Page 12 of Seven Brides for Beau McBride (The McBrides of Montana #3)

The thought of a flock of women in town made Beau’s blood run fast in ways that were confusing.

Hell, he had a wife coming in on today’s train.

It wasn’t a good time to have a passel of girls arrive.

Even if his imaginings were suddenly full of skirts and smiles, curves and giggles, silky skin and… God damn.

By the time he reached Bitterroot, Beau was in a conflagration of feeling.

His hands were unsteady on the reins, and he was jumpy as a squirrel.

He took a deep breath as he slowed Dutch to a trot.

It was a bright fall day, and the sun streamed through the blazing woods, gilding the leaves brassy gold.

Bitterroot itself was a raw little place, still mostly uncleared land, and the buildings were nestled among the fir and larches like mushrooms sprung up from the mulch.

The trickle of a creek running right through main street was shining and babbling and Beau could hear the erratic tapping of woodpeckers echoing through the woods proper.

It should be the perfect day to meet the woman you were going to marry.

But instead, he was absorbed in thoughts of his bratty little sister.

And the girls she might be off introducing herself to…

Beau’s gaze flicked around, looking for dresses and curls and hats with ribbons. But Bitterroot looked as empty as always. No sign of Junebug, and no sign of any girls.

Beau slowed as he neared the new little white church with its colored glass windows.

The same church he’d planned to get married in.

Still planned to get married in. He saw the preacher out front, caught up in conversation with Thunderhead Bill, who seemed to have built up a head of steam.

Bill was waving his old stovepipe hat about as he spoke, emphasizing each point with a thrust of the battered old thing.

Bill’s usual companions, Sour Eagle and the scruffy trapper Roy, were further down the street, out on the porch of the mercantile.

They were sprawled lazily on the top step, oblivious to old Mrs. Langer, who was trying to sweep around them in peevish strokes.

Those trappers were thick as thieves with Junebug.

If anyone knew where she was, it would be them.

“Bill,” Beau called, annoyed by the conversation before it even started. Talking to Bill was like wrestling a fish. He was a slippery, thrashing kind of a conversationalist.

Thunderhead Bill gave Beau a sideways look and then dismissed him, continuing on at the preacher as though Beau hadn’t even spoken.

“I’m looking for Junebug.” Beau’s hands tightened on the pommel of his saddle. “Bill!” he snapped. “Tell me where she is. Now.”

“Junebug? Here? In Bitterroot?” The old trapper affected surprise, as though Junebug had never been to Bitterroot in her life.

“Bill.” Beau had no patience for these games. He leaned forward and glared at him. “You don’t want to try me. Not today.”

The pastor stepped in. “She came through a couple of hours ago,” he told Beau quickly, trying to keep the peace. “I imagine she’s at the hotel talking to—”

Thunderhead Bill erupted into an explosive coughing fit.

He bent double and set up a ridiculous display, covering up the pastor’s words.

He grabbed the pastor and spluttered something about needing water, rheumatism of the lungs, and a torrent of other nonsense.

It was clear as day to everyone involved that he was covering for Junebug.

At least she wasn’t dead in the woods somewhere, Beau thought darkly, glancing in the direction of the hotel, where his sister was apparently holed up with a bunch of girls. Wait till he got his hands on her.

Still, she wasn’t here to interfere with his plans.

“Feel better, Bill,” he said sourly, flicking his reins.

Thunderhead Bill’s coughing fit died suddenly as Beau rode off, then he heard the old windbag start up again at the pastor, who gave a full-bodied sigh.

Beau noted Sour Eagle and Roy had disappeared from the porch of the mercantile while he was talking to Thunderhead Bill. They were probably off warning his sister he’d arrived. Those rodents.

“Good morning,” Beau said tightly, tipping his hat to Mrs. Langer, whose son Fritz owned the store.

Mrs. Langer paused in her sweeping. She was a keen-eyed, sharp-faced old woman, who undoubtedly had some idea of the shenanigans Junebug had going on today.

She nodded towards the clock at the train station.

“I’ve heard enough of that wretched thing chiming today, Beau McBride, to know it’s no longer morning.

” Her thick German accent accentuated her sharpness.

Beau caught a glimpse of Roy slipping between the firs in the direction of the hotel. “Good afternoon, then.”

“I suppose you’ve come to court the young ladies,” Mrs. Langer said slyly, noticing the direction of his gaze. “I knew you were up to something with all those letters.” Mrs. Langer was also the town’s part-time postmistress and had been witness to Beau’s recent flurries of mail.

