The Gunfighter and the Heiress - By Carol Finch Page 0,14
dealing with and if she’s telling me the truth.”
Bart gaped at him, then shifted his astonished gaze to the bedroom door. “You are seriously considering taking this assignment of marriage?”
Yes, although I don’t trust her completely. But I understand how precious independence and freedom are, he mused. Instead, he said, “Why not? She claims it’s the easiest money I’ll ever earn. I have the extra added benefit of not having to track anyone down or risk being shot at.”
“Unless this supposedly enraged stepfather and bitter fiancé show up to make her a widow shortly after she becomes your bride,” Bart pointed out.
“I considered that possibility.”
“They might even bring along gun-toting reinforcements.” Bart stared grimly at Van. “You’re good at what you do, my friend, but even a handful of sharp-shooting Texans at the Alamo couldn’t hold off Santa Anna and his Mexican army.”
“By the time the two bastards discover where she is, she will be long gone and so will I.”
Bart sipped his drink and frowned. “I suppose. But still…”
Van flicked his wrist dismissively. “I’ll worry about the details tomorrow. Right now I’m tired and I need sleep.”
“I keep telling you that the devil is in the details,” Bart didn’t hesitate to remind him. “I can’t believe you’re actually considering a marriage the day after tomorrow. And what if she’s a fraud and you don’t find out until it’s too late? And where, might I ask, do you intend to sleep tonight?”
Van shepherded his friend across the room, took the glass from his hand and opened the door. “She might very well be a fraud, but I can handle her.”
“Maybe so, but I—”
Van closed the door before Bart voiced more objections. He doubted Bart would complain if Little Miss Sunshine had asked him to be the groom. Van’s wry smile fizzled out when he reminded himself that he’d be sleeping on the floor tonight…or not…
Hell, it wasn’t as if Natalie Whoever-She-Was would know where he slept. She’d be conked out for hours. Van set aside his drink and doused the lantern. It was his bed and by damn, he was going to sleep in it!
“Oh…my…gawd…” Natalie groaned miserably.
The room swirled around her and her stomach pitched and rolled like a storm-tossed ship in a hurricane. She was afraid to open her eyes for fear it would make her more nauseous.
Holding her throbbing head in one hand, she levered herself onto a wobbly elbow and tried to remember what she’d said and done last night—besides ingest too much whiskey. Nothing came to mind. Not recalling her actions troubled her to no end. She pried open one eye and then grimaced when glaring sunshine blazed through the window of her room…
“No, that isn’t right,” she mumbled hoarsely. “This isn’t my room.”
An uneasy sensation battled the queasy feelings that assailed her as she glanced sideways to survey the spacious, elaborately furnished room closely. To her shock and dismay, she realized she was in Crow’s bed. A yellow rose lay in the indentation in the other pillow beside hers. Also, she noticed her chemise was twisted around her like a maypole, exposing one breast and a bare hip.
“Sweet merciful heavens!” she wheezed as the shocking possibility registered in her liquor-saturated brain.
Natalie collapsed on the bed, gulping for breath. Donovan Crow must have taken advantage of her while she was too far into her cups to protest. Anger and resentment boiled inside her. How dare he…! she thought, and then gulped hard, wondering if she had seduced Crow into agreeing to marry her while her inhibitions were drowning in liquor. Dear God!
Natalie gathered her frazzled composure and frowned consideringly. Not knowing the intimate details of their encounter spared her awkward embarrassment and whatever pain might have accompanied the act. Well, that was one less thing to fret about, she told herself. Now, if she could recover from the nausea and hellish headache she could set the hasty wedding plans in motion and be done with it.
Her gaze drifted to the yellow rose again. She plucked it up, noting Crow had removed the thorns from the stem. So he did have a tad of tender sensitivity buried beneath that hard exterior, did he? She had wondered about that.
Rising—carefully, in case her stomach flip-flopped—she wobbled across the expensive carpet to find her gown hanging in the wardrobe. Another thoughtful gesture she hadn’t expected from Crow. Thurston Kimball III wouldn’t have bothered with any such thing. The
philanderer was too self-absorbed to be considerate of a woman. It was