Читать книгу Wedding Night With the Ranger - Lauri Robinson - Страница 7

Dodge City, Kansas—1880

“Well, gentlemen, love, as you call it, may have just taken on a whole new meaning for me.” Colt Severson threw the last of the amber liquid in his shot glass against the back of his throat. Gritting his teeth against the fire trickling down his gullet, his stare locked on the woman storming through the swinging doors of the Broken Spoke. The muscles in his neck quivered. From the looks of her, leaving her alone for a few hours to recover from the shock hadn’t been a good decision on his part.

Chairs around his table toppled, grown men leaping from them like rats on a sinking ship as the saloon doors clattered together behind the swirls of Annalee Sapp’s pink skirt. While the men—who moments before had been full of advice about his upcoming wedding night—scrambled, the stock of the gun in her hands rose to her shoulder and the ends of the double barrels leveled on his chest.

The gun didn’t affect him, leastwise not as much as the sight of her. Pink satin, trimmed with white piping that highlighted her remarkable feminine shape—just as it had back at the church—covered her from head to toe and made her creamy-white skin glisten with a rosy glow. Sun-kissed, golden-blond hair pulled up into a puffy cloud flounced as she stomped forward. Little curls dangling at her temples shimmered like specks of gold in a creek even in the dim light of the saloon. The blood in Colt’s veins hummed and his britches became uncomfortably tight. He squirmed in his chair, trusting the movement would relieve the pressure, and met her fire-filled gaze with what he hoped appeared to be a nonchalant if not somewhat bored expression.

“Where’s my father?” she demanded, stopping on the opposite side of the table.

The room had gone quiet, and even Elmer had stopped beating on the keys of the out-of-tune piano in the corner. Continuing his blasé act, Colt reached for the whiskey bottle to refill his shot glass. “I suspect he’s almost to Oklahoma by now.”

Her big, round eyes, the color of how he liked his morning coffee, dark and rich, took on a startled gaze. “Oklahoma?”

He took a pensive sip of whiskey and let his gaze, over the top of the glass, flow from the top of her mound of gold hair to her tiny waist. If there’d ever been a woman who’d turned his world inside out and upside down, it was Annalee Sapp.

The bitter brew warmed in his mouth. As it slid down his throat, she began to wilt. If his gaze and senses hadn’t been so alert, he may have missed the slight quiver of her shoulders and the heightened red-tinged hue covering her cheeks. Instantly, his heated gaze—meant to make her senses leap—backfired. His britches were now two sizes too small, and guilt at causing her distress made the whiskey curdle in his stomach.

The bottom of his glass clanked as it hit the tabletop. He used both hands to push away from the table and stood to face the reason he’d sought the barroom—his bride.

The gun barrels followed his stance, though waving a mite. “Why’d you send him to Oklahoma?” she asked with tight lips.

He had to hand it to her, she had nerve. If he didn’t know her as well as he did, he might feel threatened, if not by the gun, then by the loathing in her voice, something that had the ability to sting. Grasping the gun’s barrel, he held it aside and stepped around the table. “I didn’t send him anywhere. He chose to go.”

Her eyes darkened with something he couldn’t quite read. “He chose?” she whispered.

He flinched, the injured sound of her voice stabbing him dead center. Holding her upper arm while relieving her of the gun with his other hand, he led her toward the door. “Come along, my dear wife. We’ll talk about this in private.”

She glanced about the room. As if she’d just realized where they were—in the middle of a saloon full of every size and shape of cowboy—her face became bright red, but she squared her shoulders and marched to the door beside him. To her credit it only took a moment before she seethed, “I may have married you this morning, but I’ll never be your dear wife.”

A twist of her shoulders tried to release his hold, but it didn’t work. He tightened his grasp and kept up with her strutting steps as the swinging doors clattered behind them. They crossed the boardwalk but paused before stepping into the street.

Two boys, no more than half-a-dozen years or so, tussled in the dry dirt. A swirling cloud of dust obscured their scuffling bodies. Angry grunts and shouts were muffled as they rolled, arms and legs intertwined.

Colt didn’t want to release his hold on Annalee in case she bolted, but he really had no choice as the two youngsters could easily get run over by one of the wagons rolling up and down Front Street. Besides, the distraction might assist in relieving some pressure from his groin. It felt as if the front seam of his britches was ready to burst and spring his throbbing manhood for all of Dodge to see.

As his hand slipped from her arm, he held up one finger, silently asking her to stay put. Praying she wouldn’t take off for parts unknown, he stepped into the street.

“Hey there, partners,” he said, trying to snatch the back of one of the boys’ shirts.

The child, slithering about like a baby bull snake, slipped right out of his grasp. Colt set the gun on the ground and took a step closer, to where he could grab both boys. Catching one by the shirt collar, and the other by the waistband of his britches, he pulled the two apart. “Come on, fellas, break it up,” he said, lifting them until their bare toes dangled above the ground.

The cloud of dust slowly settled, exposing two dirt-smeared and freckled faces. He recognized one as Mort Tyler, the blacksmith’s, son, but the other one he didn’t know. Lowering their feet to the ground, but still holding on to them, he asked, “What’s all the ruckus about?”

“I saw it first—” Mort’s son started.

“But I’s the one who got it!” the other interrupted.

