His Rip-Roarin' Bride

Book 2: Texan Brides

by Martha Hix

Genres: Short Stories; Historical Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

A bride best kept under lock and key . . . Packing a six-shooter, Lisa-Ann Wilkins roars into Lubbock, Texas, determined to take out the man who killed her best friend. But a shoot-out at the local saloon only lands the bold beauty in the custody of Sheriff Wes Alington—and the real trouble begins. When the handsome lawman gives her the choice to keep his house until she settles the debts her havoc caused, it’s an offer she can’t refuse, despite the simmering attraction between them... Wes knows keeping Lisa-Ann close is only going to lead to a pack of problems. For how can he preserve her honor when all he wants to do is take her to his bed? Then there’s the little matter of her plan to murder a local man. But once Wes sees Lisa’s vulnerable side, he knows the feisty lawbreaker is fast on her way to stealing his heart... Praise for Martha Hix “A romantic mixture of sensitivity, humor and spice, Martha Hix's delicious love story offers a refreshingly atypical heroine.” —RT Book Reviews, 4 Stars, on Terrific Tom "Filled with humor...and a wealth of love.  Enjoy!” —RT Book Reviews on Magic and the Texan

Release date: March 28, 2017

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 111

Sample

 

 

Eyes shut, giving silent thanks that this week had pulled to a nice, calm close, Sheriff Wes Alington took a nice, slow drink of nice, refreshing beer and hitched a boot to the rail in Scarlet Garter Jenny’s Saloon. Save for a waitress, the piano player, and this lawman, the place stood empty. Evidently this late cold snap kept customers away. Wes removed his star, tucking it in a vest pocket. Never really off duty while in the county, this was as close as he got.

Suddenly, Orville Bellingham ignited the ivories with “Ride of the Valkyries.”

Wes enjoyed music. He’d spent over half of his thirty years in this isolated settlement, now the town of Lubbock. He knew a man could make his mark here, but few had the means to enjoy a Wagnerian opera. Not reared to brag, he made it a point not to discuss his trips to another world altogether. Never would he admit he used those expeditions to find the perfect wife. A cultured lady, one who could—

Interrupting his train of thought, his stomach growled. Once he finished this Pearl Beer, he would mosey on home to relax over a roasted-beef meal that a church lady sent over at noon to thank him for rescuing a kitty. Just as he started to lick his lips, all hell broke loose.

“There you are, you no-good, lyin’, thievin’, murderin’ son of a bitch!”

In the middle of some woman’s screeching tirade, he heard a scream from the waitress.

The music stopped.

Then the roar of gunfire, like a cannon going off.

Plaster flew from a gaping hole in the wall, to the left of the reed-thin Orville, who hotfooted it toward the back door, knocking the serving girl out of his path.

Sounding like a young lady but speaking coarsely, the shooter yelled, “You come back here, goddamn you, Orville Bellingham!”

Great, just great. There went Wes Alington’s supper of leftovers. Just another Saturday night on the Llano Estacado.

He took a quick assessment of the gunwoman. Tall. Very tall! Wearing a cowman’s hat and a mammoth old-fashioned duster cut from what looked like buffalo fur, she appeared gigantic and fearsome. Like a shieldmaiden in folklore from the fjords of northern Europe.

Rushing after the fleeing pianist, she tried to fire again but the rifle misfired. She growled like a bear with a thorn in his paw, heaving away what Wes judged to be a buffalo rifle. She pulled a pistol.

Pow pow pow!

Miss, miss, miss but she took out a mirror and a shelf of liquor bottles.

The piano player made his escape, the waitress running out the opposite door.

The gunwoman aimed toward the rear exit. “Come back here, Orville!”

Having already moved on instinct, Wes set his beer aside and was vaulting across the saloon by the moment the third bullet left its chamber.

“Cease!” He grabbed her right arm, half a heartbeat after she splintered the mirror. The Norsewoman screeched as if in pain, but he had to keep control. “Stop in the name of the law.”

“You’ve no right—remove your hands, mister!”

“No, ma’am, I will not.” Despite being somewhat shorter than the warrior, he twisted her arm and she screeched again. He pulled her hand behind her back so he could grab the smoking gun. She tried to jerk away.

Holding his breath against the vicious stink of that coat, he lobbed the six-shooter out of her reach, snapping her right hand into a handcuff. It was pure luck that he had the cuffs on him.

She reached back to spit on him, but missed yet again. “Let me go!”

“Quit that squirming. Ouch! That was my toe.” He reared away at her next move. “Are you trying to unman me? Watch that foot of yours.”

“Leave me be, you stinking, filthy pig!”

“Stinking?” He wrinkled his nose. Where’s your room to talk?

