Bride Gone Bad

by Sabine Starr

“I didn’t want to rush you.”

  “I don’t know what’s real around you.”

  “Everything we feel is real.” He held out his hand, palm up in supplication. “I want you.”

  “Am I being manipulated?” She rubbed the place over her heart again. Hotter now. She felt as if she was being irrevocably drawn to Lucky. But she no longer trusted her feelings.

  “We are what we are. Rattlers. Do you want to deny it?”

  She spun away from him, but turned back. “I want us to be normal. That’s all.”

  “For us, this is normal.” He took a step toward her. “Tempest, give us a chance.”

  “Is this place on me like yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I didn’t want to lose you.”

  “I feel branded.”

  “You’re protected.” He put his hands on her shoulders, squeezed, and drew her against his chest. “Let me protect you.”

  She rubbed her face against his shirt, feeling the heat in her intensify at the touch of him. She burned for him, wanting him buried deep inside her as if they could never be parted again. She felt him move his chest until his solar wheel was opposite hers. And she felt her world whirl, as if their Soleil Wheels were moving together, turning faster and faster, creating more and more heat between them, more and more need to be joined together. She groaned, pressing closer, feeling his shaft hard against her stomach. She realized that he needed her as much as she needed him. Were they now incomplete without each other?

  She raised her face to ask him to explain, although her body didn’t care. All she really wanted to do was ride him till sunrise. But she heard twigs crack nearby, as if someone walked on them.

  “Put your hands in the air,” a gravelly voice commanded.

  She felt Lucky freeze and tense against her.

  “Do as the man says.” Lucky stepped away from her and slowly raised his hands.

  She looked beyond him and could hardly believe her eyes. An outlaw, surely. He was a rough-looking man wearing a grimy shirt, blue jeans, vest, and cowboy boots. He stood with legs spread and Colt drawn.

  “You better hope to hell you ain’t a Deputy U.S. Marshal. You’re in Burnt Boggy country and that ain’t a healthy place for the law.”

  Tempest slowly raised her hands, realizing that her .32 was no use whatsoever.

  Chapter 27

  As night fell, Lucky walked down a trail with Tempest by his side, disarmed and outgunned. Behind them, the outlaw led their horses and kept his six-shooter trained on their backs.

  Lucky felt like every kind of fool. He’d promised to keep Tempest safe, but he’d let a man get the drop on them. He could blame being distracted by her and that was the truth, but it was no excuse.

  When Tempest clasped his hand, he squeezed in encouragement. They’d get out of this mess, even if the outlaw did have their guns tucked in his belt. At least they were being taken where they wanted to go. As far as he knew, the only people Burnt Boggy didn’t welcome were lawmen.

  The outlaw directed them down several twists and turns that skirted along the swift-running Boggy River. Finally, they turned away from the water, walked down several smaller trails, and stepped into a clearing that was camouflaged by thick undergrowth. In the center stood a big, white tent with the four corners tied down with ropes to ground posts. Inside, yellow lantern light illuminated dark male silhouettes. The chatter of rough voices, the clink of glasses, and the shuffle of cards filled the area.

  “What the hell is that?” Lucky gazed dumbstruck at the tent and the rough-hewn hitching posts where an assortment of fine horseflesh stomped hooves and swished tails. He turned to watch the outlaw loop the reins of their horses over a post.

  “Burnt Boggy Saloon. What else?”

  “It’s a nice tent,” Tempest said.

  “Nice!” The outlaw hawked and spit to the side.

  “Last time I was here, New Boggy Saloon had two rooms with a dogtrot.” Lucky shook his head in disappointment.

  “And afore it, Boggy Saloon was full chisel, too. We about broke our backs puttin’ in a fancy rock fireplace.” The outlaw looked at Tempest and scowled. “G’hals! Don’t get no notion ’bout burnin’ down the tent.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Lady Gone Bad started a brawl that burned down Boggy. We rebuilt the place. I’ll be hornswoggled if the Black Widow didn’t come along and start a brawl that burned down New Boggy.”

  “You got to admit Lady made the Boggy Saloon famous in her ballad about the fight and fire.”

