The Outlaw Bride (3 page)

Katherine stared at him, mouth slightly agape. “Yes?”

Perfectly proportioned lips twitched with a hint of humor and heat scalded her cheeks. No doubt a man this handsome was well aware of the effect he had on women.

“Are you hurt?”

She blinked and forced the fuzziness that gripped her brain to recede. Reluctantly, it loosened its hold.

“I’m fine,” she answered. Gathering her strength, she pushed away from the sheriff, praying her knees wouldn’t buckle beneath her. They held, though barely. The hand he rested on the small of her back was nearly her undoing. Lord thunderin’, how could a man’s touch wreak such havoc? Katherine rustled up a scrap of dignity and straightened her spine. “Thank you.”

The sheriff nodded once and his hand fell away, though its effects lingered.

Walter belched and pointed a meaty finger at Katherine. “If I can’t have my wife, I want my money back, Sheriff.”

The sheriff groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Katherine had the distinct impression he wished he were somewhere else. She could sympathize.

“Oliver, perhaps you can work something out with Walter? Refund the man’s money?”

Oliver shuffled his feet. “I suppose something can be agreed to, Sheriff. Perhaps Mrs. Hewitt and I could find Mr. Figg another bride in lieu of reimbursement.”

He didn’t sound very optimistic. Katherine couldn’t say she was surprised. What woman in her right mind would marry Walter Figg? Of course, who was she to pass judgment given her own choice of a husband had proven less than stellar.

Walter eyed Oliver, suspicion coloring his expression. “You’ll git me another one? Purdy like her?” He jerked his head in Katherine’s direction.

Oliver held up his hands in a placating manner. “Yes, yes, of course. Absolutely, Mr. Figg.”

Walter spat at the sidewalk and rubbed a grimy finger under his nose. “Alright. Guess that’ll do.”

The mountain man gave a curt nod then turned and pushed his way through the crowd, his business with the whole mess concluded. Katherine blinked, stunned at the man’s abrupt departure. It was over.

Relief swept through her. She closed her eyes and let out a long breath, tension easing from her shoulders. She was safe. She’d made it to Fatal Bluff. For once, her luck had made a turn for the better.

Mrs. Hewitt cleared her throat. “Speaking of reimbursement, Sheriff, given that Miss Stockdale has broken her agreement with us, I think it only reasonable she repay the cost of her train fare.”

Katherine’s eyes snapped open. Surely she had heard wrong. “What?”

Mrs. Hewitt peered down her sharp nose and gave a derisive sniff. “We want our money back, Miss Stockdale. You have gone back on your word. We demand reimbursement. We run a business here, not a charity.”

Desperation clawed at Katherine’s insides. Her gaze swung back to the sheriff, the only one so far who had shown even the smallest hint of concern over her well-being.

She wondered if she should fess up and tell the truth, admit she wasn’t Hannah Stockdale. But who would she be in her stead? She could hardly announce to him her true identity. He was the sheriff, for crying out loud! All her confession would do was land her behind bars and cut short any chance she had at keeping her promise.

“I can’t pay them back.”

One dark golden eyebrow arched upward, but other than that one small gesture, the sheriff remained silent, unreadable.

“That is unacceptable,” Mr. Hewitt cut in with a stamp of his foot. He reminded her of a petulant child who hadn’t gotten his way. “You broke the agreement. You owe us the money. We paid for your train fare and a night’s lodging. Tell her, Sheriff Langston!”

Langston!

The name struck Katherine with the force of an oncoming locomotive. Air rushed out of her lungs. The landscape tilted and swayed. A sea of strange faces meshed together into one collective blur.

A hand gripped her elbow, steadying her, bringing things right again.

“Ma’am? Are you alright?”

The black dots pinpricking Katherine’s vision receded. She blinked and stared helplessly at the hand on her arm. Tanned and weathered, she could feel his strength in that one touch. If she said no, would he sweep her up into those arms and carry her somewhere safe?

The notion held a strong appeal. At least until the name rang in her mind again, causing her to recall just why he had asked the question in the first place.

Katherine searched his handsome face, studying the bold angles of his features, the slight hollowing just beneath his cheekbones, the square chin. Anything that reminded her of the man who had saved her life. She came up empty. Grant Langston had been dark, his complexion paler, his features less defined. Still…

“Your name is Langston?”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “Yes. Connor Langston.” Connor angled his head to one side. His gaze raked over her body with such force Katherine could almost feel the physical sensation of it touching her skin beneath the layers of skirt and petticoats. “Do we know each other?”

