Never Marry a Cowboy (2 page)

Fortune, Texas
1870

C
hristian Montgomery had no desire to be a hero, but it seemed Fate held little regard for his aspirations.

The crack of a gunshot echoed through the saloon. The young woman who sat on his lap twitched, and he tightened his hold on her as he slowly brought his glass of whiskey away from his lips.

Standing in front of the bar, a man badly in need of a shave and a bath released a hysterical guffaw before firing into the wooden floor again. The fellow before him hopped and jerked his gangly body, his arms flailing like those of a scarecrow caught in the wind. The cowboy with the pistol laughed louder and shot the floor again.

Christian thought he might never understand these Texans' sense of humor. He cast a quick glance at the faro dealer who owned the saloon. Behind his gaming table, Harrison Bainbridge reached for his cane.
Bloody hell.

Tenderly, Christian guided Lorna off his lap. “Excuse me for a moment, sweetheart.”

“Now don't go gettin' yourself kilt.” She pushed her full lower lip into a pout that made him wonder if she might truly care.

He scraped back his chair, stood, and winked at her. “Not to worry.”

He strode across the saloon as the cackling man shoved bullets into his gun before spitting a stream of tobacco juice, not even bothering to aim for the polished brass spittoon. Another disgusting habit many of these Texans possessed.

“Let's see some more dancin',” he ordered and pointed his gun between the feet of the poor fool who had been too frightened to move beyond harm's way.

“Excuse me,” Christian murmured.

The man with the gun jerked his head around, his tobacco juice seeping between his lips. With the back of his hand, he wiped his mouth. “What'd you say?”

Imploringly Christian held out a hand. “You must forgive me, but I don't quite understand why shooting the floor would make you laugh like a lunatic.”

The man darted a glance at the three men who'd accompanied him into the saloon, men who were alternately flexing their fingers and stroking their guns. Then he grinned, and the tobacco juice once again claimed its freedom. “It ain't the shootin'. It's the dancin'.”

He fired a bullet into the floor between Christian's feet. Christian didn't flinch, although he heard Lorna's tiny screech and someone else's gasp.

“Hey, Jasper, the fella don't seem to know you was
aimin' for his toes,” one of the cowboy's comrades shouted, grinning around the thin cigar clenched between his yellowed teeth.

Jasper wrinkled his pug-shaped nose. “I reckon he didn't at that.” He aimed.

“Give me the gun,” Christian ordered quietly. “I know the couple who own the saloon, and the wife is not going to be pleased that you have marred her floor.”

“Think I give a damn?”

“You would if you knew her,” he assured the man, but Jessye seldom worked in the saloon, now that she had children to keep her busy. He held out his hand. “Give me your pistol.”

“Take it from me,” Jasper dared with a steely glint in his brown eyes as he jerked up his chin.

Christian plowed his fist into the target the man had conveniently provided. The gun thudded to the floor a heartbeat before Jasper did.

Christian might not understand their humor, but he understood their pride. Cowboys settled everything with a gun. They seldom fought hand to hand because they considered it an embarrassment to take a punch. Bullets and blood they could fathom. Boxing baffled them.

Leaning down, Christian picked up the weapon while Jasper watched, stunned, his face burning a dull crimson.

“About time you took action, Marshal,” Harrison Bainbridge said as he limped closer, leaning heavily on his cane.

Christian gave his friend a warning glare as he reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around his tin star. “I had planned to take the evening off.”

He pinned the symbol of his authority onto the lapel of his jacket, right over his heart. Then he gave a pointed look to each man who had accompanied Jasper into the saloon. “Gentlemen, I'll take your firearms.”

“You can't be the marshal. You ain't wearing a gun,” the one with the cigar protested.

“I find them cumbersome.” He pointed toward his fallen comrade. “But as you can see, I don't require one in order to enforce the law of this town, a law which prohibits the bearing of firearms in the saloon.”

“You hit Jasper,” another man said, his eyes blinking rapidly.

