Shotgun Bride by Linda Lael Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

“But thanks, just the same.”
    “Reckon we don’t have to worry about that right away,” John replied, throwing a chunk of wood onto the fire in the potbellied stove. The woman started at the sound and blinked. Sparks snapped in the chimney, and the good smell of seasoned mesquite filled the room. “You can always chop some firewood for the cook or something. Never enough help over at that place, especially since they started building on.”
    The man considered the matter, clearly weighing the semblance of charity against his wife’s need, and his own. To his credit, he chose wisely. “If I can pay our way by workin’—”
    John smiled to himself, went to the door, and gave a shrill whistle. That would bring one of the Sussex boys from down the street; they were a posse of snot-nosed rascals, freckled and knock-kneed and wholly wild, but fit to run errands when the need arose. John had a special weakness for the scruffy little buggers.
    “What’s your name?” he asked the farmer, when Harry Sussex had been dispatched to the hotel kitchen to bring back whatever vittles might be available. He set a mug of coffee on the desk for the woman, handed another to her husband. “I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance before today.”
    “Sam Fee” was the response. Fee’s work-chapped hands trembled as he closed them around the tin mug. “This is my wife, Sarah, and our little one, Ella Susannah.”
    Sarah Fee had relaxed a little; she peeled away some of the child’s swaddling and held her against one shoulder while she reached for the coffee John had brought.
    “If you’d like to let the baby lie down,” John said, “there’s a cot in the cell there. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean enough.”
    Sarah looked to Sam. He deliberated awhile, then gave his assent with one sharp nod of his head. Once Sarah had settled the child comfortably, she rejoined the men in the front office, but her gaze kept straying toward the little barred room where she’d left her baby.
    “Tell me what happened last night,” John said, refilling both their cups. “Start at the beginning.”
    The story was grim, and by the end of it, Becky had arrived with a picnic basket, and a plan. The Fees tried to eat slowly, but they were both famished, and they finished off the ham, biscuits, and fried grits with desperate good manners. John wondered when their provisions had begun to run low. No matter how well prepared the settlers thought they were in the fall of the year, the high-country winters generally starved them out long before spring.
    “Much obliged,” Sam said with a red tinge to his jawline. He fixed his sorrowful gaze on John’s face. “We’re grateful for the food, Marshal, but we need to know what you mean to do about the McKettricks.”
    Becky’s eyes widened. “The McKettricks?” she echoed. They were her daughter’s kin, and she tended to think well of them. So did John, for that matter, though he’d had enough go-rounds with those roughneck boys over the years to know they were wild as rutting stallions after the same mare. At one time or another, he’d had each of them right there in his jail, drunk, disorderly, or both.
    “They burned our place,” Sam told her. His tone was somber, with fury in it, but not a trace of self-pity. These were strong people, used to the hardships of life on the land. Like as not, they’d never known an easy day in their lives.
    Becky paled a little at Sam’s announcement, and it was all John could do not to go patting her hand and all like that. Fortunately, he knew better by experience; she hated fussing, this woman of his. Liked to stand on her own two feet and fight her battles personally, no matter what came at her. “That can’t be,” she said. “They wouldn’t—”
    Sarah spoke up. “The one they call Rafe,” she said flatly, staring into space, “he came by to see us just last week. Told us we were on Triple M land and we ought to move on before