Grant Langston’s final words burned in her memory.
“Tell Con…I’m sorry…”

Con. Connor. The sheriff.

The world around her began to darken and spin until once again Katherine felt herself falling.

The woman’s knees buckled. Connor lunged forward and caught her, swooping her into his arms. A bevy of curls tumbled over his arm in a cascade of burnished gold and fiery red.

He glanced down. Her lids remained closed. Pale crescent-shaped lashes brushed against her cheek, shielding him from the sudden fear that had glistened in her sea-green eyes just before she fainted. A smattering of freckles haphazardly dotted the bridge of her narrow nose. Full pink lips parted invitingly. Connor gritted his teeth and glared at Bart.

“Now what?”

Bart grinned. “Now it looks like you got yourself an armful of woman, Con.”

Great. “Miss—” He looked around helplessly.

Oliver stepped forward wringing his hands, an eager expression replacing the petulant one of a moment before. “Stockdale, Sheriff. Miss Hannah Stockdale. Quite the story on this one. She comes from a reputable family from Kansas. Owned a small restaurant, they did. Burned down, though. Miss Stockdale was the only survivor.” He clucked his tongue in what Connor could only guess was a show of sympathy.

“Uh-huh.” Connor didn’t need her biography. He just wanted to know her name in the hopes she’d hear it, wake up, and remove her warm body from his arms. He gave her a small shake. “Miss Stockdale?”

She stirred just enough to roll her head against his chest. Her cheek came to rest near his heart.

Oliver beamed as if she were a small dog who’d just performed a trick. “You know, Sheriff, given your circumstances, I would be more than happy to offer you her hand for a one-time-only deal of half off my commission price.”

Connor glared at Oliver and his ridiculous suggestion. “What?”

Oliver’s smile disappeared and he took a step back, holding his hands up. “She says the burn scars aren’t horribly disfiguring and her cooking abilities will surely make up for it, either way. All around, a nice bargain, wouldn’t you say, Sheriff?”

Connor’s frustration rose. He wasn’t sure which disgusted him more—Oliver bartering the woman off while she was cuddled unconscious against his chest, or the idea of taking a bride.

“I don’t want or need a damn wife, Hewitt.” He had enough complications in his life.

“You sure you don’t want to take her off Hewitt’s hands, Con? Seein’ as she’s already in yours?”

Connor whirled on his boot heel and glowered at his deputy who until now had remained blissfully silent on Oliver’s suggestion. Figures his luck would run out on that account. Even Bart was getting caught up in the matchmaking fever.

“Don’t start, Bart.”

His deputy shrugged and pulled his hat off, looking down at the piece of baggage Connor held. “Ain’t nothin’ to be startin’, Con. Just thinkin’ out loud. She sure is a right pretty thing, ain’t she?” Bart smiled and winked, the gesture almost lost in the creases around his eyes.

Connor didn’t care if she was Aphrodite herself; there was no way he would even consider getting hitched. He’d been down that road once and nothing short of a shotgun to the head was going to get him there a second time.

“If you’re done ruminating about my personal life, you think we can take this woman down to your wife’s boardinghouse before I lose all feeling in my arms?”

Bart chuckled deep in his chest. “Guess we could do that.”

The air in Amelia’s boardinghouse proved a smidgen cooler and a lot better smelling than the train depot. Connor’s mouth watered at the enticing scent of fresh apple pie wafting through the parlor.

Carefully, he laid Miss Stockdale down on the sofa, pulling his arms out from beneath her. She barely weighed a thing, the loose dress swallowing up the small body hidden beneath it. He wondered when her last good meal had been.

“Land sakes alive, Connor. Now what’s all this?” Amelia fisted her hands on her hips and glanced from him to her husband and then back to the Hewitts. “You’ve brought half the town to my door and this poor bedraggled thing onto my sofa—”

“Seems Oliver’s bride venture went a bit awry,” Bart said, reaching out a hand to brush a smudge of flour off his wife’s nose.

“Hmm.”

Connor sat down on the edge of the sofa. Through the window he could see the crowd had followed them. Hell, didn’t these people have anything better to do? With a gentle hand, he tapped Miss Stockdale’s sun-kissed cheek. The skin was warm and soft beneath his fingertips. She stirred under his touch. His gaze drifted over her small form, searching for the burn scars Oliver had mentioned. But he saw no hint of them.