Christian nodded at the scruffy fellow's brilliant deduction. “Shall I hit you as well?”

“That ain't fair,” the man pointed out.

“Little in life
is
. Now, give me your weapons or spend the remainder of the night within the confines of my jail.”

Grudgingly, the men unfastened their gun belts and handed them over. Christian gave them a perfunctory nod. “You may retrieve these from my office when you leave Fortune, which I trust will be tomorrow morning after you've finished sanding and smoothing Mrs. Bainbridge's floor.”

With long, confident strides, he returned to his table, set down the weapons, and sat.

Lorna grinned brightly. “Gawd, you are so brave.”

She plopped onto his lap and flung her arms around his neck. He wrapped one arm around her tiny waist to support her precarious position. With his free hand, he removed his badge, slipped it into his pocket, picked up his glass, and smiled warmly. “Now where were we?”

“You was tellin' me naughty things you done in England.” She lifted her bare shoulders to her tiny, delicate ears. “And how you might do 'em to me iffen I wanted.”

“Ah, yes. I assure you, sweetheart, that you will want—”

He scowled as Harrison Bainbridge approached his table, dragged back a chair, and dropped into it with a heavy sigh.

“Lorna, get me a glass and a bottle of whiskey,” Harry ordered.

Lorna cast a furtive glance at Christian. He patted her hip. “Go on, do as he says.”

Christian watched her saunter to the bar, gather up Harry's request, and stroll back over. She placed the glass and bottle on the table before sidling toward Christian.

“Lorna, you need to see about serving drinks to our other customers,” Harry said quietly without rebuke.

Lorna stuck out that lower lip that Christian had an urge to nibble on. “But them other fellas don't pay me two bits for every smile I give 'em like the marshal here does.”

“I pay you to serve drinks, and if you want me to give you your wages for the evening, you will tend to the other customers' needs.”

With a huff, she flounced away. Christian grinned with appreciation at her naturally seductive movements. “Ah, Harry, you do have a knack for hiring beautiful serving wenches.”

“Jessye hires them, and she expects me to protect them from rakes like you.” Harry opened the bottle and refilled Christian's glass before filling his own.

“That's rather like asking the fox to stand guard at the hen house, isn't it?”

“Not when the fox's mate is skilled with a gun and a knife. Besides, she gives me no reason to stray and every reason to remain faithful.”

“Dear God, but you are well and truly married, aren't you?” Although his voice held the expected disgust, Kit took absolute joy in his friend's good fortune. He held a great deal of respect and admiration for Jessye. She had single-handedly lifted Harry from the depths of hell.

“Yes, and I ask that you take care with the girls that work for me. I've mended one broken heart in my life. I have no wish to mend others.”

“I was only engaging in a little harmless flirtation.”

“Which is the way you always begin. Then you conquer, and later abandon. Yet none of the women ever hates you.”

“Because I leave them feeling as though the victory were theirs instead of mine.”

Harry grinned. “They say you have the eyes of the devil.”

“More like his soul.” Kit picked up his glass and downed the whiskey. He'd thought he'd never grow
accustomed to these Texans' strong drink. Tonight, it didn't seem powerful enough.

Harry poured more whiskey into the glass. “It's been a while since you've spent the evening here.”

“I was feeling a bit restless.”

“Care to expand?”

Leaning forward, he crossed his arms on the table. “I don't know if I can explain it. I watched you and Gray get married, build yourselves homes, have children, and I just thought perhaps I needed to stop my wandering and take root as well.” He sighed and shifted back in his chair. “But I am not content.”

“You seemed happier when we were herding cattle.”

“I didn't enjoy working with the beasts, but I welcomed the opportunity to see the country. Still something was lacking, and a man can hardly make a living by simply traveling.”

Harry shook his head in obvious bewilderment. “I don't understand, Kit. With the money we made off that initial trail drive—”

“I have very little of it left.”

Harry's green eyes widened in disbelief. “What in the bloody hell did you do with it? I know you didn't gamble it away in here.”

