Wed To The Texas Outlaw. Carol Arens

      That is what her new husband must believe she is, if his hesitation to let her read about the Kings was any indication.

      “Humph!” He would need to learn that she would not wither at the first sign of trouble.

      Stanley, sitting beside her, the team’s reins gripped in his smooth, lawyer-like hands, looked at her in question.

      “It’s nothing,” she said, even though it was. If a man was going to rely upon a woman’s help, he had to respect that she could actually help.

      Boone rode in front of the wagon, sitting tall on Weaver the mule. A rifle lay square across his thighs. To her mind, he looked far too commanding to be a meek farmer, even given his humble mount.

      Far too handsome, as well.

      As if reading her thoughts, her admiration of the masculine image he presented, Boone twisted in the saddle.

      It felt as if he looked past her eyes and into her mind, saw himself the way she saw him: bold, well formed, commanding. A smile tweaked one side of his mouth. He arched an eyebrow.

      She held his gaze for an instant then quickly glanced away. For all the good it did now. No doubt he felt the heat of her blush all the way from here.

      Deputy Billbro kept pace with the mule, sniffing the air and learning things about the place that mere humans were unable to perceive.

      “Where is everyone?” she asked softly. It was too quiet. A muttered voice might be heard for a block. “It’s midday. You’d think folks would be about.”

      All of a sudden Weaver brayed. The sound echoed all over town. A curtain swayed at the window of the bank but then fell back into place. A baby cried but was quickly silenced.

      Jasper Springs was not deserted, after all; it only seemed so.

      Boone reined in the mule. Stanley halted the wagon beside him.

      “We’ll visit the mercantile for supplies,” Boone said. “Make our arrival known.”

      Melinda wiped a spot of dirt from the wagon bench and smeared it on her cheek to make herself look weary, which she was not.

      “Slump your shoulders, Boone. No one will believe that a man of your size is a weakling.”

      He arched a brow but did as she asked, but really, it didn’t help much. He was a fine, strapping man and there was no hiding it.

      Stanley slumped his shoulders, too, but it didn’t make a difference, not that she would ever point that out.

      The dog didn’t need to act dusty and matted, he was naturally that way.

      Early this morning they had discussed Mather’s plan, how they would give the appearance of easy victims to attract the interest of the Kings. This would not be easy for Boone. She had noticed him chafing at the idea even from the first mention of it.

      Stopping in front of the mercantile, Boone hid his rifle in the back of the wagon, then helped her down. His big hands cupping her waist did not feel anything but strong.

      No, and neither did his arms as he set her effortlessly on the ground. It would take some doing to make him appear vulnerable.

      “I’ll need to act the nag,” she whispered in his ear. “Will anyone recognize you?”

      She worried that someone might have seen his Wanted poster. If they did, the scheme would be exposed.

      He shrugged. “Probably not. It’s been some time since that broadsheet’s been spread about. Folks forget.”

      Chances were, that would be true of most men, but Boone was quite tall, his face striking in its handsomeness and, to her mind, unforgettable. Her cousin, Rebecca, liked to call Lantree her big blond Viking. Naturally the same could be said of Boone.

      “Come along, brother Stanley,” she said with a wink at her pretend sibling. “Let the theatrics begin.”

      “I wish you’d take this more earnestly, Miss Winston,” he chided.

      “That’s ‘Mrs. Walker.’ I know you’re worried about me, but between you, my husband and the deputy, I could not be safer if I were locked in a vault.”

      Boone led her up the stairs of the boardwalk. She gazed down at her scuffed boots, at the sad sag of her faded brown skirt while she gathered the inspiration to play her part.

      The painted sign beside the mercantile door indicated that they had come during business hours but the door was locked.

      Boone rapped on the wood.

      “You’ll have to pound harder than that,” Melinda said in a raised voice while she rolled her eyes.

      Her homesteader husband frowned. She hoped that he remembered that she was only acting at being a nag. “I declare, you’ve grown weak from all that alcohol. Soon as we settle into our homestead, I’m burying the bottle.”

      Boone actually gasped.

      “Here, let me do it.” She nudged him aside then pounded her fist on the door. Maybe she ought not to have flashed him a smile.

      All at once the door opened and they were greeted by a scowling man with a drooping mustache that hid his lips.

      “Don’t you know to stay off the streets, today of all days?”

      He hustled them inside, cast a cautious glance at Billbro, then shut the door and shoved the bolt closed.

      “Looks like rain by sundown, but I can’t see why that should keep us off the street now,” Boone commented.

      “Take off your hat indoors, Mr. Witherleaf.” Melinda cast her husband a scowl then turned it on Stanley. “And you, too, brother. Don’t behave like a heathen.”

      Her “relatives” looked startled by her bossiness when they ought to be acting as though her bitter tongue was commonplace. Later on, some lessons in role-playing would be in order.

      Still, she would have to allow the men some leeway. Clearly, they had not grown up as she and Rebecca had, always trying to keep one step ahead of Mama’s restrictions and at the same time avoid undue punishment.

      “You’re new to town.” The storekeeper wagged his head long and slow.

      “I’m Boone Witherleaf. This is my wife, Melinda, and Melinda’s brother, Stanley.”

      The name Witherleaf had been assigned by Mathers and could not have been more absurd. In Melinda’s opinion, calling Boone “Witherleaf” did nothing to diminish his natural aura of power.

      Perhaps her nagging would seem more effective if he would hang his head lower.

      “You always neglect to introduce the dog.” She knelt down and snuggled the big hairy head against her bosom. “Billbro is as much a part of the family as you are.”

      Boone coughed.

      “We’re taking over the old Ramsey place,” he said to the merchant.

      “The Ramsey place? If you want my advice, you’ll turn tail and run.”

      “Why would we?” he asked. “And why should we stay off the streets?”

      “I reckon you’ll find that out soon enough. I’m Edward Spears, by the way. This is my store, for what it’s worth anymore.”

      “A pleasure.” Boone extended his hand in greeting, so did Stanley. “Might you be the brother of the livery owner in Buffallo Bend?”

      “One and the same.”

      “Oh, he’s a fine man.” Boone nodded his head. “Well, I reckon we’ll need dry goods and a few tools, grain for planting.”

      “This time of year?” Spears asked. Melinda suspected that he was smirking under his massive mustache.

      “Please