enough to poke his rifle barrel into Sinbad’s neck. “Whatcha doin’ in Broken Toe?”
“Gettin’ married,” Rand said quickly.
Alice gave another squeak.
“Yeah?” The bloodshot eyes lifted to Alice. “She yer wife, is she?”
“Yep. Name’s Oliver,” Rand volunteered. “George Winston Oliver. My wife’s called Bess.”
“Well, now, Bess. Whaddya got to say fer herself?”
“I say that I am eager to see the new house George has purchased in Boise City,” Alice said smoothly.
The man gave her a lingering look. “Say, you’re a right pretty gal!”
Rand held his breath.
Alice cleared her throat. “I was voted the belle of Broken Toe when I was a girl,” she said.
“Were ya, now?” The man took two unsteady steps forward. “Ya still don’t look more’n a girl, honey.”
Rand spotted a saddled horse almost hidden among the trees. Unobtrusively he moved his hand toward his holstered Colt.
“George,” Alice called. She moved her horse forward and reined to a stop on Rand’s right, shielding his gun hand from view. “You said your father is expecting us, and he never likes anyone to be late. And you told me how impatient he is, being the sheriff.”
“Huh?” Scruffy sent her a sharp look. “What’s in them saddlebags, Miz Oliver?”
“Pots,” Alice said instantly. “And my mama’s best iron skillet. She gave it to us for a wedding present.”
“Got any money?” He took a step closer and Rand thumbed off the safety on his revolver.
Alice’s laughter rang out. “Money! You can’t be serious. Ever since we left Broken Toe, George has been complaining about how much our wedding cost him. And now...” She reached over and playfully slapped his arm. “We have nothing left to set up housekeeping with except my mama’s iron frying pan and some old pots.”
“Got any liquor?”
Alice drew herself up so stiff Rand thought she might pop the buttons off her red plaid shirt. “Sir! I am a good Christian, raised in St. Joseph’s United Methodist Church in Broken Toe. I will have you know I never, ever touch spirits! And,” she added with a sidelong look at Rand, “now that we’re married, George doesn’t touch spirits, either.”
Rand unclenched his jaw and choked back a snort of laughter. Alice was as inventive as she was pretty.
The man groaned and began to back away. “Oh, hell, I’m wastin’ my time on you two.” He staggered off into the trees for his horse, and clumsily pulled his bulk into the saddle.
“Adios!” he called. Rand watched the man wheel his mount, crash through the brush and disappear. He waited until the hoofbeats faded away, then thumbed the safety back on.
“Is—is he gone?” Alice whispered. He noticed the hand holding her reins was shaking.
“Yeah. Pretty quick thinking, Miz Oliver. Very creative.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “Really? I was petrified!”
He chuckled. “You been reading books on acting in your library?”
She was silent. He stepped Sinbad forward. “Come on, Miz Oliver. We’ve got hours of riding ahead of us.”
By the time Rand indicated where they would camp for the night and drew rein, Alice had managed to stop shaking.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded.
He sent her a curious but admiring look. “Whatever were you thinking to spin such an outlandish tale?”
“You started it,” she pointed out. “You invented George...what was his name? Oliver? And the town of Broken Toe. Where did that come from?”
“I sure as heck don’t know,” he confessed. He couldn’t seem to stop looking at her. “But you came up with the part about the wife and the expensive wedding and the frying pan.”
“Maybe you have been reading books on acting,” she quipped. She lifted her bedroll out of the saddlebag and tossed it near the circle of stones Rand was gathering to make a fire pit.
“We have to decide some things about Silver City,” he said. He pared dry twig shavings with his pocketknife and arranged leaves and small branches over them. “I don’t want to make up our story on the fly.”
“Very well. I am a saloon girl and you are...?”
“Your bodyguard. George Winston Oliver. Pick a name for yourself, Alice.”
“Martha.”
“Nah, too grandmotherly.”
“Suzannah, then.”
“Too Southern. You don’t sound Southern. You sound Northern. Yankee-refined.”
“What about—?”
“Lolly,” he supplied. “Lolly...Maguire. If you’re Irish you’ll be forgiven for a bit of blarney if you make a mistake.”
“Lolly,” she murmured. “Rand, I have never set foot in a saloon. What does a saloon girl do, exactly?”
He tramped twice around the fire pit, stopping to extract a tin of corn and another of beans from his saddlebag. Using his jackknife, he jimmied the beans open and set the can on a flat rock near the fire. Then he sat back on his heels and looked up at her to answer the question.
“A saloon girl dances with the patrons. Gets them to buy her drinks. Flirts. Maybe she sings a bit.”
“Sings? Sings what? The only songs I know are hymns.”
He laughed. “Then it looks like I’m gonna have to teach you some bawdy songs.”
That piqued her interest. “What would be the lyrics to a bawdy song?”
Alice Montgomery, you should be ashamed of your interest in such things.
But she wasn’t ashamed. She was curious. In fact, she felt a bit daring, venturing to delve into the mysteries of the seamy side of life like the girls down at Sally’s, the ones Verena Forester sewed fancy dresses for.
“Are you going to share a bawdy song with me?” she asked.
Rand busied himself spooning corn and beans into a blackened kettle and set it near the fire. “A bawdy song,” he murmured.
