils with which to cook it.
Randall paused just inside of the room to take it all in, but Miranda rushed straight for the small window that stood beside the bookshelf. She could feel the cold bleeding through the glass before she reached it. A low, round table with a wash basin and pitcher sat on the table—there wasn’t enough space in the bedroom for the wash set—and she had to bend around it to look fully out the window.
The sight made her catch her breath and press a hand to her chest. “Oh dear.”
“What?” Randall left off his assessment of the room and hurried to the other side of the wash table to peek out the window with her.
There wasn’t much to see. Night had fallen, and the world outside was dark. But there was just enough light from nearby houses and buildings to see just how thick and angry the snow was. It blew sideways, piling and sticking against the edges of the windowpane. Where usually Miranda could spot half a dozen other houses and more by their lights at night, at the moment the only one she could see was the house directly behind the saloon by twenty feet, and she could only barely see that.
“There was a blizzard a few weeks ago,” she began, trying and failing to keep the fear out of her voice, “but it wasn’t as bad as this.”
“This looks pretty bad,” Randall admitted. Where she had failed to sound anything but anxious, he sounded resigned, even confident.
Miranda pushed back from the window and faced him, drawing strength from his presence. “I think you’ll have to stay here, at least for the night. Probably until the storm passes.”
Randall stepped away from the window as well. “Looks like it.” His serious look melted into a smile. “I can think of worse things to do with my time.”
Miranda flushed, the chill of the storm not seeming quite so bad. She could do this. Randall was a kind man. He hadn’t tried anything untoward with her. In fact, she felt as though he was the kind of man she would befriend if they’d lived in the same place. It would be a simple matter to play hostess to him until the storm passed.
“The saloon has plenty of, uh, bedrooms,” she explained, trying to ignore what those rooms had been used for in the past. “You’re welcome to take any of them that you find suitable.”
“That’s awfully generous of you.”
They stood there, smiling and polite and silent, for several long moments. Miranda’s heart refused to slow down. Randall was just a guest, after all.
At last she forced herself to breathe deeply. “Well, if you’d like to fetch your trunk and choose a room to your liking, I can get supper started.”
“Supper.” Randall shook himself out of whatever thoughts had whisked him away. “Trunk. Right. Good ideas. I’ll be right back.” He jumped into motion, rushing past her and out through the doorway, into the hall.
Miranda let out a long breath once he was gone, pressing a hand to her stomach. “Don’t be such a ninny,” she scolded herself. “Treat him as you would any other guest on any other day.”
They were wise words, but as she moved to the cupboard and searched for anything she could make into an appropriate meal for a guest, they didn’t sink into her soul. She took out flour and lard, canned beans and corn, and filled a pot with water from the sink. The stove needed a bit more coal, so she added a shovel from the coal scuttle in the corner, then moved to add a few more logs to the waning fire in the room’s main fireplace. Finally, she made a quick trip out of her apartment to the root cellar under the stairs to fetch the chicken she’d roasted—over-roasted really, but it would do—the day before.
She was well on her way to warming up the chicken, boiling the vegetables, and preparing biscuits when she heard the distinctive slide and thump of Randall dragging his trunk into the closest of the disreputable bedrooms to her apartment. Another five minutes, and she had rough-looking biscuits in the stove as Randall strode back into the room.
“I took the liberty of banking the fire in the saloon proper,” he announced.
“Oh?” Miranda jumped and spun to face him.
He nodded. “I wasn’t sure if you planned to go back in there tonight. It’s already turning mighty chilly in that big room. It might be a challenge to keep this whole place warm if the blizzard continues.”
“It’s a challenge to keep it warm already,” she said with a wary sigh.
“Is it?”
Miranda shrugged. “It’s always hard to keep a large room warm in the winter. At least the saloon has
that big fireplace, and not having windows helps retain the heat. And, though I’m loathe to say it, there have been times since I took over where there were enough men playing cards and visiting to keep things warm enough.” There had been women too, in spite of her entreaties that they find other places to ply their wares, but she wasn’t about to tell Randall that.
“Hmm.” Randall stepped closer to the stove, looking over her shoulder at her supper preparations. “It must get hot in the summer, then, without windows.”
Miranda’s shoulders sagged. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She hadn’t considered that she might be even more miserable running a saloon in the summer than she was in the winter.
