Anything a horse can do, a mule can do better.
FOR THE LOVE OF A MULE
Why must everything you do, Harriet, involve the outrageous?”
Harriet’s chin dropped, distracting him from his anger. Her hair fell forward and shadowed her face. That hair…
Brax took a breath and blew it out slowly between his lips. Never having had a father, Brax worked extra hard to maintain his respectability. Which Harriet seemed determined to destroy. “I have a reputation to uphold as sheriff.”
He’d no idea what possessed him to make such an absurd bid for chicken, potato salad, and deviled eggs. The pie he planned to eat as soon as he and Harriet finished this little talk in the meadow.
“I’ll pay you back every penny. I’m sorry,” Harriet whispered.
Brax didn’t like not being able to see her face. And he didn’t like Harriet’s unnatural quiet. Far as he could tell, every thought in her head usually came out of her mouth. And another thing he didn’t get—the more preposterous the exploit, the more Hitching Post loved Harriet Brimfield and her brothers.
What Brax did like was the puffy-sleeved pink calico on Harriet. She looked as pretty as the wild roses growing along the fence rails. And combined with the silky yellow of her—he gnashed his teeth. Stop. With. The. Hair.
“Two days, Harriet. Two days before the judge returns, and we get this marriage thing settled. All I’m asking is a little forethought before you decide to do something ridiculous. A little decorum as long as you’re the temporary wife of the sheriff. Don’t worry about repaying me. Truth is, the price of a mule is well spent if I can get back my peaceful life.”
Her eyes flashed. “Whatever you want, Brax.” She swept the hair out of her face and secured it with a pearl-studded clip.
Brax’s eyes locked on to a curl dangling at her earlobe. “What I wanted was a real pa. I wanted to be good enough.” Easing closer to Harriet, he rested against the rough bark of the tree. “What I got was a mother who made a mistake during the war she paid for the rest of her short life. One I’ve been paying for ever since.” He raked his hand over his head. Where had that come from? He’d never said that out loud to anyone, not even Uncle Wilbur.
She jutted her chin. “Braxton Caldwell Cashel has always been good enough. I wish you’d see yourself the way I do. And understand how the whole town respects you.”
Brax fidgeted. “Respect has to be earned. Don’t know I’ve done such a good job of sheriffing.”
“One mistake, Brax.” She held up her finger. “You’re new to this sheriffing business. You learn and you move on. This isn’t New York City. The biggest part of sheriffing Hitching Post is your personal relationships in the community. At which you excel. The rest?” Harriet fluttered her hand. “I pray you’ll never be called upon to exercise those types of skills. But if you do? You’ll do as well as you do everything else.”
Brax stared at her. She believed in him that much? Nobody ever—
“Least you didn’t kill your mother like I did.” Harriet folded her hands in her lap.
Brax frowned. “You didn’t kill your mother.”
“She birthed five brawny boys just fine and then died birthing one scrawny, brawling girl.”
“That’s not what happened, Harriet.” Brax laced his fingers through hers. “Our mothers were friends. I was real little myself, but I remember one afternoon the teacup perched on her stomach rattled. The baby—you—were kicking like a mule, she said.”
Harriet swallowed. “I guess I’m still kicking life like a mule.”
“When I was older, I asked my mother what happened to yours. Ma said your mother was sick before she got in the family way. Some female—” How did he get into these conversations with Harriet? “Some female trouble killed her not long after you were born.”
Brax draped his arm around Harriet’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault. Didn’t you ever talk to your pa and brothers about it?”
“Every time I mentioned Mother, their eyes got wet. They brushed me off. So I stopped asking.”
Brax hugged her closer. “I bet they were embarrassed because of their tears, not because of anything you’d done.” The flowery fragrance she wore sped up his heart.
She tucked her head into the curve of his neck. “I tried my hardest to be one of the boys so Pa wouldn’t remember I’m the girl who killed his wife.”
He brushed his lips against her hair. “They love you to pieces, Harriet. I always wanted big brothers like yours. And you don’t need to prove anything to anyone.” Her alluring scent filled his nostrils. Violets? Brax’s mouth went dry.
She wrapped her arms around his torso. “Trouble is, no one ever said it was okay to be a girl. Gunslingers or Indians, I can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the best and hold my own. That’s me, Harriet Margaret Brimfield.”
