Bride Gone Bad (14 page)

By evening, Tempest was so ready to get off Anna that she was squirming in the saddle. They'd taken several breaks during the day, but it wasn't nearly enough. She'd had time to think about Lucky's words, but she still found what he'd told her almost unbelievable. If she didn't see ghosts, she'd question his truth. Yet as she well knew, life didn't come wrapped up in neat little packages.

“We're nearing the Boggy River,” Lucky said. “Burnt Boggy Saloon will be north of us somewhere near the juncture at Clear Boggy Creek.”

“Aren't saloons illegal in Indian Territory?”

“Whiskey and Choc, or Choctaw beer, are illegal. But folks can play poker and eat beans and beef in Burnt Boggy.”

“And if the law stops by, they hide the liquor?”

“Most likely. But first the law would have to find the place. It's kept on the move. It's burned to the ground in a couple of brawls. And there's a lookout.”

“Sounds like somebody is resourceful.”

“Outlaws. No way to keep whiskey out of the Territory. Lighthorsemen and Deputy U.S. Marshals do their best to limit it.”

“Do you think the artist is still at Burnt Boggy?”

“If he's trading art for whiskey, I can't think of a better place.”

“I hope it won't be another Red River Saloon for me.”

“Was that so bad? Made you famous. Got you jobs.”

“And I met you.” She glanced over at him, feeling amazed at this journey she was sharing with him. “I wonder how Mrs. Bartholomew and the TSPT members are getting along?”

“Bet they're staying close to towns along the Katy line.”

“I can't imagine them venturing out into Indian Territory.”

“Maybe they've already gone back to Texas.”

“Mrs. Bartholomew was pretty determined to carry the word north of the Red River.” She hesitated, thinking about the harsh words they'd exchanged in the Bend. “I wish I'd left things better with her.”

“Don't know how you could've.”

“It was a strange situation.” She could still hardly believe her life had changed so quickly.

He chuckled. “It was funny, too.”

“Now it is.” She glanced over and met his intense gaze. Once she'd thought his eyes the color of whiskey, but now she saw luminous amber that reflected his complicated character.

“Let's find a good place to make camp off the beaten track before we get too close to Burnt Boggy.”

“I'd like to rest.” She felt her body flush at the thought of being alone on a blanket with him again. She wanted to pick up where they'd left off before Haig had intruded into their lives.

“You're holding up well for all the miles we've covered.”

“Thanks. I'm sore, but I'm okay.” She took a deep breath, catching the scent of pine. “Do you think it's safe to stop for the night? I'm worried that Haig might catch up with us.”

“Doubtful. He's in a wagon loaded down with whiskey, so we ought to be making twice the time. And we got a head start on him, too.”

She felt a sense of relief. She'd feared Haig might surprise them again. This time, she wanted to be ready and waiting for him. She touched the S&W .32 in its holster on a belt around her waist. Haig couldn't threaten her or outshoot her. She stroked the pearl handle of her revolver. When she saw Haig, she'd demand her grandma's money. And she had the firepower to back up her words.

She was grateful to Lucky for teaching her how to load, hold, and shoot a revolver. She'd practiced each time they'd stopped for a break. She wasn't a deadeye yet, not by any means, but at close range she could hold her own. Most likely, it'd never come to her needing to draw her weapon. She couldn't even imagine actually shooting somebody. Yet if worst came to worst, she stood a chance of coming out alive.

When they reached the Boggy River, Lucky pointed north. “Let's camp away from the bank and on a rise. It'll be safer.”

Once more she felt grateful that she was with him. Otherwise, she'd never have found her way in the wilderness.

She followed him up a trail that meandered along the river past hackberry, blackjack, and post oak trees. Birds trilled in the treetops, insects buzzed past her ears, and the horses grabbed mouthfuls of tall grass. She felt at peace with the world, as if there was no past or future. She only existed in the present with a desirable man at her side.

She watched as Lucky turned off the trail, rode down to the river, and let his mount slurp up water. She stopped beside him. He grabbed their canteens, quickly filled them, and then returned hers. She took a drink, enjoying the cool liquid as it slid down her throat.

Soon he led the way through high grass to a rise overlooking the river. A tall hackberry shaded the area so little grew under the tree. She glanced around, but could see no other person or building. Spectacular nature ran riot, not yet tamed by human hand. She hoped the land would stay this way for a long time to come.

Tempest watched Lucky dismount in one graceful movement and then turn toward her. When he smiled, his eyes lit up at the sight of her.

“It'll be dark soon. Let's set up camp.” He walked over and held out his arms. “Let me help you down.”

“Thanks.” She was stronger than when she'd crossed the Red River, but she'd still be a little shaky after so many hours on horseback.

She swung her leg over the saddle, stepped down, and felt Lucky's arms around her. She leaned back against his chest, basking in his strength and warmth. When his hands rose to cup her breasts, she moaned and swiveled to throw her arms around his neck. She knocked off his hat at about the same time he removed hers. She ran her fingers into his thick, dark hair, reveling in the feel of him. He followed her movements and pulled the pins from her chignon to let her long hair cascade down her back.

“I've thought of little else,” he murmured. “We've got all night.”

“I want you all night.”

When he pressed soft kisses across her cheek to her lips, then lingered there to trace with the tip of his tongue, she pulled him closer. She felt the strong muscles of his shoulders as he kissed her with a ferocity that left her breathless. She kissed him back, nipping his tongue, drawing him deeper, feeling scorched by him. As his hands roamed lower, down her back to clasp her butt so that he could push his hard shaft against her, she shivered with mounting need.

He pressed heated kisses down her throat and lingered on the fabric of her blouse over her heart.

“That place is on fire,” she moaned, feeling as she couldn't get close enough to him.

“So is mine.”

“Yours?” She raised her head to look at him in puzzlement. “That solar cross?”

He gazed back at her, eyes dark as molasses. “Soleil Wheel.”

She felt chilled as she rubbed the place over her heart. “It's not a rash or poison ivy, is it?”

“No.”

She stood very still as he slowly unbuttoned her blouse till he exposed the reddened area. She glanced down. It was taking on the same shape as the one on his chest. She stepped back, shaking her head.

“Did that Moon Rattler do something to me?”

He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her back close to him. He bent his head and placed a kiss on the burning place.

She felt his touch go straight to the center of her. She was suddenly hungering for him and feeling hot and wet and swollen. She needed him like she'd never needed anything or anyone before. And yet, she didn't trust him or what was happening to her. She stepped back, putting distance between them.

“You didn't tell me everything, did you?”

“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.

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 violet 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?