  “Balderdash! That ballad’s nothin’ but trouble. We got reporters and tenderfoots out here tryin’ to find the saloon. We got to keep runnin’ ’em off and pullin’ up stakes. Bad for trade.”

  “I can see how it would be,” Lucky agreed.

  “Now you sidewinders show up.” The outlaw hawked and spit again. “Fort Smith Gazette? Dallas Chronicle? We got nothin’ to say and you got nothin’ to write.”

  “We’re not reporters,” Lucky said. “We’re here to see the artist.”

  “Mercy?” The outlaw raised his eyebrows as he looked from one to the other as if they were out of their minds.

  “His name is Mercy?” Tempest asked.

  “Yep. Got that moniker ’cause it’s a mercy that tenderfoot is still alive.”

  “Is there a problem with him?” Lucky asked. “We saw the bar he carved in the Red River Saloon in the Bend. Fine work.”

  “We saw it, too. That’s why he’s carvin’ us a bar. But he won’t take no direction. Says it’s his vision, whatever in tarnation that means. That, and he’s drinkin’ us out of house and home.”

  Lucky glanced at Tempest. She raised a shoulder in a shrug. If they couldn’t get the artist to do what they wanted for the Bend, it’d be a big problem. But he’d wait till he met the artist to form an opinion about him.

  A man with a bushy black beard and red suspenders stuck his head out between the tent’s flaps. “Slim, what are you jawin’ about out here?”

  “Thought I’d caught me a couple of reporters.”

  “Red Dog,” Lucky called, recognizing the bartender. “I’m not real pleased to be disarmed.”

  The man stepped outside, a big grin splitting his face. “Lucky, you ornery cuss. Where’ve you been hiding out?” He lumbered over and clasped Lucky on the shoulder. “And who’s the lovely lady?”

  “She’s trouble,” Slim said. “I had to disarm her, too.”

  “Give them back their guns.” Red Dog shook his head. “Come on inside.”

  “They’re here for our artist,” Slim said.

  “You want Mercy? I’m about ready to give him away.”

  “We’d like to talk with him,” Lucky said.

  Slim grumbled as he handed over the guns.

  Lucky was glad to slip his S&W back in its holster. He’d felt naked without it, particularly around a bunch of outlaws with a mind to brawl, women or no women.

  When they reached the tent flap, the men stepped back to allow Tempest to enter first. She hesitated, walked inside, and stopped. Lucky eased her to one side so the other men could get in the saloon.

  He put an arm around her waist for reassurance because most likely she was uncomfortable at the sight of so many tough men. The place was doing a brisk trade. A long slab of wood balanced on sawhorses took up one side of the tent. Tree trunks for stools were in front of the bar. Outlaws in hats, boots, and guns sat on benches around rough-hewn tables. They had cards, drinks, and cigarettes in their hands. Smoke clouded the air in a white haze.

  One by one, the outlaws noticed the presence of a lady. They stopped, stared, and gradually grew quiet until all was silent and still in the saloon.

  “Is that—” an outlaw started to say, squinting to get a better look.

  “I’m not sure,” another interrupted him.

  “Yes it is!” an outlaw called out, standing up and pointing. “She’s got v
iolet eyes!”

  Red Dog leaned down, peering at Tempest’s eyes. “Are you Temperance Tempest?”

  She nodded, sighing.

  “Hornswoggle!” Slim said. “We got us another big bug. That means big trouble.”

  “Little lady, you’re mighty welcome at Burnt Boggy.” Red Dog stepped toward the tables, and then gestured at Tempest. “B’hoys, look lively. The famous Temperance Tempest is with us tonight!”

  The outlaws swept off their hats, stomped their boots, and gave appreciate whistles.

  “Did you chop Lulu in half?” an outlaw called out.

  “I’m afraid it’s true. I sort of, without realizing what I was really doing, chopped Lulu right across her belly button.” Tempest lifted her hands as if in supplication. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Savagerous!” an outlaw called out.

  “Temperance Tempest is a huckleberry above a persimmon, ain’t she?”

  “Toughest female west of the Mississippi.”

