sunlight through the open doorway.
Miranda squinted. Lucille—for it could be none other—evidently shared the fashion sense of the lady who had stolen her brooch. Scarlet gown, tight corset, rouged cheeks, red hair in an elaborate twist, all topped with a frilly pink parasol.
Lucille moved inside, taking up most of the space. She snapped her parasol shut, ran an assessing gaze over Miranda, then glanced over her shoulder at the marshal.
“How much?”
“A hundred.”
“I can do that.” Lucille pointed with her parasol, almost poking Miranda in the gut. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”
Miranda shrank back in the hard wooden seat. “I can’t—”
The marshal cut her short with an ushering motion. “Go,” he told her. “I have a bounty hunter with four bank robbers arriving before nightfall. If you stay, you’ll have to share the cell with them. Wouldn’t wager much for your chances.”
Lucille smiled and pointed to the open doorway with her parasol.
“I’m not a prostitute,” Miranda said through gritted teeth, but she followed the woman, blinking when they emerged into the bright sunlight.
The train was just leaving, the whistle blowing, steam rising in the air. In the window, the matron in purple was watching. Miranda’s hands fisted. The cow! She was wearing Mama’s brooch on her bulky chest! Miranda looked about for something to throw, but there was nothing suitable in sight. A cart full of potatoes would have served her well now.
The tip of the parasol poked into her ribs. “Come along, darling.”
Miranda turned back to Lucille. “I am not going to work for you.”
Lucille’s eyes narrowed. “Until I’ve made a hundred dollars from you, you’ll do exactly what I tell you. If I tell you to jump, you ask how high. If I tell you to run, you ask how fast. If I tell you to take your clothes off, you ask if I want it quick or slow. Do you understand?”
The parasol plunged into Miranda’s ribs, hard enough to bruise. Miranda nodded. She was getting the impression that Lucille’s parasol had no more to do with blocking out the sun than Cousin Gareth’s silver-topped cane had to do with assisting walking. They were weapons, pure and simple.
She followed Lucille down the street. Fort Rock was a decent-size town, with a central row of timber buildings with false fronts that made them look taller. There were two side streets, both flanked with unpainted log cabins. They were in Wyoming now, Miranda recalled. A cool breeze stirred the air and a line of snowcapped mountains rose on the horizon.
They entered a saloon through the swinging doors. Four young women in various stages of undress lolled about on padded chairs. Two were smoking and playing cards. A petite blonde was knitting what appeared to be an endless scarf, and a dark-skinned girl was reading aloud from a book that sounded like a penny dreadful.
The sting of smoke sent Miranda into a coughing fit. She flapped a hand in front of her face to disperse the thick cloud that saturated the air.
“Oh, we have a delicate one here,” one of the smoking girls said. Tall and thin, with dark hair and a sullen expression, she blew out another plume of smoke.
“Not fresh meat again,” another one drawled. “Business is slow as it is.”
“She’s not competition.” Lucille used her parasol to prod Miranda into the center of the room. “Girls, what do we do when business is slack?”
The black girl who’d been reading grinned. “We run a promotion.”
Lucille nodded, pointed at Miranda with her parasol. “This one owes me a hundred dollars. But with business so slow, it’s not worth the effort to break in a new girl. We’ll do something to bring in the decent men. The ones who might drink and gamble but won’t pay for a woman unless they get to keep her.”
Two of the girls burst into a loud cheer. A shiver ran over Miranda. It sounded like they were talking about selling her into slavery. She gathered her courage. Papa had defeated a mutiny on one of his ships and he’d drilled it into his daughters never to show fear.
She feigned a bored tone. “May I ask, what is this promotion you’re planning?”
“Well, a bride lottery, of course,” Lucille replied.
“And you’ll be the prize,” added the knitting blonde.
* * *
Miranda had to admit Lucille was an astute businesswoman. The madam instructed the girls to set up a low platform by the window near the entrance. A hooked rug and a rocking chair went on the platform, and Miranda’s task was to sit in the rocking chair.
All day. All evening.
Instead of her black mourning gown, she wore a soft wool dress in pale blue, modest in cut, with lace ruffles at the collar and cuffs. Her hair was twisted into an elegant upsweep, the formal look softened by a few strands left loose to flutter around her face.
During the day, sunshine through the window gilded her, like an impressionist painting. In the evenings, an oil lamp burned on the small table beside her. She was allowed to pass the time sewing or reading. Sometimes, the tabby cat that lived on kitchen scraps would come in and sit on her lap, and she’d stroke the animal, drawing comfort from the gentle vibration of its contented purring.
Next to this scene of domestic harmony, separated with a hemp rope from the saloon floor, the way a valuable exhibit might be guarded in a museum, stood a sign.
Bride Lottery
Tickets $10
One ticket per person only
The rule to limit the number of entries had been subject to much debate among Lucille’s girls. In the end they had agreed that the banker, Stuart Hooperman, was known to be eager to acquire a wife. If he bought a dozen tickets, it would reduce the odds for anyone else, which might dampen wider interest.
During the day, most of the men who came into the saloon were polite enough not to stare. Instead, they stole covert glances at her while they sipped their drinks or ate their meals. At night, when the whiskey flowed, some grew bolder and crowded by the rope, ogling at her, whispering comments to each other.
Miranda blocked them all out of her mind. Growing up with servants, she had developed the skill of ignoring their obtrusive presence, and now she put that skill to use. Mostly, her thoughts dwelled on her sisters, and on Cousin Gareth.
Was he still pursuing her, or had he given up and returned to Merlin’s Leap? Or had he figured out the message in Charlotte’s letter and was on his way to Gold Crossing? How was Annabel faring alone at Merlin’s Leap? Had she managed to write to Charlotte, alerting their eldest sister that she was presumed dead?
“Who do you want to win?” asked Shanna, the black girl, as she drained whiskey from the barrels behind the counter, getting ready for the evening. She was the most talkative of the girls, the most eager to find out about Miranda’s past.
Miranda lowered the canvas fabric she was sewing. In truth, she had not allowed her thoughts