“Do you need me to help?” Randall asked.
Miranda stirred the beans and corn in the pot and sent him a resigned look. She needed all sorts of help.
Supper was…well, it wasn’t quite what Randall was used to. Miranda had boiled the poor beans and corn within an inch of their lives, overcooked the chicken, and taken the biscuits out before they were completely done. But he’d been raised to be a gentleman and a polite guest, so he said nothing, loaded his plate, and made it his life’s goal to eat everything she put in front of him.
“How is your supply of wood and coal?” he asked to keep his mind off of what was going in his mouth.
Miranda picked at her food with her fork, probably not tasting a morsel as she ate—lucky her. “There’s plenty of wood in the storage room, and more on the porch. Although if this snow continues and forms drifts along the front of the building, we might not be able to reach it.” She glanced up at him suddenly, worry painting her face. “Do you think we could be trapped inside the saloon?”
Her concern poked at something tender in his heart. He sighed, putting on a look of mock resignation. “We’ll have to hold out until the spring thaw.” He shrugged and sawed through his dry chicken, popping a bite in his mouth. “Better eat this slowly. It’ll have to last for months.”
Miranda relaxed into a guilty laugh. “I suppose we’ll be fine eventually. I’ve never been on my own in dire circumstances like this.” Her lips pinched. She raised a fork full of soggy vegetables to her lips, but put it down without eating.
Randall’s first instinct was to reassure her, to tell her she wasn’t alone, that he was there with her. He even opened his mouth to say as much, but a flash of inspiration stopped him. “It reminds me of the time the merchant vessel I was working on traveled to the Kingdom of Hawaii and I was left behind in a rowboat after a fishing trip.”
Miranda fumbled her fork, her eyes going wide. “You’ve been to the Kingdom of Hawaii?”
Randall’s lips twitched into a smile. “Yes, and I can assure you, it was warmer than this.”
She blinked, then laughed, then pressed a hand to her mouth. A moment later, she pulled her hand away and frowned. “You were stranded in a boat?”
“Not exactly.” Randall shrugged and went back to eating his meal. It grew less palatable as it cooled off. “I was stranded on a small island. There are scads of them out there, you know. For a few hours, I was certain I was going to end up like Robinson Crusoe—only without Friday—doomed to live out the rest of my wretched days alone on an island.”
Miranda arched an eyebrow, spearing a piece of chicken with her fork, decidedly more relaxed than she’d been minutes before. “Are you saying that I’m Friday.”
Randall laughed. “It’s far more likely that I’m Friday, at the rate we’re going.”
“Yes, well, I did cook.” She put on a superior look, one that made Randall’s heart thunder against his ribs. Once she’d chewed and swallowed, she went on. “How long were you stranded?”
“Only a few hours. Fortunately, one of my fellow crew members noticed I was missing, saw that the boat was gone too, and put two and two together. The captain knew my father, so he wasn’t about to leave me there to make friends with the parrots.”
“What a relief.” Miranda took a bite of her biscuit, made a face, and put it down again. “Where else have your adventures taken you?”
“I’ve been to Mexico,” he answered. And because it was a topic close to the top of his thoughts, he said, “The food there is spicy and delicious.”
“Really? I’ve never had food from Mexico.”
Randall grinned at his memories, willing the doughy biscuit to taste like an empanada. “The señoritas who cooked for us could do things with avocados that would bless your dreams for years to come.”
Miranda shrugged and shook her head. “What’s an avocado?”
It was Randall’s turn to stare at her with wide eyes. “You’ve never had an avocado?”
“Is it a kind of sweet?”
He made a mental note that her mind would go straight to sweets at the mention of something delicious, but shook his head and scooted closer to the table on his seat. “It’s a sort of vegetable.” He paused. “Well, technically, I think it’s a fruit. But it’s savory, with soft flesh that transforms any dish into pure heaven.”
Miranda smiled, hopefully no longer hearing the whistle of the gale that blew against the corner of the saloon or the tinkling of snow and ice hitting the window. “The only exotic thing I’ve ever eaten was a fruit called a mango.”
“Mangos are delicious,” Randall agreed. “In India, they puree them and blend them with milk and spices to make a drink called lassi.”
Miranda’s smile widened, then faltered. “It seems as though you’ve had a great many more exciting experiences than I’ve had.”