  “Exceptin’ Lady Gone Bad.”

  “And the Black Widow.”

  “Where’s your hatchet?” another outlaw called to her. “You gonna chop our bar, too?”

  “She certainly is not!” A slurred voice came from behind the bar as a tall, slim man stood up, a little unsteady on his feet. “I’m guarding my work with my life from the likes of an art-killer like her.” He brandished a paring knife in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

  Lucky groaned. All thoughts of drawings or paintings flew right out the window. As if things weren’t bad enough, the artist looked like he’d be challenged to sit a horse all the way back to the Bend, much less create a masterpiece.

  He glanced at Tempest. She appeared surprised, but then she got a determined look in her eyes and straightened her back. Her reaction was more worrisome than the drunken artist. For some reason, she seemed to come alive in a saloon. It was a scary thought.

  “I gave up my hatchet to the TSPT,” Tempest announced. “I’m here on a mission to right my wrong to the Red River Saloon.”

  Murmurs filled the saloon as if the outlaws were trying to figure out what she was talking about.

  “Delaware Bend sent me here to obtain the services of Mercy to repair their famous bar.” Tempest turned toward the artist. “Sir, please get ready to ride back to the Bend tonight. Lulu needs you. And there’s a gold eagle in it for you, too.”

  “No!” an outlaw called out, jumping to his feet. “Mercy’s here to cut us a bar that’ll outshine the one in the Red River.”

  “Sin to Crockett, our bar comes first!”

  “Red River gets him not one minute afore Boggy’s done with him.”

  Another outlaw slapped leather. “Acknowledge the corn. He’s our artist till we say he ain’t.”

  Tempest turned toward the outlaws and put her hand on the ivory grip of her .32. “Gentlemen, I’m taking this artist and not one of you is going to stop me.”

  Lucky groaned and dropped his hand to his S&W. How the hell he was going to get Tempest out of Burnt Boggy in one piece?

  Chapter 28

  Tempest kept surprising herself. She’d never been so aggressive in her life. She’d always been concerned about other people’s opinion. Now she felt free in a way that she hadn’t dreamed existed, especially for a lady. She didn’t know how she’d reached this point. Had she been inspired by the independent women of Delaware Bend? Had Lucky released her from her inhibitions? Or had the wildness of Indian Territory taken her?

  What she did know was that she was about to draw a .32 against a room full of .45s. And she couldn’t even shoot straight. Smart or dumb, she was determined to get Mercy back to Delaware Bend. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure he could sit a horse or even how long he’d stay alive.

  He didn’t look good in the light of the two lanterns sitting on top of the bar. Not that he wasn’t handsome. He had the strong, muscular shoulders and arms of a sculptor, and the hands of an artist who depended on touch for his craft. Long, wavy auburn hair fell past the collar of his white shirt and framed a strong face that was too pale for good health. He couldn’t have been past thirty, but his gray eyes spoke of old wisdom.

  Yet all of that paled in comparison to her main concern. A ghostly shadow hung over him as if he had already taken one step into the grave. She had little doubt that if he kept on his current path, he would slowly turn into a shade. She couldn’t imagine what had happened to him that had set him on this path. At least he cared about his art. It might be the only thing that was keeping him tethered to this world.

  She felt a great sense of relief when Lucky stepped up beside her, backing her play. With him watching the outlaws, she focused on Mercy. The artist poured a drink as he regarded the scene with detachment. How did she reach a man who cared so little for life? She needed something he wanted and that might be nothing, or she needed to share something powerful with him.

  After she tossed Lucky a quick nod, she walked over to Mercy. “If you go on the way you are, you’ll die.”

  “I know.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t concern him. “Everybody tries to get me to stop the flow of whiskey down my gullet.”

  “That’s not what’s killing you.”

  He raised an eyebrow and gave her an assessing look. “And you think you know what is riding me?”

  “A ghost.”

  He blinked, veiling his gray eyes. “Maybe there’s more to you than a pretty face.”

  “I’m sure you can get help.”

  “There’s no point in it.” He lowered his voice as he leaned both elbows on the top of the bar.

  “You don’t want to live?”

