Finally a Bride (13 page)

She turned to him, gazing at him with curiosity, not anger. He’d never seen light brown eyes like hers before, yet they seemed oddly familiar. Had he known someone else with similar ones?

Her teeth brushed over her lower lip in an enticing manner, stirring Garrett’s senses. He forced himself to look away. How could a woman who’d efficiently fueled his temper an hour ago—a woman whose name he didn’t know—stir him in a way no other woman had in a long while?

“Um … why is it called an indigo bunting when it’s so blue? Isn’t indigo a purple color?”

Garrett shrugged, frustrated with himself for noticing so much about the woman. “I don’t know. Maybe the guy who named it was colorblind or something.”

Her brows dipped, and she turned away. “You knew the name of the bird. I just thought you might know more about it.”

“Well, you’re wrong. I just happen to know the name because I got bored one night and thumbed through one of the books my brother left behind. There were gray and white pictures of the bird, and the book said it was a dark blue, so I guess indigo is a dark blue.”

“The lady I lived with used a deep purple fabric in a quilt she was making and always called it indigo. That’s why I thought that.”

Garrett grunted. He was a man. What did he care about colors? Other than to notice a woman in a pretty dress. “I’m sorry your brother moved away.” She caught his gaze again and narrowed her eyes. “He was always the nicer of you two.”

Garrett scowled at the intended slur. Here he was offering this nameless woman a ride, and she had the gall to insult him! “How do you know my brother? And how do you know my name?”

Her bold gaze melted, and she returned to watching the prairie. The wind picked up a strand of her hair and tossed it about. “I lived in Lookout for a short while, but it was a long time ago.”

He searched his mind but still came up empty. “How do you know Rachel Davis?”

“I stayed at Hamilton House.”

Garrett let that thought stew. Rachel’s home and boardinghouse hadn’t been called Hamilton House for almost ten years, not since shortly after she married Luke. Rachel didn’t want the name to constantly remind Luke of her first husband, so she asked the townsfolk to quit calling it that. It had taken awhile for folks to get out of the habit, but most people now just referred to it as “the boardinghouse” or “Rachel’s place.”

Garrett wasn’t one to play games unless he was the instigator, and the woman’s evasiveness was starting to wear thin on his nerves. “Why don’t you just tell me your name and get it over with?”

She sucked her lips inward, as if that could keep her from talking, but she finally heaved a sigh of resignation. “It’s Carly. Carly Payton.”

Garrett stared at the landscape, rolling the name over in his mind. Carly was an unusual name—a pretty one at that. “Well, Miss Payton, nice to meet you.”

She looked at him as if he’d gone loco. “We’ve met before.”

“When? The name does sound a bit familiar.”

She uttered a very unladylike snort and shook her head.

Garrett didn’t like her mocking him. Was she telling the truth about her name or just stringing him along? Suddenly, like the headlight of a locomotive coming ever closer in the dark, his mind grasped hold of the name, and realization hit him upside the head. She was that outlaw bride! The gal who’d pretended to be one of the mail-order brides that he and Mark had ordered for Luke years ago before he married Rachel. The sister of the man who’d kidnapped Rachel and tried to rob the Lookout bank. That was her—the criminal who’d been sent to prison for her unlawful deeds.

He pulled back on the reins, set the brake, and jumped down. The horses snorted. One pawed the ground, but he ignored them. Pacing through the knee-high grass, he tried to wrap his mind around something else. That look Rachel and Luke had exchanged at the dinner table suddenly took on meaning. He stared at Miss Payton, and it made complete sense. Rachel was aiming to match him up with that outlaw lady.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever.

He wouldn’t fall for Rachel and Luke’s scheming, and if he wasn’t already closer to Lookout than Denison, he’d turn the wagon around and take the jailbird back.

She watched him but said nothing. Yeah, she was pretty, and yeah she’d stirred up his senses, but he would never lower himself to marry an ex-convict—a woman who’d robbed banks and ridden with an outlaw gang. What kind of mother would she be to his kids?

“I’m sorry. If I’d known it would upset you so much to ride with me, I would have found another way to get to Lookout.” She swiped her eyes and turned her body so that her back was to him.

Great. Just great. He flung his arms out to the side, then hauled them back down and slapped his thighs. Now she was trying to use tears to weaken him.

Well, it wouldn’t work.

He climbed back onto the buckboard. Suddenly a shot rang out, and a fire like Hades itself seared his shoulder. The surprise and the force of the blow knocked him back, and he fell to the ground. The sky blackened before turning blue again. He could hear riders galloping closer and tried to sit, but the pain nailed him to the ground.

“Are you all right?” Miss Payton stood. Her frantic gaze leapt from him to the riders and back.

“Go!” He swatted his good arm in the air. “Get out of here.”

“I can’t leave you. Get on up here and hurry!”

“No time.” He might not like the woman, but neither did he want to see her suffer at the hands of robbers. ‘Course, she might just know the men and be in no danger at all. Maybe those fellows were a welcome-home party. He huffed a cynical laugh, then peered under the wagon to see how far off the riders were. Not far at all.

Two more bullets pinged off the side of the wagon. Miss Payton ducked. She seemed to be wrestling with indecision. Then she steeled her expression and snatched up his rifle. She spun around and shot both men out of the saddle with just two shots.

Garrett’s mouth hung open, and he struggled to make sense of what he’d seen. Not even Luke could shoot like that, and he’d been in the army for a decade. He lowered his head back against the ground. Grass tickled his ear and cheek, making his face itch. How could a woman shoot so well?

Maybe it was God’s protection. He stared up at the sky and thanked his Maker. He believed in God, but he wasn’t as faithful to pray or even attend church as he should be. Realizing how he could just as easily be lying there dead instead of wounded made him conscious of things he rarely thought about.