Randall shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never inherited a saloon.”
She’d lowered her head with her previous statement and raised it just enough now to send him a coy look through her lashes. “I don’t know if I’d consider that exciting.”
“I would.” He stabbed the last, tough piece of chicken on his plate, pleased that he’d made it through the entire meal in one piece. “And hey, we’re both getting to experience the excitement of being snowed in for the night.”
“About that.” Miranda took a deep breath, setting her fork down as if she’d given up. “I assume you’ve found a room to your liking?”
Randall’s thoughts flew to the narrow closet with a rough bed that she referred to as a room. He suspected that those rooms had been designed for one use…one that didn’t translate to long stays. Anything over twenty minutes would have been more than most ranchers and cowpokes could have afforded.
“It’ll do.” He worked not to chuckle. “I took the one closest to your apartment here because, well, there are no fireplaces in those rooms and it seemed a bit warmer.”
“Oh. I hadn’t even thought of that.” She pressed a hand to one bright cheek. “I think there are extra blankets in the storage rooms upstairs, or in the attic.”
“There’s an attic?” His brow went up. What kind of treasure existed in a saloon’s attic?
“Yes. Feel free to bring down as many blankets as you feel you’ll need to stay warm.” She stood, taking her plate and reaching for his. “I can clean up from supper.”
Randall stood as well. “I can help with that too.” He picked up both of their water glasses and followed her to the sink. “I could cook breakfast tomorrow, if you’d like.”
“Oh no,” she rushed to say. “I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that. You’ve been inconvenienced enough already. I’m the hostess. Consider myself your guest.”
Inwardly, Randall cringed and said a quick prayer for gastric fortitude. “Whatever you say, ma’am.” He set the glasses on the counter beside the sink as Miranda set to work cleaning up. “I’ll just check the fires one last time before I turn in as well.”
“Thank you.” She turned briefly to him with a smile, then continued to scrub plates. “I’m sure this storm can’t last more than one night.”
“Probably not,” he agreed.
But a part of him hoped it might last much, much longer.
Chapter 4
Miranda woke the next morni
ng before dawn to a slight thump coming from the main room of her apartment. Her eyes snapped open with a start before she remembered Randall was there. Instantly, her muscles relaxed and her breathing grew easy.
At least until she heard the sharp whistle of the wind against the side of the building and felt the bitter snap in the air. She was cold. Very cold. In the night, she’d curled into a ball on her side to conserve warmth, but that wasn’t doing much now. Not even the three blankets piled on top of her could hold back the chill.
There was nothing for it but to scramble out of bed and into clean, warm clothes, though the process of getting dressed left her even colder for a moment. Her fingers were too stiff to bother braiding or tying back her hair—almost too stiff to light the lamp on her bedside table—so she left her hair down, wrapped one of the blankets around her, and shivered her way into the apartment’s main room, lamp in hand.
Randall crouched by the fireplace, striking matches and setting them to a large pile of fresh wood and kindling. He twisted to greet her with a smile as she approached.
“Good morning, Randi.” He teased her with a wink.
The fire was out, but Miranda warmed all the same. “Good morning to you, Randy,” she replied.
They shared a nervous giggle, then Randall nodded to the fireplace. “The fire went out sometime in the night. I was so cold I couldn’t sleep anyhow, so I got up to investigate, and look.”
He pointed to the hearth all around the wood and kindling. Miranda gasped. A fine layer of snow had covered everything. She’d hardly ever heard of snow blowing down a chimney. Although honestly, there hadn’t been much snow at all in the part of California where she’d grown up.
“The storm must be bad,” she spoke her thoughts aloud.
Randall returned to his work as he said, “I think so. I couldn’t see much out the window when I checked a few minutes ago, but that might just be because it’s still dark.”
Miranda pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders and crossed the room to the window above her washstand. The water she’d left in the bowl the night before had a thin layer of ice on top. She shivered, half from cold, half from the ominous feeling the ice gave her. She pulled back the curtain only to feel a deeper blast of cold. Instinct told her the windowpane was too cold to touch. What was even more worrying was that most of the rectangles of glass were completely covered in snow.
Wild Western Women Mistletoe, Montana: Sweet Western Historical Holiday Box Set Page 23