Their combined movements dislodged something from her pocket. The object went flying. Her hat also met the sawdust. A wealth of corn-silk hair fell over his face. For a moment Wes could do nothing but blow hair from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Once finished, he could see that her blond tresses cascaded around her shoulders and down her back.

Her relatively clean-smelling hair certainly didn’t go along with her overall appearance.

Now that her hair was out of his face and her manacles locked, he had the opportunity to take another assessment. He got a much better picture. Damnation! No one ever said it took beauty to snag a fine mate. Nor was war-hero acclaim a certain ticket to success with the fairer sex, but how in this world had that slug Orville Bellingham caught a beauty like this?

“What’s going on here?” Wes asked. “Who are you?”

“I’m after the gentleman who did me wrong.”

“That’s rich.”

“And you, sir, are no gentleman, attacking me like this!”

Wes did something out of his on-duty character. He turned over the reins to curiosity. Why, he couldn’t say. “What’s your idea of a gentleman?”

“A man who treats a woman like she’s a lady. He’s kind and cordial.” Her nose in the air, she went on. “He’s loving and affectionate. Tender. Smart! Clever. Useful with a hammer, unafraid of a dishpan. Excellent with praise. Restrained with criticism. Ready to love his woman, worship his wife. A strong, affectionate father, once the young’uns come along. He’s dedicated to his values and his family.” She closed her eyes, lost in her world of make-believe. “Without question, his woman knows he’s her knight in shining armor.”

Wes snickered. “That’s a servant, not an armored knight.”

She couldn’t be accused of listening, for she added, “He has a good sense of humor, where we can laugh about the silly things. He never picks his teeth in public, and never, ever passes gas in front of his lady or in church.”

“You really ought to set the bar a couple of notches higher,” Wes teased, holding back a belly roll of laughter. “Don’t forget poetry reading. Mayhap a balladeer or even a ballet danseur. Singing. Dancing. The possibilities are endless.”

“Oh, yes. Each and every one of those attributes. I have been known to daydream about a Romeo, serenading below my balcony.”

“You don’t say.”

“I’m not looking for perfection, of course.”

That did it. Wes laughed. Laughed heartily, trying to equate the buffoon who had just taken flight with a paragon found only in this woman’s imagination. “Imperfection. You definitely got that with Bellingham.”

“That’s none of your damned business.”

Serious now, Wes said, “You just shot at a decorated veteran of the Spanish-American War. The winner of our nation’s highest award. Why’d you do it, ma’am?”

Her only answer was trying to kick him. He deflected the blow.

“Stop in the name of the law!” His patience wrung dry, he added, “Now!”

She fought her restraints anew, but there would be no wrenching free from Wes Alington, not this time. She might be the type to invade foreign shores, armed with no more than a wooden shield, but this shieldmaiden had met her match in the shortest sheriff in the Lone Star State.

“For pity’s sake, woman! If Bellingham needs finding, I’ll find him.” He’s probably with his sister.

Behind her, Wes meant to secure the shieldmaiden’s left arm, but she proved lightning-quick. Whirling around, a second six-shooter in hand, she aimed to coldcock him.

Bam!

Pain roaring at his temple, he tried to clear his senses, calling up all reserves to fight a loss of consciousness while wresting the gun out of her hand. The sidearm landed in the pile on the floor.

Suddenly, she went still, then craned around. Her mouth dropped, her eyes rounding. “Are you all right?”

If he hadn’t been in so much pain, he might have laughed. “I am the law. Talk, ma’am, and I do mean now. Let’s hear the rest of it.”

Her eyes flashed blue ice—no, the blue of a fire, actually. “Oh, good. I’ve got myself a real live Judge Roy Bean.”

“Most folks call me ‘sir.’’

Roy Bean, going on three years in his grave in Val Verde County, gained notoriety along the Rio Grande, especially in the Lone Star State, but he’d been neither trained nor fit to uphold the law, much less to rule on it. The only thing the two men had in common was a love of Pearl Beer.

The shieldmaiden was rolling her eyes, showing how much she respected this man of the law. She said, “So tell me, sir. Do they also call you ‘Law North of the Pecos’?”

“This is not about what I’m called. Do you want to stand here jawing all night, or would you prefer to tell me why you’re out to kill Orville Bellingham?”

She swallowed audibly. “He killed my beloved Chuck.”

“I see.” Wes smelled a love triangle gone sour.

Her words got even quieter. “I spent a long year wondering where to find Orville, then ten days to make my way up here from The Divide. I’ve never been out of Kerr County before. When it got all flat and windy and lonesome, I was scared half to death. Scared, but I had no choice but to go on.”

This wasn’t the first time Wes had heard people say such as that about this part of Texas, a desolate area between the territories of Oklahoma and New Mexico.

He locked his eyes on the sorrow-filled woman. He figured she and the piano player had done some sparki. . .