Badland Bride
The Wild Rose Press
www.thewildrosepress.com
Copyright ©2009 by Lauri Robinson
First published in 2009
Other Cactus Rose titles to enjoy:
Stephanie said, pointing to her and Skeeter. “And no grandchild of mine is gonna be born a bastard."
The skin on Lila's cheeks prickled with heat, and she wished with all her might she could just disappear. Skeeter started shouting. The rag over his mouth billowed and rough mumbles filled the room. The ropes binding him strained against his trouncing and his chair legs bounced a time or two.
"Is that true, Skeeter?” Kid asked angrily.
Skeeter started to mumble at the same time she jumped to his defense. Fighting the gag, as well as the thick rope wound around her, Lila tried to say none of it was Skeeter's doing, but between the rag and Skeeter's loud sounds, no one could understand her.
Kid held up one hand. “A simple yes or no is all I need."
"It's not his baby,” Lila said against the cloth, shaking her head.
The older brother frowned, clearly not understanding what she'd said, and then glanced to Skeeter.
He mumbled beside her, long and loud the whole time gesturing with his head. Tails of the billowing white bow tied against his forehead fluttered and fell over his eyes. He flipped it aside, and Lila grimaced, afraid his wound would start bleeding again at his thrashing.
"Just nod your head,” Kid said, staring at Skeeter. “Yes, she's going to have a baby? Or no, she's not?"
Simultaneously, she and Skeeter nodded their heads.
...
for BADLAND BRIDE, The Quinter Brides Book 2: “An amazingly well-woven story. ...a wonderful couple, but also a believable family. Skeeter is a charismatic, charming hero, and Lila is a great match for him. These characters are colorful, vibrant, and full of life. They surround you with their wit and realism.
~
Author Mallary Mitchell
...for SHOTGUN BRIDE, The Quinter Brides Book 1: “An uplifting novel, full of hope...I can't wait to read the sequels."
~ Love Western Romances
...for AN UNBELIEVABLE JOURNEY: “This story is captivating from start to finish."
~ Robyn with Once Upon a Romance
"I definitely recommend reading WIFE FOR BIG JOHN. I enjoyed it immensely and you will too!"
~Laura of Two Lips Reviews, a Recommended Read
...for MAIL ORDER HUSBAND: “I envision this book will be a keeper for many bookshelves; I highly recommend that you read it!"
~Brenda Talley, The Romance Studio
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Badland Bride: The Quinter Brides, Book Two
COPYRIGHT (C) 2009 by Lauri Robinson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Nicola Martinez
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Cactus Rose Edition, 2009
Print ISBN 1-60154-613-0
Published in the United States of America
Western Kansas
2008
Trembling from head to toe, Lila Scott prayed for a miracle.
Her heart beat faster than the eight cylinders beneath the hood of her cherry-red Ford Mustang. The car was new, still had that showroom smell and smooth, sleek leather, but Lila wasn't focused on the smell or the softness of the driver's seat. With a death grip on the padded steering wheel, she concentrated on driving and took the corner at seventy.
The curve ended, she straightened the wheel and stole a glance into the review mirror. A thick cloud of dust from the white gyp road blocked her vision, giving no clue if Pete followed or not.
Had his big pickup made the swift exit off the interstate? Drawing in a shaky breath, she slammed her foot down, pushing the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The engine hummed louder, roaring like a lion instead of its normal kitten purr.
She kept both hands on the wheel. Worry of loosing control of the car overrode the need to wipe at the sweat dripping into her eyes. Frosty air spewed out of the air conditioning vents, but it wasn't the summer heat causing her to sweat profusely. Fear of being murdered by a madman had her nerves in high gear.
Little more than a blur, the immense wheat fields of western Kansas flew by. Tiny, tasseled heads created a fuzzy sea of gold. Lila sent quick sideway glances in search of the old telephone poles she'd seen from the highway. The wireless, broken posts signified a homestead out here somewhere.
A few miles up the road, steep cliffs and the unusual, bleached-white pillars of sandstone creating the Kansas Badlands rose from the flat, mid-western plains. She kept her foot on the gas, raced ahead and hoped nature's bizarre groundwork would provide a safe hideaway. Before long all four tires bounced haphazardly and forced her to ease up on the gas. Nerves on edge, and darting glances between the rearview mirror and the windshield, she guided the little car over the gyp road plagued with hills and deep ruts.
The unmaintained trail curved ahead. Squinting into the mirror, she wondered if the small, dark object far behind was real or an illusion. The back of her throat burned, and the film of tears grew thicker in her eyes. “Please, please, don't let it be him,” she begged, and turned the wheel to follow the road around the first of the moonscape cliffs.
Skeeter Quinter peered beyond the ruins of the outbuildings, waiting for whatever made the low rumbling noise to pull into the yard of the deserted farm house. His heart thudded with excitement.
What would it look like this time
? He'd seen so many odd and unusual contraptions since becoming a ghost. Even his mind, which was extraordinarily overactive, had a hard time conjuring up anything comparable to some of the images he'd witnessed the past few days. Or was it weeks? Months? Years maybe?