  He shrugged, took a drink, and then carefully set down his glass. “I’m cursed.”

  “That’s not much of a joke.”

  “I don’t think so, either.”

  “Tempest,” Lucky called. “We’re running out of time.”

  She glanced at the outlaws. They were getting restless. “Mercy, please go back to the Bend and fix the bar. You’ll get paid and you can stay at the Lone Star Hotel. It’ll be comfortable there.”

  “You mean for my last days?”

  “You can be with like-minded folks.”

  “I don’t know that I’ll go back, but I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Come with me now.”

  He cocked his head to one side as if considering her suggestion, and then nodded in agreement.

  “Let’s go outside.” She walked over to Lucky with Mercy beside her.

  An outlaw got to his feet and pointed at them. “You’re outgunned and you know it.”

  “Mercy stays here,” another added as he stood up.

  “Nobody’s spoiling for a fight,” Red Dog said. “It’s Mercy’s choice to stay or go.”

  “Suits me if he goes.” Slim squared his shoulders and tucked his thumbs in his blue jeans front pockets.

  “We say if he stays or goes.” One more outlaw got to his feet.

  Tempest didn’t know how they could escape with Mercy. Everybody would lose in a shootout. As she was wracking her brain for an answer, she heard the rattling and creaking of a wagon as it stopped outside. Women lifted their voices in song accompanied by tambourines.

  “That’s the beatingest sound,” an outlaw said. “What is it?”

  “Red Dog, did you order us up a wagon full of soiled doves?”

  Slim chuckled. “Can’t think of nothin’ better.”

  The outlaws set down their cards, drinks, and smokes as they looked with great expectation toward the entry to the tent.

  Tempest felt dread creep up her spine. If Mrs. Bartholomew and the Texas Society for the Promotion of Temperance weren’t somewhere on the Katy line or back in Texas, she’d swear it was her old nemesis out there.

  A moment later, the flaps of the tent snapped open and a plump woman dressed in black accompanied by two young ladies stomped into the tent. They each carried a hatchet.

  “Mrs. Bartholomew.” Tempest sighed, wo
ndering if the other four women of the group had stayed in the wagon. “What brings you and the TSPT to the wilds of Indian Territory?”

  “Tempest!” Mrs. Bartholomew smiled, eyes twinkling in the lamplight. “Or should I say, Temperance Tempest?”

  Tempest realized that her notoriety must have spread far. She braced for another harangue.

  “What a delight to find you here.”

  “Really?”

  “Naturally! Of course, you understood our little drama back in the Bend was merely for show and to draw attention to our cause.”

  “It was?”

  “Of course! You’ve always been a great inspiration to the TSPT. In fact, we heard about Burnt Boggy in Durant and determined that we must come here to spread the word, no matter how onerous the journey, and carry on the work you began at the Red River Saloon.”

  “You’re not mad at me?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” Mrs. Bartholomew appeared offended. “And as a grand bonus to all our effort to get here, there you stand ready to do battle for the glory of the TSPT once more.”

  “TSPT,” one of the outlaws said. “Is that a new moniker for soiled doves?”

  “Guess so,” another agreed. “But I gotta admit I like red better than black on a pretty lady.”

  “You take what you can get.”

  An outlaw with a gray-streaked black beard picked up his whiskey and sauntered over to Mrs. Bartholomew. “Name’s Chancy Clancy. If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re considerable of a woman. Why don’t you wet your whistle and take a load off your feet at my table.”

  “Your friends can come over here.” A man patted the empty place on his bench. “Plenty of room and plenty of whiskey.”

  Mrs. Bartholomew drew back, appearing astonished at being addressed by the outlaw. “Sir, I suggest you take your whiskey, your mangy beard, and your dirty clothes right out of my sight.”

  “You objectin’ to my looks?” Chancy Clancy glanced at the other outlaws, then back at her. “Tarnation! What kind of soiled dove are you?”

  “Sir, you are sadly mistaken.” She put a hand to her impressive bosom as if about to faint from the insult.

  “If we’d known you was coming, we could’ve cleaned up in the river, seeing as how you’re the delicate sort.”