Miss Payton climbed down and hurried toward him. “Are you hurt bad, Mr. Corbett?”

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

She shrugged and leaned over him, checking his wound. “If I bind it, do you think you could make it to Lookout? It’s closer than Denison, right?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, still impressed with her coolness under fire and the fact that she refused to leave him. He couldn’t help thinking if the situation had been reversed, he might well be racing toward home, with her lying alone on the prairie. “Who taught you to shoot?”

She nibbled that lip again, making his belly turn somersaults. “My brother, Tyson. I picked it up real fast. He said I was a natural.”

“I’m duly impressed.”

A shy smile tilted her lips, and she hurried back to the wagon and started yanking garments from her satchel. When she came to what looked like a nightgown, she used her teeth and ripped off the six-inch-wide ruffle along the bottom. Rushing back to his side, she tore off a smaller square and folded it in quarters. She knelt beside him and dabbed the square against his wound.

Garrett hissed at the burning pain but sat still, letting her tend him. With her head bent, he could smell the floral scent of her hair. She must have washed it recently. It was black as a raven’s wing. The wisp that had pulled loose fell across his cheek, taunting him.

He didn’t want to like her.

Didn’t want to be drawn to her.

When he thought of marrying, he wanted a woman people respected. He had worked hard to gain the town’s esteem after his wild years as a rowdy youth, and that was important to him. He wanted to wed a gal who could cook, sew, keep house, and raise children. Thinking back to the bride contest a decade ago that had been held to determine which mail-order bride would make Luke the best wife, he remembered that Miss Payton—or Miss Blackstone as she’d been called then—couldn’t cook or sew. What good was she to a man? Other than to shoot bandits out of their saddles.

She pulled tight on the two sections of fabric, and Garrett gasped at the stinging it caused.

“Oh, stop being a baby. He just grazed your arm.”

“Try getting shot and see how you like it, lady.” He grunted when she tightened it again.

She stood and walked back to the wagon. “I have been. Twice. And I can tell you, it’s not the worst thing I’ve endured.”

He shook his head. Surely she didn’t say she’d been shot before. The bullet wound must be affecting his head somehow. Carefully he stood, taking a moment to shake off the dizziness. He needed to check on the two men she’d shot and get them tied up before they came to—if they were even alive.

By the time he made it to the wagon, he felt as if he’d been breaking mustangs all day. How could one shot that only winged him affect him this much? Maybe the blow his head took when it collided with the packed dirt was making him woozy—that and thoughts of marriage and Miss Payton all in the same sentence. This was all Rachel’s fault.

Miss Payton headed toward their attackers, frayed nightgown and rifle in hand. He shook his head and followed after her. She’d never be able to overpower even one of those men if he came to.

By the time he finally got to where the men had fallen off their horses, she had one unconscious man tied up and was working on the other. He bent down and tugged at the man’s bindings, not a little impressed with the good job she’d done. A grin teased his mouth when he noticed she’d tied the man up with pink fabric that was covered in tiny red roses and had wrapped his head wound with the same. Suddenly his smile slackened, and he glanced at his own wound. A groan erupted that drew her attention.

“You all right?”

He nodded and strode across the grass toward the closest horse. He’d have to get these bandages off before he got back to Lookout, or he’d be the laughingstock of the town.

Chapter 10

N
oah’s stomach still churned, and his legs hadn’t fully quit wobbling, but the pie plates had been delivered, and he felt better for having completed that task. He walked around the church, praying for his congregation and making mental notes of things that needed repair. The outside of the white building was in decent condition but could use a new coat of paint, and a cracked window needed replacing.

He still found it hard to believe that God had entrusted this church and its people into his care. Who was he? Nothing but a rowdy kid who’d met God and changed his ways. He’d grown up some, too, but he felt inadequate in so many ways to shepherd a flock of believers.

Pete had told him numerous times not to dwell on his doubts but to shove them away and trust God. Mentally, Noah packed his insecurities back in a box and refocused on the church. The shin-high grass needed cutting before Sunday services. He walked around back, hoping to find a lawn mower, but he didn’t. He’d have to ask Marshal Davis about that.

He strode back to the front of the church, eager to see inside. This building had also served as the schoolhouse when he lived in town, not that he had fond memories of those years. The other children had made fun of him because he’d been fat and smelled bad. His pa had been of the opinion that a man only needed a bath once a month, and with his ma dying when he was young, nobody had taught Noah otherwise—until he met Pete. He certainly hoped Mrs. Davis didn’t mind him taking several baths a week. He shivered at the thought of how filthy he used to be and promised himself to never be that way again.

Slowing his steps near the front door, he noticed a large man waddling toward the church. Something about him was vaguely familiar. Noah crossed the churchyard and met him under a tall oak that had only been a little more than a sapling when he was last here. “Morning.”

The man slowed, his chest heaving from his exertion. He leaned one hand against the tree trunk and struggled to catch his breath. “I’m Titus—Burke. Lookout’s mayor. You the new preacher?”

Noah nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m Noah Jeffers.” The mayor had always been a heavyset man, but now he was as wide as an ox. His dark hair, which used to be parted in the middle and stuck down, had thinned, and what was left had been brushed forward in an ineffective attempt to cover his bald spot.

“Sorry I haven’t come to the boardinghouse sooner to meet you, but I’ve had some pressing business to attend to.” The mayor pushed his wireframe glasses up on his nose with one thumb. “Aren’t you rather young to be a preacher?”

Noah shrugged. “I don’t reckon age has much to do with sharing God’s Word with folks.”

Mayor Burke harrumphed. “You’re wrong. How are you going to counsel people with problems when you haven’t had time to experience things yourself? You married?”