Chapter One
Dodge City, Kansas—1880
“Well, gentlemen, love, as you call it, may have just taken on a whole new meaning for me.” Colt Severson threw the last of the amber liquid in his shot glass against the back of his throat. Gritting his teeth against the fire trickling down his gullet, his stare locked on the woman storming through the swinging doors of the Broken Spoke. The muscles in his neck quivered. From the looks of her, leaving her alone for a few hours to recover from the shock hadn’t been a good decision on his part.
Chairs around his table toppled, grown men leaping from them like rats on a sinking ship as the saloon doors clattered together behind the swirls of Annalee Sapp’s pink skirt. While the men—who moments before had been full of advice about his upcoming wedding night—scrambled, the stock of the gun in her hands rose to her shoulder and the ends of the double barrels leveled on his chest.
The gun didn’t affect him, leastwise not as much as the sight of her. Pink satin, trimmed with white piping that highlighted her remarkable feminine shape—just as it had back at the church—covered her from head to toe and made her creamy-white skin glisten with a rosy glow. Sun-kissed, golden-blond hair pulled up into a puffy cloud flounced as she stomped forward. Little curls dangling at her temples shimmered like specks of gold in a creek even in the dim light of the saloon. The blood in Colt’s veins hummed and his britches became uncomfortably tight. He squirmed in his chair, trusting the movement would relieve the pressure, and met her fire-filled gaze with what he hoped appeared to be a nonchalant if not somewhat bored expression.
“Where’s my father?” she demanded, stopping on the opposite side of the table.
The room had gone quiet, and even Elmer had stopped beating on the keys of the out-of-tune piano in the corner. Continuing his blasé act, Colt reached for the whiskey bottle to refill his shot glass. “I suspect he’s almost to Oklahoma by now.”
Her big, round eyes, the color of how he liked his morning coffee, dark and rich, took on a startled gaze. “Oklahoma?”
He took a pensive sip of whiskey and let his gaze, over the top of the glass, flow from the top of her mound of gold hair to her tiny waist. If there’d ever been a woman who’d turned his world inside out and upside down, it was Annalee Sapp.
The bitter brew warmed in his mouth. As it slid down his throat, she began to wilt. If his gaze and senses hadn’t been so alert, he may have missed the slight quiver of her shoulders and the heightened red-tinged hue covering her cheeks. Instantly, his heated gaze—meant to make her senses leap—backfired. His britches were now two sizes too small, and guilt at causing her distress made the whiskey curdle in his stomach.
The bottom of his glass clanked as it hit the tabletop. He used both hands to push away from the table and stood to face the reason he’d sought the barroom—his bride.
The gun barrels followed his stance, though waving a mite. “Why’d you send him to Oklahoma?” she asked with tight lips.
He had to hand it to her, she had nerve. If he didn’t know her as well as he did, he might feel threatened, if not by the gun, then by the loathing in her voice, something that had the ability to sting. Grasping the gun’s barrel, he held it aside and stepped around the table. “I didn’t send him anywhere. He chose to go.”
Her eyes darkened with something he couldn’t quite read. “He chose?” she whispered.
He flinched, the injured sound of her voice stabbing him dead center. Holding her upper arm while relieving her of the gun with his other hand, he led her toward the door. “Come along, my dear wife. We’ll talk about this in private.”
She glanced about the room. As if she’d just realized where they were—in the middle of a saloon full of every size and shape of cowboy—her face became bright red, but she squared her shoulders
Dodge City, Kansas—1880
“Well, gentlemen, love, as you call it, may have just taken on a whole new meaning for me.” Colt Severson threw the last of the amber liquid in his shot glass against the back of his throat. Gritting his teeth against the fire trickling down his gullet, his stare locked on the woman storming through the swinging doors of the Broken Spoke. The muscles in his neck quivered. From the looks of her, leaving her alone for a few hours to recover from the shock hadn’t been a good decision on his part.
Chairs around his table toppled, grown men leaping from them like rats on a sinking ship as the saloon doors clattered together behind the swirls of Annalee Sapp’s pink skirt. While the men—who moments before had been full of advice about his upcoming wedding night—scrambled, the stock of the gun in her hands rose to her shoulder and the ends of the double barrels leveled on his chest.
The gun didn’t affect him, leastwise not as much as the sight of her. Pink satin, trimmed with white piping that highlighted her remarkable feminine shape—just as it had back at the church—covered her from head to toe and made her creamy-white skin glisten with a rosy glow. Sun-kissed, golden-blond hair pulled up into a puffy cloud flounced as she stomped forward. Little curls dangling at her temples shimmered like specks of gold in a creek even in the dim light of the saloon. The blood in Colt’s veins hummed and his britches became uncomfortably tight. He squirmed in his chair, trusting the movement would relieve the pressure, and met her fire-filled gaze with what he hoped appeared to be a nonchalant if not somewhat bored expression.
“Where’s my father?” she demanded, stopping on the opposite side of the table.
The room had gone quiet, and even Elmer had stopped beating on the keys of the out-of-tune piano in the corner. Continuing his blasé act, Colt reached for the whiskey bottle to refill his shot glass. “I suspect he’s almost to Oklahoma by now.”
Her big, round eyes, the color of how he liked his morning coffee, dark and rich, took on a startled gaze. “Oklahoma?”
He took a pensive sip of whiskey and let his gaze, over the top of the glass, flow from the top of her mound of gold hair to her tiny waist. If there’d ever been a woman who’d turned his world inside out and upside down, it was Annalee Sapp.
The bitter brew warmed in his mouth. As it slid down his throat, she began to wilt. If his gaze and senses hadn’t been so alert, he may have missed the slight quiver of her shoulders and the heightened red-tinged hue covering her cheeks. Instantly, his heated gaze—meant to make her senses leap—backfired. His britches were now two sizes too small, and guilt at causing her distress made the whiskey curdle in his stomach.
The bottom of his glass clanked as it hit the tabletop. He used both hands to push away from the table and stood to face the reason he’d sought the barroom—his bride.
The gun barrels followed his stance, though waving a mite. “Why’d you send him to Oklahoma?” she asked with tight lips.
He had to hand it to her, she had nerve. If he didn’t know her as well as he did, he might feel threatened, if not by the gun, then by the loathing in her voice, something that had the ability to sting. Grasping the gun’s barrel, he held it aside and stepped around the table. “I didn’t send him anywhere. He chose to go.”
Her eyes darkened with something he couldn’t quite read. “He chose?” she whispered.
He flinched, the injured sound of her voice stabbing him dead center. Holding her upper arm while relieving her of the gun with his other hand, he led her toward the door. “Come along, my dear wife. We’ll talk about this in private.”
She glanced about the room. As if she’d just realized where they were—in the middle of a saloon full of every size and shape of cowboy—her face became bright red, but she squared her shoulders
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