“Miss Stockdale?”

Her lashes fluttered several times before she opened her eyes. Connor’s heart stopped for a moment as they caught him in their gaze. Lost. That was the word that jumped to mind. Lost and afraid. It did something to his insides he couldn’t quite name but didn’t much like.

“W-what happened?” Her voice whispered like a breeze. Had he not been leaning over her, he might have missed it altogether.

“You fainted.”

That seemed to wake her. Her freckled nose crinkled. “Oh no, I’m sure I didn’t.”

Connor raised one eyebrow. “Then perhaps you can explain how you got here.”

Her gaze flitted around the room. “But I never faint,” she said, though her conviction slipped somewhat.

“I expect you’ve had a rough day. Happens to all of us.”

He made to get up from the sofa but her words stopped him.

“Did you have a rough day?”

“You might say that.” Hell, he’d had a rough six months.

“Did
you
faint?”

“Nope.”

She made a face. It would have been comical if it hadn’t been so damn cute. And if he weren’t trying so hard not to notice.

Blanche Hewitt stepped forward, her brisk tone banishing his wayward thoughts. “Sheriff, if we could conclude our business here. We have two other brides who did not balk at keeping their words.” Her eyes cut to Miss Stockdale, who cringed back into the sofa. “We really must finish here and tend to them.”

Katherine eyed the sheriff. He looked nothing like Grant Langston. Tall, golden with impossibly blue eyes that would rival the most brilliant summer sky, he all but vibrated with a masculinity that filled the cramped parlor to capacity. His dust-covered clothes fit him well, accentuating the lean lines of his body. Guns rested low on slim hips, adding to the aura of authority that clung to him like a second skin.

“I—I’m sorry to have caused so much trouble.” This wasn’t exactly the subtle arrival she had hoped for.

Oliver waddled forward and shook a finger beneath her nose. “You’ve caused more than trouble, my dear. You’ve perpetrated fraud, is what you’ve done.”

An older woman with kind eyes appeared with a glass of lemonade. Katherine’s mouth, coated with dust and worry, watered at the sight of it. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Oliver. Plenty a bride gets a bad case of nerves on her wedding day.”

“Especially if she’s set to marry Walter Figg,” the older man—what had the sheriff called him?—muttered.

The older woman’s jaw dropped. “Walter Figg? Lord liftin’ Oliver, what were you thinking? You can’t marry this itty bitty thing to that lump of mud!”

Katherine liked that someone else shared her opinion, but in truth she would like it even more if the woman would stop holding the glass of lemonade and let her drink some of it.

From outside, a shout was heard. “Hey Sheriff, you agree to marry that girl yet? I’s got work to git done this afternoon!”

The sheriff scowled at the window behind her and shouted back. “Then go do it, Williams, and get off Amelia’s begonias.”

“My begonias!” Amelia shoved the glass at Connor and rushed from the room.

“You might want to give the lil’ lady there her drink, Con,” the deputy said with a chuckle. “She’s looking a mite parched.”

His words snapped Connor to attention and despite the scowl that marred his handsome features, he didn’t try to argue. Crouching next to the sofa, he slipped a hand beneath her head before she could attempt to sit up on her own.

His steady palm cupped the back of her head, sliding beneath the mass of unkempt curls. She gripped his wrist. Beneath her fingertips, his pulse beat strong and sure. There was something warm and solid about him. It made her want to turn into him and curl against the strength of his body.

“Our money, Sheriff?”

He sighed. A warm puff of air brushed Katherine’s skin. He set her head gently against the pillow and stood, taking with him the brief illusion of safety.

He gazed down at her and a strange, irritating tingle warmed the hollow of her stomach.

“If you’re not marrying Walter Figg, it’s only reasonable you reimburse the Hewitts for the hotel and train fare.”

Reasonable? It hardly sounded reasonable to Katherine. She didn’t have the money when Blanche Hewitt had all but dragged her on board the train and it hadn’t magically appeared in her reticule since that time.

“And if I can’t?”

Blanche smiled. At least Katherine assumed that’s what the tight stretching of her lips was meant to represent. “If you can’t come up with the money by the time the circuit judge arrives next month, then we will simply let him decide the matter. Judge Malton happens to be a good friend of ours. I’m certain he will make time to hear the matter and rule judiciously.”

