Wed To The Montana Cowboy. Carol Arens

dollars and not a penny more,” he added.

      Now he was beginning to tempt her. Three dollars to repair a rip in his shirt...one that was too small to even be seen? And she with not a cent to her name?

      “Four dollars and we have a bargain.”

      “I’m being robbed.”

      “Be that as it may, if you want my services, you will set four dollars beside Screech’s cage and take off your shirt.”

      “I’ll keep it on if it’s all the same to you,” he said then dug into his pocket and withdrew four one-dollar bills. He set them beside Screech, who eyed them with flashing eyes.

      “How do you expect me to do my job with you still in your clothing?”

      “All I want is your time...to help you understand the life a young lady like you can expect to lead if you continue on the way you are.”

      “You don’t make much sense. I’m sorry. Your confusion is my fault and I do apologize. Won’t you see a doctor about your head? Here, take back one dollar. It’s only fair since I’m the one who injured you.”

      She stood up, brushed a leaf from her skirt and went to fetch the needle and thread. It wouldn’t be easy to find among the many skirts, blouses, petticoats and stockings that Melinda had insisted she bring.

      At length, she found a needle and selected a color of thread that, surprisingly, matched his shirt. She threaded the needle while she walked back to her client.

      This was not going to be an easy job with him still in the shirt. She only prayed that the rip was not in an inconvenient spot.

      “I may have to touch you,” she warned him. “Just keep in mind that this is strictly business. Once I’m finished you will go on your way and I’ll go on mine.”

      He gazed at the needle and thread looking perplexed. Had he never had a garment repaired for pity’s sake?

      She sat down beside him, running her fingers over the arm seams of his shirt. Not even a loose thread to be worried about.

      Clearing her throat she began to yank the shirt from the waistband of his pants. Truly, this could not be more uncomfortable.

      “You misunderstand,” he said, his breath seeming to come short and fast. “I only want to talk to you.”

      The only decent thing to do was humor the man. Perhaps by talking, he might become more sensible.

      She pinned the threaded needle through her collar so as not to lose it.

      “Do you often pay for conversation, Mister...?”

      “Walker,” he said. “And no, I’ve never paid for it.”

      “It’s the blow to your head making you do so, no doubt.” She folded her hands in her lap, ready to do her duty and listen to whatever nonsense he had to spout. “Please, feel free to have your say.”

      “Ladies of the night,” he began then cleared his throat. “They lead a hard life...a short life.”

      “No doubt that’s true.”

      “They meet up with brutal men. If a woman is lucky enough to survive the harsh treatment, she rarely survives the syphilis, gonorrhea and other sexually transmitted diseases.”

      Now he had her blushing. How could she not when he spoke so boldly of inappropriate matters?

      She half wished she had not accepted his money...and certainly that she had not walloped him in the head.

      “I’m sure that’s very sad,” she agreed, hoping that this conversation would turn to a more respectable subject.

      “You don’t seem overly worried, but I can assure you the danger is very real.”

      “Maybe you’d like to talk about something more pleasant,” she urged.

      “I’d like to convince you to earn a living in some other way.”

      “Mr. Walker, I’ve never heard of anyone becoming ill over a needle prick... Well, there was Snow White’s mother, she died, but that was a fairy tale.”

      “You make light of the problem, but it’s very real.”

      She sighed. How could she not? “Sometimes a body just needs a dash of humor. Don’t you agree?”

      “I do not. In fact, I’ve got a mind to tie you to a horse, haul you back to town and show you how funny a sick whore is.”

      She slid the needle from her collar and pointed it at him.

      “I know how to use this. Lay a hand on me and I’ll stitch your fingers together.”

      “Damned Hippocratic oath,” he mumbled.

      He stood up. From where she sat gazing up, it looked like his head skimmed the treetops.

      “What an odd thing to say,” she mumbled back.

      Insanity was his problem, she decided, not the blow to his head. In some way this was a relief. His behavior was not her fault.

      But then again, she was alone in the wilderness with a lunatic.

      In a move too swift for her to avoid, he reached down and snatched her arm. He tossed her over his shoulder and began to walk away...somewhere.

      Her horse was not saddled. His team was grazing. Did he mean to walk back to Coulson carrying her like a bag of potatoes?

      Given his mental state, perhaps he did.

      But given her determination not to go anywhere with him... Well, they would see who went where.

      She kicked her legs but all she managed to do was cover his face in a blizzard of furious petticoats.

      She screamed, having forgotten in the moment that her bird loved nothing more than to join in a ruckus.

      Screech screeched. Other birds copied him and soon the branches were alive with alarmed twitters.

      “I’m warning you to put me down!”

      “This is for your own good,” her captor grumbled.

      Apparently, he had forgotten that she still gripped the needle in her hand.

      * * *

      Something stung him in the rump. It was early in the day for hornets.

      He swatted his backside then got stung on the hand.

      He spun about, gripping the woman by the knees, while he sought to slap the bug.

      Sunshine glinted off something in the soiled dove’s hand. All of a sudden he remembered the needle.

      That’s what he got for trying to do a good deed. The same sort of thing had happened to him once when he tried to set the leg of an injured raccoon. He’d been bitten. Infection had been the pay for his effort.

      “What the hell, ma’am!” He didn’t believe in cursing before women, but she sliced the needle at him again as he was setting her to her feet. “Damnation!”

      “Escaped from bedlam or not, you have no right to accost ladies in the forest!” She backed away from him jabbing the slender weapon at the air.

      He did not follow. He rubbed his wounds. Bedlam?

      “I warned you what I would do. You should have known that a seamstress would know how to wield a needle.”

      All of a sudden he felt heat suffuse his face.

      “You’re not a whore?” What a colossal blunder he had made.

      The woman paled.

      “I beg your pardon?” she gasped and clutched one hand to her throat.

      “No, I beg yours.”

      “What could possibly