Free Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) by S. K. McClafferty Page B

Louis. A new wardrobe and lessons
in speech and deportment shall make a marked improvement in no time.”
    Reagan could take no more. Lifting her cup, she slowly,
deliberately poured the contents onto the fire, watching as steam shot up and
Jackson jumped back to avoid being spattered. “The matter? You call it ‘the
matter’? If I may be so bold as to remind you, it’s my life we’re talkin’ about, and I
don’t want no damnable husband!”
    He frowned, looking quite formidable. “That choice, unfortunately,
is no longer yours to make. As I am now your guardian, it falls to me to decide
what is best, and you will do as I say.”
    Reagan gave a loud and unladylike snort. “Guardian, my arse!
You’re just another man who’s full of hisself, and burnin’ to throw his heft
around! Guardian, ha!”
    Jackson was on his feet before the words left her mouth, grasping
her arms in a hold that hurt, pulling her up and onto her toes before him.
“Guardian, yes,” he said silkily, “to put it nicely. Yet, since you seem to
prefer straightforward talk, I will remind you, my dear Miss Dawes, that I own you, body and soul, at
least while we’re in these mountains.”
    Reagan was quivering inwardly, yet the same obstinacy that had
kept her unwed in the face of Luther’s disapproval would not allow her to show
her fear in the face of Jackson Broussard’s wrath. Standing nose-to-nose with
him, bearing up under the weight of his ominous glower, she curled her lip
contemptuously. “What gives you the right—” she began, only to have him cut
her off.
    “Two thousand five hundred dollars gives me every right to do with
you as I will, and if you do not believe me, then, pray, take a good look
around you. You may have been reared in Kentucky, but you’ve landed smack in the
middle of hell—a place where a man can sell his unwanted daughter to a
stranger, and not a man steps forward to stop him. I could put you over my knee
right now and blister your ass for your rebelliousness, or take your woman’s
body right here in the open, and no one would dare to question me.” He gave her
another slight shake, as if to underscore his words, then abruptly released
her. “I suggest you think on that while you finish your breakfast, and kindly
make haste. We’ll leave here as soon as your clothing is dry.”
    Reagan’s gaze was brimming with chilly resentment as she watched
him walk away. He was trouble, pure and simple, from the crown of his raven
head to the toes of his beaded moccasins, and Reagan wished to God at that
moment that she had never clapped eyes upon him.
    Contemptible and arrogant, determined to direct the course her
life would take, he was as changeable as the wind. Seducing her one moment,
trying to intimidate her the next—he was a confounding puzzle of a man, and she
could not seem to fathom what was real and what was a lot of empty bragging
where he was concerned.
    Nor did she intend to find out.
    What she did intend was to bide her time and allow him to assume
the role of her protector, though that role would be blessedly brief.
    A thousand miles of dangerous country stood between her and an
unwanted marriage, a marriage in which she would have no part. She watched him
gather his belongings; then, when he turned his back to saddle his mount, she
pulled a face at him. Let him plot and plan to his heart’s content, she thought. The
moment they reached Saint Louis she would find a way to be shed of Jackson
Broussard.

Chapter Four
     
     
    Jackson and his reluctant ward set out that same morning, right on
schedule. For more than a week they pushed Euripides, Jackson’s big-barreled
bay, as hard as they dared over the rocky foothills and through the steep,
barren valleys that lay to the east of the Shining Mountains.
    Jackson was quieter now, almost distant. He rarely spoke during
the daylight hours, except to grunt in answer to one of her frequent questions,
or to issue an occasional command. Reagan couldn’t