Chapter 2 - THE BRIDE WHO MARRIED A MOUNTAIN
Clara looked once more at the Gold Dust Saloon.
Wyatt Sutton was standing behind the dirty glass.
Watching.
He had expected her to cry.
Perhaps he had expected her to beg.
Men like Wyatt enjoyed rejection only when the rejected person remained nearby long enough to admire their power.
Clara turned away.
“When do we leave?”
For the first time, Jeb Lawson’s expression changed.
Not much.
One eyebrow moved.
“Now.”
“Now?”
“Winter won’t wait because your wedding went poorly.”
“My wedding did not go poorly.”
Jeb looked at her ruined dress.
Clara lifted her chin.
“My wedding ceased to exist. That is different.”
Something almost happened beneath his beard.
Almost a smile.
Then it vanished.
He bent, grabbed the handle of her trunk, and lifted it from the mud with one hand.
Clara stared.
She had spent ten minutes dragging the thing six feet.
“That is extremely irritating.”
“What?”
“You.”
He carried the trunk toward his mule.
Behind them, someone laughed.
Wyatt had stepped onto the saloon porch.
“Well, look at that. Lawson finally bought himself a woman.”
The street became quiet.
Jeb stopped.
Clara expected him to turn.
He didn’t.
Instead, he continued tying her trunk to the pack saddle.
Wyatt descended into the street.
“You know what they say about him, don’t you, Clara?”
She hated the familiarity with which he used her name now.
Twenty minutes earlier she had been too old and too ugly to marry.
Apparently she had become desirable again the moment another man wanted her company.
“Can’t imagine I care.”
“You should.”
Wyatt stopped several yards away.
“That mountain man had a wife once.”
Jeb’s hands stopped moving.
Wyatt smiled.
“She disappeared.”
Clara looked at Jeb.
He resumed tightening the rope.
“Is that true?”
Jeb pulled the knot once.
“Yes.”
The answer chilled her more than denial would have.
“What happened?”
Jeb finally turned.
His pale eyes met hers.
“She died.”
Wyatt laughed.
“That ain’t what folks say.”
Jeb looked at him.
Wyatt stopped laughing.
No threat had been spoken.
None was required.
Clara looked from one man to the other.
Every sensible instinct told her to reconsider.
She knew nothing about Jeb Lawson.
A missing wife.
A cabin two days into wilderness.
Weapons.
Blood on his coat.
And yet the man who frightened the entire street had been the only one who had not tried to humiliate her.
Wyatt had written beautiful letters.
Jeb spoke ugly truths.
At the moment, she trusted ugly truths more.
“Mr. Lawson?”
“Jeb.”
“Do you murder women?”
A miner coughed.
Someone muttered, “Jesus.”
Jeb considered the question with astonishing seriousness.
“No.”
“Do you beat them?”
“No.”
“Drink?”
“Sometimes.”
“Get mean when you do?”
“I get quiet.”
“You’re already quiet.”
“Then you won’t notice.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
Jeb looked faintly surprised.
Clara climbed onto the mare he had bought for supplies.
Wyatt’s face hardened.
“You’ll be back in a week.”
Clara gathered the reins.
“Perhaps.”
“And when you are?”
She looked down at him.
“You still won’t be handsome.”
The miners exploded.
Jeb mounted his horse.
They rode out of Bitter Creek with Wyatt standing ankle-deep in mud behind them.
Clara did not look back.
Not once.
By sundown, she regretted nearly everything.
Her thighs hurt.
Her spine hurt.
Her pride hurt in several innovative places.
The trail climbed relentlessly into pine country, and Bitter Creek disappeared behind folds of black timber.
Jeb rode ahead.
He seemed incapable of discomfort.
Clara hated him for this.
“How much farther?”
“Cabin?”
“Yes.”
“Day and a half.”
“To where we sleep tonight.”
“Another hour.”
She groaned.
Jeb looked back.
“You said you don’t complain.”
“I said I don’t complain when it rains.”
“It isn’t raining.”
“Exactly. My contract allows complaints in dry weather.”
That almost-smile again.
She was becoming certain it existed.
They camped beside a river.
Jeb built a fire with frightening efficiency.
Clara watched him remove three trout from a canvas sack.
He handed them to her.
She understood.
An examination.
“You really intend to test whether I can cook?”
“Yes.”
“I have been riding for nine hours.”
“Fish don’t care.”
She took his knife.
“Neither, apparently, do you.”
Twenty minutes later, trout hissed in the skillet with wild onions and salt.
Jeb ate his first bite.
He stopped chewing.
Clara waited.
“Well?”
He swallowed.
“You can cook.”
“I am relieved to have survived the interview.”
He ate everything.
Then half of hers.
Without asking.
Clara stared.
“Did you just steal my supper?”
“You stopped eating.”
“I was breathing.”
“You were doing it slowly.”
She snatched the remaining fish away.
His beard moved.
There.
Definitely a smile.
Then a sound came from the forest.
Jeb changed instantly.
The warmth vanished.
He stood and lifted his rifle.
“What is it?”
“Horse.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“I do.”
He kicked dirt over the fire.
Darkness swallowed them.
“Jeb?”
He seized Clara gently by the arm and pulled her behind a fallen cedar.
“Stay.”
Hoofbeats.
One horse.
Approaching slowly.
A rider emerged between the trees.
Moonlight found his face.
Clara recognized him.
The stagecoach driver.
The same man who had left her trunk in the mud.
He sagged over the saddle.
Blood covered his shirt.
Jeb reached him before he fell.
The driver hit the ground.
Clara ran forward.
“Who did this?”
The man’s eyes rolled toward her.
Recognition.
Fear.
“The bride.”
“What?”
He grabbed Clara’s wrist.
His fingers were slick with blood.
“They weren’t supposed to let you leave town.”
Clara froze.
Jeb crouched beside him.
“Who?”
The driver coughed.
“Don’t know.”
“You know something.”
“They paid Wyatt.”
Clara’s heart stopped.
“What?”
The dying man looked at her.
“He wasn’t supposed to marry you.”
The forest seemed to tilt.
“Then why bring me here?”
The driver’s grip tightened.
“To see if you had it.”
“Had what?”
“Your uncle’s—”
A gunshot cracked through the trees.
The driver jerked.
A dark hole appeared in his forehead.
Jeb threw Clara down.
A second bullet struck the tree above them.
“Stay down!”
Jeb fired toward the ridge.
A horse screamed in the darkness.
Then hoofbeats fled.
Clara lay in the dirt, unable to breathe.
The stagecoach driver stared sightlessly at the stars.
Jeb crawled toward him.
Dead.
Clara looked at the blood on her hands.
“My uncle’s what?”
Jeb searched the man’s pockets.
Nothing.
Then he found something inside the driver’s boot.
A folded piece of paper.
He opened it.
Clara saw her own name.
CLARA WHITMORE — ALIVE.
Underneath was a price.
$500.
Five hundred dollars.
Ten times what Jeb had promised her for an entire winter.
At the bottom was a second instruction.
SEARCH THE TRUNK FIRST.
Jeb slowly looked toward the mule.
Toward Clara’s battered trunk.
Then at her.
“What exactly did your uncle leave you?”
Clara’s mouth went dry.
“Nothing.”
Jeb’s eyes narrowed.
May you like
She swallowed.
“Except a key.”