“What I did with it is my concern, not yours.”

“The first year we were here, we picked cotton, and you wouldn't tell me then what you did with the money you earned. But it wasn't available when we decided to try our hand at herding cattle, so we were forced to take on an investor—”

“For which you should be eternally grateful, since you ended up marrying her,” Kit pointed out in his
own defense, although he'd never felt that he needed to justify the disappearance of his money.

Harry grinned, warmth reflected in his green eyes. “God, Jessye was something on that trail drive, wasn't she?”

“She was indeed. You weren't so bad yourself.”

Harry's smile faded. “I would have liked to have seen it through to the end, but broken legs and a smashed hip do not a worthy cowboy make.”

Kit glanced around the saloon that had over the years, in small ways, begun to take on the appearance of the gentleman's clubs they'd frequented in London. Nothing extravagant by any means, merely the shadow of their memories preserved here and there. “You've done well for yourself with the Texas Lady.”

“I can't complain. Besides, I think we've all done rather well. Gray's farm is prospering. Your skill with a rifle became legendary and the citizens appointed you marshal. Can't say that I blame them. You saved my life more than once.”

Kit felt the familiar ache of an ancient festering wound. No matter how many lives he saved, he had not managed to spare the one that had mattered most. He drained the remainder of the whiskey from his glass, not bothering to protest when Harry refilled it. “It's not enough.”

Harry glanced up. “The whiskey?”

Kit shrugged. “My life.”

“My Lord, but you are morose this evening. You must have received a letter from Christopher.”

Kit nodded at his friend's perceptive deduction. “It
seems Father is arranging another marriage for him. Although he failed to mention his feelings on the matter in his letter, I sense he's not in favor of the match. However, obligations and duty will no doubt bind him to Father's demands. It's almost innate, isn't it?”

“Would we be here otherwise? We were rebellious, but when our fathers commanded us to leave, we left. Perhaps we were good sons after all.”

“No goodness resides within me, Harry. I would not have done the things I have, otherwise.”

Harry rubbed his thumb over the lion's head that adorned his cane. “You're thinking of Clarisse.”

“She is constantly on my mind. Even when I seek solace with other women, they always leave me wanting because none is her.”

“You've turned her into a saint. She wasn't one, you know.”

Kit lifted his glass in a mock salute. “No, she was an angel.” He took a long swallow of whiskey, relishing the final drop. “I must be off.”

“Take the bottle with you.”

Kit picked it up. “Gladly.” He stood. “Give my best to Jessye and the girls.”

“Always.”

He grabbed the confiscated weapons, tucked them within the crook of his arm, and walked from the saloon, making a mental note to look over the wanted posters in his office. He could tell when a man was a fun-loving cowboy simply looking for a good time and when one had evil running through his soul. He suspected the latter of Jasper and his comrades.

Kit welcomed the cool night air hitting him, the
only natural thing in this state that ever reminded him of England. The stars he'd never noticed until he'd watched over a herd of cattle at midnight.

The desire to return to Ravenleigh plowed into him. After five years, he should no longer miss the place of his birth, but he had yet to find anything to replace it in his heart. He missed the grounds, the books, and the art. And he missed the people. He longed for conversations that weren't accentuated with crude swearing and spitting.

Discussions with Harry and Gray offered some respite, but he spent less time in their company. Once they'd been in hell together. Now, he alone remained, and with that admission, the loneliness deepened.

He often wondered if he'd accepted the position of marshal because it offered him the opportunity to meet death. Not that he would purposely seek it out, but he knew in his heart that he would welcome it.

Although they no longer herded cattle, he and his friends continued to invest in their ranching enterprise, hiring men to do the arduous work they abhorred. Just as he'd told Harry, he had retained little of the money from their first venture, but he had set aside a considerable amount since. He was not a wealthy man by any means, but he could provide for himself when needed. When no needs existed, he had other things upon which he preferred to spend his money.