Oliver gave a curt nod, letting Katherine know that by judiciously, they meant in their favor. “We will, of course, give you ample time to make reparations. One month, Miss Stockdale. Or we take this matter before the judge.”

One month! Where in tarnation was she supposed to come up with enough money to repay the Hewitts in that amount of time? Especially if she had to cover her living expenses in the meanwhile. Katherine struggled to sit up but the Hewitts did not wait. Their business concluded, they marched out of the boardinghouse.

Fear balled itself in her throat. She reached up a hand and felt the outline of a gold band hanging from a chain beneath her blouse. All she had wanted to do was keep her promise to the man who had saved her life.

“My satchel.” Katherine’s gaze skimmed the floor around the sofa. She couldn’t lose it. It contained the few possessions she owned, along with the letter Grant had given her before he died.

“Right here. I grabbed it for you, Miss Stockdale.” The deputy picked the bag up and pushed it at the sheriff.

Connor grabbed it before it dropped, then bounced it lightly in his hands, giving her a strange look. “Not much in here.”

Katherine averted her eyes, avoiding his questioning gaze.

“Guess you lost most of your things in the fire.”

She blinked. “Fire?”

One glorious golden eyebrow arched upward. “Your family’s restaurant.”

She swallowed and reached for her satchel, gathering it against her. “Yes…of course.” Katherine didn’t have two sweet clues what he was talking about, but it seemed a safe bet to simply agree.

What had she gotten herself into? She knew nothing about Hannah Stockdale’s life. How would she ever pull this ruse off? But she couldn’t leave. Nor could she go before a judge. With the last name Slade, her fate would be sealed.

Her fears tumbled out before she could stop them. “What am I supposed to do? Where do I go?”

Bart lowered himself into one of the straight-back chairs near the stone fireplace and stretched his legs with a satisfied sigh. “Got room at your place, don’t ya, Con? You could use the help.”

The question ruffled the sheriff’s cool exterior. His eyebrows shot skyward and he rounded on his deputy. “You’re not suggesting that she—that I—?”

Bart pulled out a thin cheroot and rolled it between his finger and thumb. “That’s exactly what I’m suggestin’. In case you weren’t payin’ attention, she says she ain’t got no money, so she can’t afford the hotel. And if you ain’t gonna get yourself a wife then you could sure use a housekeeper.”

The prospect of a job, money to repay the Hewitts, dangled in front of Katherine like a juicy carrot. “I’m a good worker,” she said. “I can cook and clean.”

Connor turned to her and gave a firm shake of his head. “Thank you, ma’am, but no. I don’t need help.”

Bart grunted his disagreement and struck a match, holding it to the cheroot.

Connor ignored him. “Amelia can put you up here until we figure something out.”

Katherine protested. “But I can’t afford—”

“She can stay at my place if she likes.”

Katherine’s gaze swung past Bart and Connor. A man dressed in dark trousers and vest lounged against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest.

“No one invited you into this conversation, Bentley.” Connor’s tone edged itself with warning. “Why don’t you just get yourself back to The Last Chance and leave this matter alone.”

The man shrugged one shoulder but didn’t move. “Lady said she needs money and accommodation. I’m only too happy to oblige. What with Luanne having run off and Jane up and gettin’ married, I could use a pretty thing like her to serve drinks and whatnot.”

Katherine’s mouth fell open at the suggestion. She’d grown up in a mining town, and her mother had taken in more than laundry to make ends meet. She knew exactly what Bentley’s
whatnot
entailed.

“God dammit,” Connor turned suddenly without warning. His angry strides echoed off the walls as he advanced on the interloper.

“Alright, alright, I’m goin’,” Bentley said, holding up his hands in surrender. He backed his way to the door. “But if you change your mind—”

“She won’t.” Connor slammed the door in the man’s face. When he turned back around his grim features were set in stone. His gaze caught hers in a hard glare. Katherine pressed her back into the sofa and tried to disappear into the cushions.

“I—I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a burden.”

She squeezed the handles of her satchel and thought of the contents layering its bottom. How had the simple task of returning Grant Langston’s property to his family become so complicated?

“You’re not a burden,” Connor told her. “At least not mine.”

***

“Why didn’t you take her up on her offer?”

Connor hung his head, unable to meet the piercing brown eyes of Amelia Holkum. Despite her small stature, the older woman, with her shocking white hair and forthright manner, was a force to be reckoned with. And after the day he’d had, he didn’t have the energy to do battle with her.