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Authors: The Outlaw's Bride
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his life could turn lucky at this point.
“Don’t they sell whiskey in Midday?”
Emma glanced up at him, surprised. “Of course, but…”
“I’ll wager this hand against a flask of rye.”
“This hand?” she asked. “You mean gambling?”
He looked at the Mount Everest of matchsticks on her side of the coverlet and almost laughed. What did she have to be nervous about? “Surely you don’t have anything against a friendly bet?”
“But you couldn’t expect me to buy whiskey!” She eyed him as if he’d turned lunatic on her. “I have my reputation to consider! Why, the store’s run by the biggest gossip in town, and all the ladies gather there.”
He waved off her argument. “Are you going to let a bunch of old crows dictate what you can have in your own house?”
“Well, no—”
“And who cares if a storekeeper knows you like to take a little nip now and then?”
Her cheeks were red. “But I don’t!”
“You can’t let other people tell you how to live for the rest of your life.”
“But I don’t!” she repeated indignantly.
He slapped the covers. “Then just march into that store and announce for the world to hear that you need a bottle of spirits…large size.”
She gazed at him seriously. “Alcohol would make you feel better?”
Pickling himself was as good a way as any to blot out his troubles. He nodded. “Or are you afraid I might leave when you go to town?”
“I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere for a while, Mr. Archibald. You could barely make it up a flight of stairs.”
“I mend quickly.”
“You sound as if you’d like to make a fast getaway,” she said, eyeing him closely.
Lang laughed uncomfortably at her use of desperado lingo. “Personally, I’d like to stay forever…but of course I can’t.”
“Of course.” She looked almost disappointed.
And, oddly, at the thought of leaving Emma, his gut felt a stab of regret that made him blurt impulsively, “If I lose this hand, Miss Emma, I promise I’ll tell you all about myself, and how I got here, and where I’m headed.”
Her eyes glittered in open curiosity, and she glanced with a certain smug assurance at the disparity of their matchsticks. “All right, Mr. Archibald, you have yourself a wager.”
Lang looked into Emma’s green eyes, shocked to find he wanted to confide in her…almost as much as he wanted that whiskey.
Chapter Four
“Y ou want a bottle of what? ”
As if he hadn’t heard her! Emma lifted her chin and leveled her gaze on Joe Spears, whose sharp eyes were squinting at her in disapproval. Johann was right. Did she really want this old man telling her how to live her life?
Definitely not!
“Rye whiskey,” she repeated.
“Lord-a-mercy!” Joe blinked in amazement.
“Your largest bottle,” Emma added defiantly, drawing open stares from Mrs. Dunston and her married daughter Sara. To her right Emma was flanked by Constance O’Hurlihy, who was wearing a perfectly ridiculous hat topped by a pert bird that stared out like a third set of eyes, and who closed in on Emma with gray arched brows. Emma didn’t care if they all thought she was peculiar, or had gone to Hades in a handcart, nor was she going to offer any explanations. If they wanted to believe she was a tippling old spinster, so be it. This was her declaration of independence.
Of course, she couldn’t help asking herself, was she really independent when she was taking orders from an outlaw? She had few illusions left where Johann Archibaldwas concerned. The horse now housed in her barn exactly matched the dappled gray mare described on the Wanted poster—which also sported Johann’s image—outside the post office and on selected poles around town. If Johann Archibald wasn’t Lang Tupper, she wasn’t Emma Colby. And if there was anything she was sure of right at this moment, with grizzled Joe gaping at her as if she’d just asked for a bottle of opium, not whiskey, it was that she was Emma Colby.
Joe
“Don’t they sell whiskey in Midday?”
Emma glanced up at him, surprised. “Of course, but…”
“I’ll wager this hand against a flask of rye.”
“This hand?” she asked. “You mean gambling?”
He looked at the Mount Everest of matchsticks on her side of the coverlet and almost laughed. What did she have to be nervous about? “Surely you don’t have anything against a friendly bet?”
“But you couldn’t expect me to buy whiskey!” She eyed him as if he’d turned lunatic on her. “I have my reputation to consider! Why, the store’s run by the biggest gossip in town, and all the ladies gather there.”
He waved off her argument. “Are you going to let a bunch of old crows dictate what you can have in your own house?”
“Well, no—”
“And who cares if a storekeeper knows you like to take a little nip now and then?”
Her cheeks were red. “But I don’t!”
“You can’t let other people tell you how to live for the rest of your life.”
“But I don’t!” she repeated indignantly.
He slapped the covers. “Then just march into that store and announce for the world to hear that you need a bottle of spirits…large size.”
She gazed at him seriously. “Alcohol would make you feel better?”
Pickling himself was as good a way as any to blot out his troubles. He nodded. “Or are you afraid I might leave when you go to town?”
“I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere for a while, Mr. Archibald. You could barely make it up a flight of stairs.”
“I mend quickly.”
“You sound as if you’d like to make a fast getaway,” she said, eyeing him closely.
Lang laughed uncomfortably at her use of desperado lingo. “Personally, I’d like to stay forever…but of course I can’t.”
“Of course.” She looked almost disappointed.
And, oddly, at the thought of leaving Emma, his gut felt a stab of regret that made him blurt impulsively, “If I lose this hand, Miss Emma, I promise I’ll tell you all about myself, and how I got here, and where I’m headed.”
Her eyes glittered in open curiosity, and she glanced with a certain smug assurance at the disparity of their matchsticks. “All right, Mr. Archibald, you have yourself a wager.”
Lang looked into Emma’s green eyes, shocked to find he wanted to confide in her…almost as much as he wanted that whiskey.
Chapter Four
“Y ou want a bottle of what? ”
As if he hadn’t heard her! Emma lifted her chin and leveled her gaze on Joe Spears, whose sharp eyes were squinting at her in disapproval. Johann was right. Did she really want this old man telling her how to live her life?
Definitely not!
“Rye whiskey,” she repeated.
“Lord-a-mercy!” Joe blinked in amazement.
“Your largest bottle,” Emma added defiantly, drawing open stares from Mrs. Dunston and her married daughter Sara. To her right Emma was flanked by Constance O’Hurlihy, who was wearing a perfectly ridiculous hat topped by a pert bird that stared out like a third set of eyes, and who closed in on Emma with gray arched brows. Emma didn’t care if they all thought she was peculiar, or had gone to Hades in a handcart, nor was she going to offer any explanations. If they wanted to believe she was a tippling old spinster, so be it. This was her declaration of independence.
Of course, she couldn’t help asking herself, was she really independent when she was taking orders from an outlaw? She had few illusions left where Johann Archibaldwas concerned. The horse now housed in her barn exactly matched the dappled gray mare described on the Wanted poster—which also sported Johann’s image—outside the post office and on selected poles around town. If Johann Archibald wasn’t Lang Tupper, she wasn’t Emma Colby. And if there was anything she was sure of right at this moment, with grizzled Joe gaping at her as if she’d just asked for a bottle of opium, not whiskey, it was that she was Emma Colby.
Joe
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