Renegade Wife - By Charlene Sands Page 0,2

a long road ahead of him, proving his worth to his grandfather.

But marrying Bennett Jackson’s handpicked bride wasn’t part of the plan. Kane wouldn’t submit to his blackmail. Hell, he even felt a bit sorry for Miss McGuire. No doubt his grandfather had painted a rosy picture of the man she was to marry. No doubt, his grandfather had lured her with vivid descriptions of lawn parties, church socials and a home that needed a woman’s touch.

No doubt, his grandfather had left out all of the unseemly details of Kane’s disreputable past. He was twenty-six years old and had lived more lifetimes than most men he knew.

He wondered what his mail-order bride would think about their wedding nuptials if she knew the absolute truth about him.

I’m a mail-order bride without benefit of a groom, Molly thought grimly, as she marched into town. She’d come all this way to forge a new life for herself. She’d come all this way to meet a decent man, to perhaps find comfort and companionship within his arms. She’d come all this way with the promise of finding her brother. Instead, all she’d found was disappointment.

But Molly had no choice but to continue on with her quest. She strode into the center of town, plaguing her memory for one hint, one clue as to where Charlie might have gone. Those doggone dime novels came to mind. He was forever reading them, curled tight into bed, with the lamplight burning low so that Mama wouldn’t catch on and holler for him to turn down the lamp and get to sleep. Those dime novels—outlaws, Indians, saloons and women.

Molly stopped abruptly and peered at the White Horn Saloon. Tinted windows displayed the finest liquor and pictures of bawdy half-dressed women. Oh, heavens.

Charlie would love this place.

Molly mustered her courage and stepped inside.

Her lungs filled instantly, the gasp coming rather unexpectedly as she glanced around. She’d never been so bold as to enter a saloon. The whole place stirred with commotion, a noisy boisterous room filled with smoke and laughter and music. Bright golden-flocked wallpaper decorated the walls along with signs depicting the different beverages served and a moose’s head appeared to be coming straight out of the wall. Tiered chandeliers draped from the ceiling. She could only imagine how those dozens of candles illuminated the saloon at night.

No one seemed to notice Molly. Relieved, she approached the bar, hoping the barkeep would recognize Charlie. She set her valise down and dug into her reticule, coming up with a picture of her brother taken when he was twelve. It was the most recent image she had of him. She showed him the picture, explaining a bit about her search.

“No, sorry, miss. I haven’t seen him,” the barkeep offered, shaking his head.

Molly cast him a polite smile. It was too much to hope yet she’d had to try. “Thank you.” She swept her gaze around the room. There must be fifty people crowded within these walls. Surely, someone here might have seen Charlie at one time. “Would you mind terribly if I asked some of your patrons?”

The barkeep pursed his lips and studied Molly. He leaned heavily on the mahogany bar top until his face came within inches from hers. “Wouldn’t be wise, miss. Why don’t you give over the picture and I’ll see what I can do. You can wait outside.”

“Oh, um.” Molly glanced at Charlie’s likeness. To leave the sole picture she had of her brother in the big beefy outstretched hand of the bartender prickled her skin. Why, one spill of whiskey could destroy the image permanently. “That’s very kind of you, but I’ll just wait by the door and ask as your guests are ready to leave.”

The bartender shrugged. “Suit yourself, but you’ll have to pay for any damages.”

Molly blinked back her surprise. “Damages?”

But the barkeep had already turned his back and moved down to the far side of the bar to serve a handful of cowboys.

Befuddled by the barkeep’s comment, Molly lifted her belongings and headed for the saloon door. She hadn’t taken but three steps before she felt herself being twirled around. She stared into the chest of a lean, lanky cowboy. His hand, clamped firmly around her waist, tugged her closer. “Howdy, miss.”

A smirk emerged through the man’s whiskers as he flashed a set of small uneven teeth. Stale whiskey breath rushed out. “I’d be proud to buy you a drink.”

Molly swatted at his hand and pulled back until she was free of