Lasso the Moon: Book One in the Wild West Romance Series

by Beth Ciotta

  Oscar hurriedly complied.

  A hush fell over the room as she circled the table like a hawk surveying her prey. She looked Big Amos up and down, side to side. He did the same to her though his eyes had far less distance to travel.

  She smiled at him.

  He smiled back … sort of.

  She whispered into his ear.

  He whispered something back.

  The crowd stirred, banging fists to table, chanting, “Di-tty! Di-tty!”

  Paris raised her hand, signaling for quiet as she took a seat at the piano. She smoothed her skirts, cleared her throat, and flashed Josh a “forgive me” smile that he didn’t quite understand. Her fingers danced over the keys, she opened her mouth and sang, and damnation, he got the point.

  “Never, oh, never if even I could. Never I would. Never I would. Poke fun at someone so misunderstood. Never I would. Never I would.

  “Look past the girth. Look deep inside. His heart is as big as his stomach is wide. Never, oh, ever, will you ever find … a truer companion than Big Amos Rind.”

  She sang. In his opera house. Against his wishes. She sang.

  Blatant defiance. Why wasn’t he surprised?

  “Gotta admit, she’s got one helluva voice,” Seth said, amusement lacing his tone.

  If the crowd felt the same, they didn’t show it. They simply stared at Big Amos Rind, waiting for his reaction. Apparently, the man’s sense of humor was in question. But then he clapped and guffawed and the patrons erupted into boisterous applause.

  Paris stood, curtsied, and then wove through the crowded tables toward Josh.

  She looked so damned fetching in that gown, so feminine and petite, he fully expected one of the men to reach out and yank her down onto his lap—in which case he’d have to pound the daylights out of the bastard. But they merely stared up at her in reverent awe.

  Seth laughed under his breath. “You’ve got it bad, my friend.”

  As much as he wanted to argue the observation, he couldn’t. Annoyed, he shifted his stance and tempered his expression, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Paris. His wife, the someday mother of his children, had just charmed a roomful of hellraisers. His heart hammered against his ribs when she threw herself into his arms.

  “I know,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “They’re not the compositions I pour my heart and sweat into, but they come so easily. And here, at least, they seem to bring joy.”

  His anger evaporated as she melted against him, her heart on her sleeve. The ditties that had condemned her as a musical freak in her hometown pegged her as a special talent in Chance. What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

  “If only Papa and Mason were here to see this,” she whispered into his ear. Before he could rope a thought, she was out of his arms and on her way back to the kitchen. “You’re just in time,” she called over her shoulder. “Dinner’s ready.”

  “Yippee,” Seth grumbled.

  Oscar leaned over the bar, whispering, “Don’t worry. I set us aside something for later.”

  His mind jumping tracks, Josh eyed Niles, hoping for Mason’s sake that his suspicions proved wrong. “Maybe it won’t be that bad.”

  Seth snorted. “Famous last words.”

  The next half an hour crawled by slower than a snail on crutches. Paris served what she pronounced as her “special stew”. It was special all right. Especially bad.

  Josh had watched in stunned wonder as the men audibly gulped their first forkful. Barky Bob spit a potato clean over Tom’s shoulder then lunged for his beer. He downed the brew lickety-split. In kind, all of the men drained their glasses dust dry. And like Josh, they were sweating profusely. His wife had gone a tad overboard on the spices.

  Niles slipped out after his first nibble. If it hadn’t have been for Big Amos Rind’s intervention, the whole boodle would’ve run hacking from the opera house. “Ain’t never tasted nothin’ like it, Mrs. Grant,” he’d barked out between coughs. “Surely do appreciate your efforts.” Then he’d forked in another mouthful, daring the rest of patrons to follow suit. Forcing meek smiles, they complied. They also consumed a lot of liquor.

  “Even if they don’t set a foot back in this place,” Seth said in a scratchy voice, “I think you sold enough booze to hold you over until you hire a new cook.” He dabbed a folded bandana to his brow. “Please tell me you’re going to hire another cook.”

  “I can’t fire my own wife.”