No, she was Harriet Margaret Brimfield Cashel. Brax’s heart thumped. Why did that sound like sweet music to his ears? “I like the way God made you, Harriet.”
She raised her head. “You do?”
What in the blue blazes had gotten into him? Harriet’s recklessness must be contagious.
“I do.” Brax let go of her. “I’ve got to get to work.”
Harriet was dangerous to his sanity. Good thing he’d see the last of her soon.
“But first?” He reached for the plate on the quilt. “I’m going to eat my pie.”
Hattie scanned the crowd in the hotel ballroom.
Couples dosey-doed. The auctioneer—now square dance caller—put the Mule Days sweethearts through their paces. The fiddlers sawed relentlessly. It was toetapping, boot-stomping fun. But where was Brax?
Hattie swayed to the rhythm of the music. She waved at Num cutting a fine figure on the dance floor with the spinster schoolteacher. Her brothers had taken Hitching Post by storm, a storm of love. Ex won the mule jumping event with Sugarfoot. He was courting Mayor Bledsoe’s niece. And looked like Clarissy had come to her senses, too. Leastways from the way Jimbo twirled the redhead around the dance floor.
And since this afternoon under the oak tree? Life was once again full of possibilities. The possibility of a future with Brax. If Brax was glad God made Hattie the way she was, who was she to argue with Sheriff Cashel? Or with God? Her heart felt as light as dandelion fuzz blowing in a spring breeze.
Brax had told her in secret—the Virginia City Silver Co-op was sending an armed coach with silver bars for safekeeping to the Hitching Post bank until the federal marshals arrived and arranged a permanent transfer to Helena. He’d be busy, so Brax warned Hattie not to expect to see him anytime soon as he coordinated a secure transition of the silver ingots. But she hoped—wildly hoped—he’d manage to sneak away for one teensy dance with his shotgun bride.
After five more lively songs, Hattie gave Brax up as lost. Disappointed, Hattie reminded herself Brax had made no promises. Such a shame, though. She’d taken special pains with her lavender dress tonight. The boys declared lavender Hattie’s best color.
Humming, she descended the curving staircase to the grand foyer as the strains of a waltz began. The front door opened and closed below.
“Mrs. Cashel?”
She halted mid-step.
Brax stood at the bottom of the stairs, clean shaven for once and his dark mane hatless. His broad shoulders in his best suit coat tapered to his hard-muscled waist. The badge glittered in the sparkling diamond light of the chandelier.
His gaze landed on the silver comb adorned with violets with which she’d scooped the ringlets of her hair. “Would you dance with me?”
Brax held out his hand.
Her heart beating faster than the three-four time of the waltz, Hattie took his hand. Brax’s scrutiny never wavered as he drew her to level ground. One hand around her waist, he led Hattie in the box step.
But conflicting emotions rippled across his face. Doubt. And a fierce vulnerability. Yet his gaze traveled to her mouth. And lingered. His chest rose and fell.
Was Brax having as hard a time breathing as she? The heat from his hand scorched her skin. Brax stopped dancing. The music continued to flow around them. His eyes went opaque, a smoky blue.
“You are so—” He bit his lip and dropped his arms. Only to reach both hands behind Hattie’s head. Unleashing the comb, he let her hair cascade to her shoulders. His face transformed.
“Brax…”
With a soft groan, he plunged his hands underneath her hair. His fingers entwined in her locks. Cradling the nape of her neck, Brax drew her head upward. She strained forward, and his mouth found hers. Tentative at first. Both of them trembling and scared to death. His gentle urgency curled Hattie’s toes.
A small sigh of contentment escaped her lips—the one breath he allowed before he breathed Hattie in again. Her knees went weak as the pressure of his lips grew stronger, and she responded, deepening the kiss. It was the happiest Hattie had ever been in her whole life.
Her fingers feathered the damp, close-cropped tendrils of the hair above his ear. “I love you,” she whispered.
Brax thrust her from him. “We shouldn’t—” His gaze hopscotched around the deserted vestibule. “I shouldn’t…” He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets.
Hattie reached for him, but he dodged and yanked open the door. “Wait.”
“I’ve got work to do.” Brax bolted into the darkness. He closed the door behind him with a decided bang.
Hattie readjusted the comb in her hair. He loved her. She knew he did. Now he needed to stop running scared and admit it to himself. She’d change his mind. She’d always been able to talk Braxton Cashel into any adventure. Even the ultimate adventure of matrimony.