“I hate to disappoint, but I’m afraid not.” Beau kept his voice even. “I don’t know anything about no girls.” Much as he’d like to understand where they came from and what Junebug had to do with it. “I’m here to meet the afternoon train.”

Mrs. Langer’s sharp gaze grew even sharper. “Ah. I suppose you’re meeting the same person your sister is?”

Beau’s blood ran cold. Goddamn it. His smile faltered, and he knew Mrs. Langer noticed it, because she noticed everything. “She’s at the train station already?” He tried to keep his voice mild but couldn’t quite keep the edge out of it.

“Bright and early so she wouldn’t miss it.”

“Of course she wouldn’t want to miss it,” Beau said tightly, turning his horse, his smile evaporating as soon as his back was turned.

“What in hell are you doing here?” Junebug exploded.

She wasn’t pleased to see him. Which suited him, as he was none too pleased to see her either.

“What in hell are you doing here?” He threw her question back at her. “And what are you wearing?” He’d clearly caught her red-handed. At something.

As Beau had hitched his horse, Junebug had come barreling out of the train station, Sour Eagle in her wake and her yappy dog bouncing along behind. Only she didn’t look like her normal self. She was in a dress he’d never seen before, a long one, and she looked like a girl.

“So I’m wearing a dress,” Junebug said bullishly, propping her hands on her hips and looking for all the world like she might charge him. “You’ve seen me in a dress before.”

“Not often.” He wasn’t about to be stared down. He glowered back at her.

The only dresses he’d ever seen Junebug wear before were the childish yellow thing Maddy had made for her, which she’d hated with a passion, and one of Willabelle’s overly adult gowns.

That was a sight he was trying hard to forget.

Willabelle’s dress had been entirely too revealing, and his little sister had been entirely too…

well, grown up. Morgan had just about hit the roof over it.

Today’s dress was also grown up, but not in a Willabelle way.

There were no bared shoulders or excess display of skin.

It was harebell blue, high necked, with gently puffed sleeves and a hint of a bustle.

The blue dress made Junebug look like a lady, which was disconcerting.

Her wild hair was growing out of its short summer chop and was a mess of dark curls; she’d tied her white satin ribbon over the top and the whole effect was oddly charming.

Cleaned up like this, she looked the image of a sweet young thing and nothing like the demon spawn she actually was.

Even her silly little dog was freshly washed and brushed, his tail streaming like a pennant as he wagged it.

“I am a girl, you know,” Junebug said sourly, noticing his astonishment. “Girls wear dresses.” She seemed to wrestle with herself. “Sometimes.” Another pause. “When they feel like it.”

“And what’s got you feeling like it today?” Beau folded his arms and fixed her with a dark look. Let her worm her way out of this.

Typically, Junebug went on the offensive. “Well, what are you all dressed up for? I ain’t seen that coat before. It looks plenty fancy; that ain’t a coat from these parts, which means you’ve been clandestinely catalog-shopping again.” Her eyes narrowed. “You trying to impress someone?”

There was no point in dissembling. Not anymore. “I’m dressed up, as you might have guessed, to meet my bride.”

“Your bride ? ” Junebug gave an outraged gasp and then she let out a stream of the foulest curse words he’d ever heard. Some were even new to him. “You cain’t be meeting no bride!”

“Well, I am.” He checked the clock. “And by my reckoning, she’ll be here soon.”

“Is this that moonshiny gal?”

“I don’t see what you’re in a pique about, I told you I was marrying her.” He frowned. “Wait. What do you mean I cain’t be meeting no bride? Ain’t you here to meet her too? Ain’t that what you’re up to?”

“Your bride!” She all but stomped her foot. “You chiseler, Beau McBride! We had a goddamn bet. You ain’t even let me show you mine yet! You can’t go marrying anyone or you’re violating the terms of our agreement. Which would mean, by default, I win.”

Her dog barked sharply. It dashed in front of Junebug, baring its teeth at Beau.

Beau was blindsided. What in hell was she doing here, if she wasn’t here to snarl up his wedding? “The bet was to find the best wife,” he said sharply. “And I have. So according to my reckoning, I win.”

“Screw you. This bet ain’t over, but only because I ain’t got the stomach to win by default. I want to win that circus fair and square. Besides, I’ve gone to all this trouble!”

“All what trouble?” Beau had a very bad feeling. Worse than the normal Junebug kind of feeling. And that was plenty bad enough…