The Gunfighter and the Heiress - By Carol Finch Page 0,20
amazement, people who usually ignored him took time to wish him well. It was as if he had become accepted and respected because of his connection to the auburn-haired woman he’d married.
Natalie looked sophisticated and poised. She was gracious to everyone who greeted her, though she insisted everyone call her Anna and he wondered why she refused to divulge her real name… Which reminded him…
“We haven’t signed the license,” he murmured in her ear.
“We can do it as soon as the greeting line trails off and the refreshments are served,” she replied.
A quarter of an hour later, the crowd converged on the tables beside the street to partake of food and drink. The local band struck up a lively tune and a moment of panic hammered at Van. The crowd turned in synchronized rhythm, expecting him to take the first dance with his new wife. Van glanced helplessly at Bart who nodded encouragingly.
“I doubt the ceremonial war dances I learned in childhood are appropriate for a white man’s wedding,” he mumbled self-consciously to Natalie.
To his relief she grinned impishly at him and said, “Finally, something that I might be able to do better than you. This is a waltz and the steps are easy. Slow, quick, quick… One…two, three.”
She stood close enough to him that he could shadow the movements of her body while she counted the tempo in a whisper. He must not have looked too clumsy because the crowd applauded and then went back to eating and drinking.
“I must warn you that these dance lessons will cost you, Crow,” she teased playfully. “A thousand should do it.”
“Now who’s the highwayman?” he countered with a grin.
By the time they completed the second waltz, Van had his dancing legs beneath him and felt confident that he wasn’t making a complete fool of himself or of Natalie. In fact, he felt like part of a community for the first time. It was a gigantic step for a man who straddled two contrasting civilizations and never felt as if he really belonged in either one.
Bart ambled across the area cordoned off for dancing and halted beside Van. “May I dance with the bride?”
“Of course—”
Van’s voice dried up when a gunshot rang out of nowhere. He reached reflexively for Natalie and rolled with her to the ground. He managed to pin her protectively beneath him before a second bullet whizzed past his head and slammed into Bart’s shoulder when he dived to the ground to protect Natalie’s exposed left side.
“Ouch, damn. That hurts,” Bart hissed as he grabbed his bleeding arm.
Van reached for the double holsters strapped around his hips then remembered he hadn’t worn his six-shooters to the ceremony. He cursed under his breath as he reached into his right boot to retrieve the long-barreled pistol. A third shot whistled through the air and the frightened crowd scattered in every direction at once to avoid being hit. Van swore sourly when he noticed the flares of gunpowder and the dark puffs of smoke rising from the roof of the butcher shop. Now he knew where the second two shots had originated but not the first one. What he did know was someone was taking potshots at him. There were two or three shooters, he guessed. Was it the three surviving members of the Harper Gang? Had they come gunning for him during the wedding reception? He was surprised they hadn’t ambushed him during the ceremony.
“Damn Harper brothers,” he scowled in disgust, wishing he’d spent the previous day reconnoitering the area instead of catching up on sleep.
He was outraged by the interruption at his wedding party and mad as hell that Natalie’s white gown was smeared with grass stains galore. But worse, his best friend had suffered a gunshot wound. Snarling, Van bolted to his feet and fired off two shots toward the roof of the butcher shop.
“Curse it, Crow!” Natalie railed at him as she vaulted to her feet. “Don’t call more attention to yourself!”
To his disbelief, she thrust herself in front of him, just as she had done that night in Road To Ruin Saloon.
“Stop doing that!” he snapped, shoving her behind him before he pulled the trigger again.
Although he knew his boot pistol was out of range, he doubted his bushwhackers knew it. He fired off one more shot for good measure. It was met with silence. Apparently, his attackers—who had used guerrilla warfare to hit and run, had beat a hasty retreat before he identified them.