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“James Bravo, you may kiss your bride.”
Addie was looking up into his dark-fringed blue eyes, already feeling that she’d pretty much hit the jackpot as far as temporary husbands went.
And then James slowly smiled at her and she realized that it was actually happening: they were about to share their first kiss.
James said her name softly, in that wonderful smooth, deep voice of his that sent little thrills of excitement pulsing all through her.
She said, “James,” low and sweet, just for him. And she thought of the last three nights, of the two of them together in the hotel room bed. Of waking up each morning cuddled up close to him, of one or the other of them gently, reluctantly pulling away …
Okay, maybe it wasn’t a real marriage. And it would be over as soon as her grandfather was back on his feet.
So what? It was probably as close to a real marriage as she was ever going to get.
* * *
The Bravos of Justice Creek:
Where bold hearts collide under Western skies
James Bravo’s Shotgun Bride
Christine Rimmer
CHRISTINE RIMMER came to her profession the long way around. She tried everything from acting to teaching to telephone sales. Now she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly. She insists she never had a problem keeping a job— she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine lives with her family in Oregon. Visit her at www.christinerimmer.com.
For Anita Hayes, crafter, great cook and world’s most attentive raiser of chickens. You make me laugh and touch my heart. This one’s for you, Anitabug.
Contents
Waking up tied to a chair is bad.
But waking up tied to a chair staring down the deadly single barrel of old Levi Kenwright’s pump-action shotgun?
So. Much. Worse.
James Bravo stifled a groan. Not only did it appear he was about to eat serious lead, but he had the mother of all headaches. Surely Levi didn’t really intend to shoot him. James shook his head, hoping to clear it.
Still a little fuzzy. And still hurt, too. And Levi still had that shotgun trained right on him.
The old man wasn’t at his best. His wiry white hair looked as if he’d combed it with a cattle prod and his craggy face seemed kind of pale—except for two spots of color, burning red, cresting his cheekbones. Sweat shone on his wrinkled throat and darkened the underarms of his worn checked shirt.
His aim, however?
Way too steady. Levi grunted as he sighted down the barrel. “Good. You’re awake. I was beginnin’ to worry I’d hit you a mite hard.”
James winced, blinked in another failed attempt to ease his pounding head and cast a careful glance around him. Judging by the lack of windows, the knotty pine paneling, the faint smell of cool earth and the stairs leading upward along the far wall, Levi had brought him to a basement. Was it the basement of the house at Red Hill Ranch, where Levi lived with his way too damn attractive granddaughter Addie?
Probably.
On the battered pasteboard side table a few feet away, James spotted his phone, his wallet and his keys. So even if he managed to get his hand into his pocket, there was no phone in there to use to call for help.
And just how in hell had all of this happened?
James remembered standing on the porch of his nearly finished new house ten miles outside his hometown of Justice Creek, Colorado. It was a cool and sunny March afternoon. He’d been gazing off toward the big weathered barn at Red Hill, hoping that Addie would soon ride by on one of those horses she boarded and trained.
The crazy old coot must have come up on him from behind.
Cautiously, James inquired, “Er,