“Saw what? Got what?” Colt asked, shifting a steady gaze between the two of them.

The unknown child opened a grubby hand. Lying in the dirt was the faint image of a penny.

Colt let out a low whistle, as if enamored with the money. “Quite the find,” he said, letting his grip on both boys relax. He knelt down to more closely examine the palm. “A treasure indeed.”

“It’s just a penny,” Mort’s son offered, trying to sound indifferent.

Colt hid a smile. “No, that’s not just any penny.” He shook his head. “Nope, that there’s the exact kind I’ve been looking for.”

Their little faces scrunched with frowns. “It is?” the penny holder asked.

“What you needin’ a penny for?” Mort’s son asked.

“Well, you see, Miss Sapp and I were married this morning—”

“We know,” Mort’s son interrupted. “My ma said it was about time someone married her, afore Rev—”

“And,” Colt interjected before the child could continue, “a penny just like that is what I’ve been looking for to give her as a wedding gift.”

It appeared Mort’s son was as gruff as his father. “A penny ain’t much of a gift,” he scoffed.

“But this isn’t just a penny,” Colt said, picking the coin out of the other boy’s hand. “This here is a found penny. That means it’s full of luck.”

“It is?” the other boy asked, eyes agog.

“Yup,” Colt said, and dug his other hand into his pocket. “How about I make a trade with you boys?”

“What sort of trade?” Mort’s kid wanted to know, somewhat skeptic.

Colt held out two dimes. “I’ll trade this here penny for two dimes. One for each of you.”

Their faces lit up like the flame of a struck match head. “Two dimes for one penny?” the original penny holder asked.

“That’s a lot of money for a penny.” Mort’s son stated, folding his arms. “What ain’t you telling us?”

A tiny giggle sounded behind him, but Colt kept his gambling face on. “Every bride needs a penny for her shoe. It’ll bring good luck to her marriage.”

“I ain’t never heard that before.”

“Oh, it’s very true, Martin,” Annalee assured from her stance on the boardwalk.

“You wantin’ this penny, Miss Sapp?” Martin Tyler asked.

“I surely do,” she answered, sounding so sweet and sincere Colt had to lift his gaze, make sure it was Annalee speaking. The charming smile on her face was enough to make his heart leap into his throat. He swallowed a cough, but couldn’t do anything about the heat running through his veins.

Martin Tyler was definitely his father’s son. The gaze he sent Colt was beady and stern. “Seein’ how the lady wants it so bad, twenty cents doesn’t seem like much.”

Colt bit his lip and dug into his pocket again. “All right then.” Looking at the coins he pulled out, he asked, “How about twenty cents each? Two dimes for each of you.”

“It’s a deal!” the other boy said, snatching two of the dimes faster than a chicken on a bug.

Martin scratched his head, but then reached out to seize the other two coins. “I still say that ain’t much of a present.”

Colt stood. “You boys drive a hard bargain.”

Martin nodded like a man very pleased with himself. “You best remember that, Ranger.”

“Martin,” Annalee said with that schoolmarm tone every female seems to master by about the age of six, “You and Samuel need to thank Mr. Severson.”

“Thank you, Mr. Severson,” the boy named Samuel said.

“Yeah, thanks,” Martin added.

“Now, you two run along home. And no more fighting in the street,” Annalee instructed.

“Yes, ma’am,” they offered before scrambling up the road.

Colt turned, but the smile on his face faded as her cold stare settled on him. He’d hoped the interaction with the boys had quelled her ire, at least a touch. Evidently it hadn’t. What did he expect? Common sense dictated a man as rough as he would have to do a whole lot more than be kind to a couple of boys to get on her good side.

Dust from a departing wagon floated in the early evening air, but Annalee didn’t seem to notice and barreled right through it without regard to her skirt or shoes. Colt reached down, grabbed the gun and followed.

He caught up to her, and when they reached the opposite boardwalk he tugged her right as she started to turn left. “This way, my dear.”

“I’m not your dear either,” she insisted but didn’t resist. “Where are we going?”

“I rented a room for us at the Dodge House.”

She stopped, dug her heals in like a stubborn mule. “The Dodge House? What for?”

“Because it’s our wedding night. Have you forgotten?”

She glared at him. “Unfortunately, no.”

A smile played with his lips, and he bit them together to keep it from forming. Damn, if she wasn’t the most beautiful woman God had ever placed on this earth. Her delicate face was twisted with self-proclaimed loathing, but nonetheless, he saw a faint glimmer hiding in the back of those brown eyes. The prospect gave him hope, which sent a surge of desire through his veins. He shifted his feet. Just the sight of her made him feel like a bull on the wrong side of the fence. A feeling he should be used to after years of coveting her from afar.

“I have a perfectly good house on the other edge of town. We can spend the night there.” A contemplative grin lifted the sides of her petal-shaped lips. “It has two bedrooms.”

He let out a laugh and tugged her forward. There was no way in hell he’d spend the night at her house, not with the almighty reverend right across the street. “Did you get all of your things packed?” he asked, intentionally changing the subject. “We’ll leave for the ranch first thing in the morning.”

“I believe I’ll remain in town, thank you.” Head held high, she once again marched down the boardwalk beside him.

“I think not, my dear.” Stopping the protest he knew she was ready to emit, he added, “We’ll discuss that in private as well.”