  “She doesn’t even know she’s your wife.”

  Oh, yeah. That discussion loomed over his head like an ax. Between his troubles with Burgess and Niles he’d almost forgotten. He gulped down a glass of beer in one long swallow then sleeved sweat from his creased brow. “Maybe if I give her a few cooking lessons.”

  Seth rolled watery eyes. “There aren’t enough lessons in the world.”

  Paris approached at that precise moment, looking wrung out and somewhat harried. “Excuse me, Josh, but I’m wondering if you could set these men straight.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  She batted wayward strands out of her flushed face then perched her fists on her hips.

  He tried to focus on her concerns rather than the fact that she was so blasted pretty.

  “They’re under the misconception that we’re married. I have tried to tell them differently, but one says he heard it from the other who heard it from someone who should know.” Her voice strained louder and the room grew quiet, all eyes turning her way. “I just … I don’t know where they got this ridiculous notion, and it’s really most wearing to argue.” She clasped her hand over her throat. “Between trying to set them straight and singing all those ditties, I think I strained something. My throat’s on fire.”

  “Maybe it’s the spices,” Seth drawled.

  Josh kicked him. He didn’t need any help making a bad situation worse.

  She flung her arms wide, her voice a strangled plea. “Please, tell these men that we are not married.”

  Thirty-some pairs of eyes shifted to him. Thirty-some I’m-desperate-for-a-pretty-woman eyes. He faced her full on, braced himself for a slap, a punch, hell, maybe even a knee. “Can’t do that, honey.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d be lying.”

  She absorbed his words and staggered back a step, shaking her head, no, as if that would negate the realization.

  Seth hefted a shotgun from over the bar, letting it swing at his side. “Do you really hear angels sing when Josh kisses you?”

  She closed her eyes, groaned. “I do.” After a moment, she fixed her sights on him and he knew, from expression alone, she’d remembered a good portion of the night. At least the shotgun wedding part. Without a word she turned on her heel and disappeared out the back door.

  Seth tossed the shotgun to Oscar, elbowed Josh. “That wasn’t so bad.”

  Josh dragged his hand through his hair. “I’m not so sure.”

  Just then two painted cats sashayed through the front door. “Lucky Lady’s offering three shots of our best whiskey for the price of one, thirty minute’s prior to Red’s first show.” They wiggled their fannies and winked. “That’s just about now!”

  The room emptied in a heartbeat.

  Oscar sighed. “Glad Miss Paris wasn’t here to see that.”

  Seth eyed Josh, then pushed aside his plate and motioned to the barkeep. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

  Josh took a deep breath and headed for the log house.

  SPLAT!

  She nailed him with an egg, smack in the forehead, the moment he crossed the threshold of the log house’s kitchen.

  He stumbled back from the shock, swiped away the goo before it trickled in his eyes. “I know you’re upset … ”

  SPLAT!

  A second egg, square in his chest. She was more than upset. She was furious. She tried to curse him to the devil, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Pinning her with a look that he probably used when dealing with delusional bandits, he sw
iped away yolk and broken shells. “Let’s talk about this like two rational—”

  She heaved another egg.

  He ducked.

  SPLAT!

  He eyed the assaulted wall. Eyed her. “—adults.” Clenching his jaw, he rushed forward, just as she grabbed two more eggs. His momentum sent them crashing against the back door, crushing the eggs between their bodies.

  She shoved him back, gawked at the yolk staining her bodice. Her eyes burned with tears. “You ruined everything!” she shouted, wiping her hands on her skirts.

  “Oh, for the love of … ” he shoved his hand through his hair, slicking it back with sticky egg white. “Don’t cry, honey. I’m sure your gown isn’t ruined.”

  “I’m not talking about my gown! I’m talking about us!” She stood frozen, stunned. She’d had it all planned. She couldn’t have asked for a better turn out for dinner, or a better reception to her ditties. Later tonight, she’d intended to discuss their unconventional relationship. “Everything was perfect!”

  He moved forward, took her into his arms. “It’s still perfect.”