Leaning further out the top story window, Skeeter wished he was the kind of ghost that could fly. But he couldn't. All he could do was float through this old house. With ease, he drifted through doors, walls, even the ceiling and floors, but he couldn't penetrate the odd, invisible shield surrounding the outside exterior of the house.
He crossed his legs then folded his arms to hover over the window sill. His position had to be somewhat akin to Old Chief Smokey overlooking The People's great prairie. The sun, high in the sky, radiated heat onto the rolling fields of buffalo grass, and the massive sandstone pyramids, irregular anywhere except for here, near Castle Rock and the Kansas Badlands. Dozens of sun-bleached pillars stood hundreds of feet high, their spiral shapes grouped in unusual, mismatched clumps. He could almost imagine they were a tribe of warriors awaiting his next command.
Skeeter chuckled aloud then snapped his mouth shut, listening.
Dang!
He knew the sound had left his throat, he'd felt the chuckle vibrate his vocal cords, but only his mind had heard it, not his ears. He refolded his arms across his chest. “This ghost shit is for the birds."
The rumbling noise grew closer. A disgusted huff left his chest. He could hear the contraption, hear the ever-blowing wind whistling through the outcroppings of sandstone and rustling the leaves of the singular elm next to the sagging roof of the porch, so why couldn't he hear himself? Evidently, ghosts couldn't talk. Just hear and...breathe. That was the other odd thing—he could still feel air flowing in and out of his lungs. Ghosts didn't breathe, did they?
His elbows settled somewhere near where his knees should be, and his chin imitated resting on his palms. It was logical—him being a ghost. Ma always said you gotta be good to see the pearly gates, and, well, out of all the Quinter boys, Kid, Skeeter, Snake, Hog, and Bug, he'd probably been the worst. Had he known what his afterlife would be like, he would've taken care to be a better person. Twenty-three was too young to die, and being a ghost was awfully boring.
Truth be told, he hadn't been a bad person. He'd never killed anyone, never cheated, never stole, nor committed any other outrageous sins. Sure he'd picked on his younger brothers a time or too, but it had all been in good-natured fun.
Sorrow swirled in his gut. He missed his family. Even before becoming a ghost, he'd longed for Kid's guidance, Snake's knowledge, Hog's cooking, and Bug's enthusiasm. Heck, he even missed how Ma whacked them all upside the head when their rough-housing got out of hand. A raw sigh stung his chest. He'd never see any of them again. Somehow fate had sealed him inside this rotting, old house.
"If I was the kind of ghost who could fly, I'd be haunting Buffalo Killer right now,” he grumbled. The Sioux brave had pretended to be a friend, and Skeeter had believed he was sincere. A frown tugged at his brows. He knew better, and shouldn't have trusted the brave. Years ago, Buffalo Killer's grandfather, Pawnee Killer, had convinced Custer he was a friend of the white man too, and that hadn't turned out too good for Custer either.
Buffalo Killer had said the Badlands held special powers and promised Skeeter would see them if he participated in a ghost dance. The ritual included drinking the rot gut whiskey the army supplied the few lingering bands of Plainsmen, and eating the magical peyote. Skeeter now knew why it was called a ghost dance. “Cause it kills ya,” he mumbled.
The object making the noise rounded the corner. He rose, and like he'd done as a child to the front glass of the mercantile in Nixon, pressed his hands and nose against the invisible shield. The excited thud of his heart pounded just as hard as it had all those years ago, anxious to get a peek, knowing odd sightings were likely the most thrilling things ghosts could encounter.
A bright red flash shot up the road faster than a falling star shooting across the sky at midnight. “Dang,” he moaned with disappointment. If only he could get close enough to touch one of these horseless carriages. Gravel crunched and shot out like stray bullets as the object skidded to a halt. The wheels were wide and black with shinny metal hubs. They were quite remarkable, didn't have any spokes, but had bold, white letters that spelled
Good Year
. “Maybe for you,” he said sarcastically.
Sunlight reflected off the chrome on the front end of the carriage, the brightness almost blinded him. He squinted against the glare and continued his assessment. Dark glass around the sitting area made it impossible to see more than a shadowy figure. Right in the middle of the front end, in between what looked like two huge eyes, was a carved, silver horse, and down the side of the red paint white writing said
Mustang GT
.
His nose pressed harder against the shield. He'd give anything to see how the contraption moved without horses. A loud vroom split the air as gravel blasted out from beneath the wheels and the carriage shot around the side of the house.
He twisted, glided through the air and walls like an arrow. Without warning he smacked the shield outside the far side of the house so hard it sent him back though the wall. “Damn! Good thing ghosts can't feel anything, ‘cause that had to hurt,” he muttered, slowly moving back to the wall. This side of the house didn't have any windows, so he poked just his face through the wood and tried to catch a glimpse of where the red carriage had gone. Weather-worn and tattered shingles of the porch roof blocked his view.