  “How can you say that?” She struggled, punched him in the shoulder. “We’re married. We’re stuck together.” She hit him again. “Forever.”

  He tightened his hold. “Is that so bad?”

  She held herself rigid. “You knew how I felt about marriage, and even so you tricked me.” She’d choke before confessing that she actually looked forward to sleeping in his arms every night for the rest of her life.

  He rested his chin on her head, stroked his palm up and down her back. “I admit, I took advantage. But sweetheart, your reputation was compromised.”

  “How am I going to break this to my brothers?”

  “Trust me, they’ll approve.”

  Envisioning Green Eyes and his shotgun, she pushed back and glared. “I hope you don’t expect me to believe Seth forced you to wed, not after you practically ordered me to marry you.”

  He smiled down at her, and darn it all, her heart skipped. “No, but he thinks he forced the issue. He’s big on doing the right thing.”

  “But it’s not the right thing. Marriage equals—”

  “—two people trying their best to make each other happy.” He sobered, his tone brimming with earnest conviction. “I can make you happy, Paris.”

  She wanted to believe that. But … “What about my dream?”

  “You mean your pa’s dream.”

  “And your dream?”

  “You mean Mason’s dream.”

  Her head spun. “I can’t argue just now. I can’t think.”

  “You don’t have to think.” He placed his palm over her heart. “Feel.”

  Her heart pounded beneath his touch, her knees weakened, and she swore the earth shifted slightly under her feet. New ground, she thought, hearing the sound of a distant harp. Higher ground.

  He framed her face with his strong hands and brushed his lips across her mouth. “Do you really hear angels sing when I kiss you?”

  “You know I do,” she grumbled, refusing to be seduced.

  He kissed her again, longer, deeper. “Do you love me?”

  She melted against him, cursing her traitorous body. Maybe she couldn’t control her physical response to him, but she could sure as heck mind her words. “As if I could love a double-crossing, arrogant, dip-doodled mule.”

  He laughed softly, clasped her hand and squeezed. “Hitch your star to the Desert Moon. Destiny. Fate. Call it what you will. We were meant to be, Paris.”

  She studied their entwined fingers, overwhelmed by the affection in his possessive grasp. The wealth of sincerity glittering in his warm brown eyes tempered the last of her anger. “I think so too.” Though something didn’t feel quite right. Maybe it was because she’d been out of her mind with fever and drink and tricked to wed at gunpoint. Or maybe it was because he hadn’t said anything about loving her back. She knew without a doubt that he cared about her, worried about her. Desire definitely figured in. But what about love?

  She was afraid to ask.

  “What were you doing, anyway?” he asked, gesturing to the mess she’d made on the table.

  “Baking a cake.” It was either that or break every piece of china in the cupboard. She’d had to do something with her pent-up rage. “Tomorrow’s Barky Bob’s birthday, and since he doesn’t have any family here … ” She shrugged.

  “It was a nice thought.”

  “But?”

  He scratched his forehead, rubbed the back of his neck.

  She crossed her arms over her middle. “What?”

  “Your cooking leaves a little to be desired, darlin’.”

  “A little?”

  “A lot.”

  “I don’t understand. Everyone seemed to like my stew.”

  “They were being polite. Your ditties, however, they loved.”

  It pleased her that he’d noticed. “You’re not mad at me for singing, are you? I wasn’t really performing. I wasn’t on stage. I certainly didn’t prance.”

  He laughed. “No, but you flitted.”

  She scrunched her brow. “I never flit.”

  “It was damned cute. You’re cute.” He smoothed her hair out of her face, his gaze softening. “I take that back. You’re beautiful.”

  She flushed. No man had ever called her beautiful, and even if one had, she couldn’t imagine the compliment sounding so sincere. Maybe he was right. Maybe marriage didn’t have to equal broken hearts and dreams. How could something that felt so right, be wrong?

  Rattled by his intense gaze, she noted the absurd. “You have egg in your hair.”

  He grinned. “You have flour on your cheeks.”

  She didn’t doubt it. She’d mixed the ingredients in a fit of anger. A liberal amount of flour and baking powder had ended up on her skirt.

  “And sugar lips.”

  “I don’t—”

  He leaned in, nipped her bottom lip and suckled. “Never tasted anything sweeter,” he said, lifting her into his arms.

  She sagged against him, distracted by an unexpected bridge to her love song.

  Lose your heart, you may risk your dream. But are dreams really what they seem?

  She’d have to give those cryptic lyrics due thought. That’s if she ever regained her senses.

  “You know,” he said, as he carried her into the bedroom. “There are benefits to being hitched. Amazing benefits.”

  Her body tingled in anticipation. “You’re just trying to make up for the fact that you took advantage of a feverish woman.”

  He laid her on the bed, tugged off her shoes. “Is it working?”

  “I’ll let you know.” She sighed when his fingers made quick work of her buttons. “Seems you’re always undressing me.”

  He parted her bodice, smiled. “Can’t blame a man for wanting a glimpse of heaven.” He lowered his head, skimmed his lips down her neck, over the soft hollow of her throat, and lavished attention on both breasts.

  She moaned as a blissful heat spread throughout her limbs and time blurred.

  Before she knew it he’d stripped her bare. Moonlight blazed through the open window, flooding the room in ethereal light, leaving nothing to the imagination. “Maybe I’m unconventional after all,” she murmured, dazed by his passionate kisses.

  He smiled, smoothing his palm over her flat belly. “What do you mean?”

  Her skin prickled as his hand skated lower. “I’m naked.”

  “Gloriously naked.”

  “And I’m not embarrassed.”

  Her blunt admission caused his eyes to spark with unabashed passion. She reveled in the knowledge that she could arouse him with mere words. “You’ve got no call,” he said. “Everything’s proper between man and wife.”

  She squirmed as he teased her slick folds, stroked her sensitive nub. His touch was sensual, magical. “Everything?” she whispered, catching a glimpse of the stars.

  “And anything.” He took her higher … higher �
��

  He suckled her earlobe, breached her channel with his finger … and the heavens exploded.

  “Beautiful,” Josh said.

  Body tingling, she lazed open her eyes. Why was he looking at her with such wonder? He was the one who took her to new and exciting places. Inspired to reciprocate, she tugged at his shirt. “Take off your clothes.” She wanted to see him, feel him. She wanted to show him the stars.

  “Music to my ears,” he said with a smile in his voice. He pushed off of the bed, shucked his boots and shirt, and reached for the buttons on his jeans.

  She scrambled to her knees. “Wait. Let me.” With trembling hands, she slowly slid his jeans down over his hips. His John Thomas sprang free and she openly stared. Intrigued, she wrapped her fingers around his shaft, wondering how something could feel so soft and yet so hard? She moved her hand back and forth, exploring the texture, stopping only when he closed his hand over hers and groaned. Glancing up, she marveled at his intense expression, his jaw clenched tight as though he were in pain. She knew all about exquisite aches. She thought about the way he’d pleasured her with his mouth. “Anything’s proper?”

  He managed a slow nod.

  Curious, she leaned forward, brushed her lips over the tip—so soft—flicked her tongue over the ridge.

  He sucked in a harsh breath. “You’re killing me.” In one fluid movement, he eased away, kicked off his jeans, and gently pushed her back on the bed.

  “You didn’t like it?”

  He laughed, a husky, ornery sound that melted her bones. “Oh, I liked it, honey. But just now, my mind’s on a different kind of pleasure.” He wedged his knee between hers, urged her to spread her legs.

  Although she welcomed the weight of him—all those breathtaking muscles flush against her soft skin—she stiffened when the tip of his shaft grazed her folds. Curiosity gave way to anxiety. “I know the way of things,” she croaked, splaying her palms against his chest. “This isn’t going to work.”

  Bracing his weight on his forearms, he smiled down at her, his gaze tender. “Why not?”

  “You’re too big,” she said bluntly. She’d seen him, touched him. She couldn’t imagine how in the world it would fit. The very idea made her light-headed.