Free Bushedwhacked Groom by Eugenia Riley Page A

scheme.”
    “Cowboy, you can’t think I’m that conniving,” she flirted with a grin.
    “You and Scarlett O’Hara.”
    “Scarlett O’Who?”
    “Never   mind.”
    She sashayed closer, tempting him with her bright green eyes and smiling, rose-hued lips, and despite himself, Lucky drew in a harsh breath. As he watched in fascination, she drew a teasing hand down her lacy bodice—puckering a nipple in the process—then trail ing her shapely fingers past the trim lines of her waist to the tempting folds of her skirt.
    Lucky’s privates twinged painfully and he almost groaned out loud. Her gesture was blatantly sensual yet enticingly naive.
    She spoke in a low purr. “Handsome, do you really think I’d wed you in this here pink, rather than virgin’s white?”
    “Virgin, eh?” Lucky gulped, unable to help himself. He was riveted.
    “Are you insulting my maidenhood now?” she de manded with a pout.
    Lucky wasn’t sure how to respond to that, espe cially since he couldn’t even recall the last time he’d met a bona fide “maiden.” “Just tell me why you’re all prettied up.”
    “Well, truth to tell, my aunt Dumpling and uncle Billy and their young’uns are coming for dinner today. I know they’ll enjoy meeting my affianced—”
    “I’m not your g’damned affianced!” he exploded.
    “And Aunt Dumpling will just love helping me plan my wedding,” she finished cheerily, ignoring his flash of temper.
    Lucky knew there was little point in arguing further. Muttering “Damn crazy woman,” he turned and strode off for the house.
    ***
    Lucky returned to his room to find shaving gear—an old-fashioned, straight-edge razor, a basin of warm wa ter, a crude bar of soap and a linen hand towel—laid out on his dresser. Some kind soul—probably Jes sica—had put the items there. Mumbling, “She’s got to be kidding,” he tried his best to trim his stubble with the antiquated equipment, yelping numerous times when he nicked himself with the less than sharp blade. By the time he finished, the smells of ham and strong cof fee were enticing him toward the kitchen.
    Rubbing his sore face as he stepped into the large, stone-floored room, he spotted Grandma and Jessica, both in homespun dresses and aprons, busy making coffee, flipping flapjacks and frying ham and eggs at an antique cast-iron stove. The other kitchen fixtures consisted of a primitive drain board with a pump, two large pie safes and a crude porcelain icebox, much like the an tique one his grandparents had stored on the back porch.
    Lucky could only shake his head. Another scene from a B western.
    “Mornin’, ladies,” he greeted.
    Jessica turned with a smile. “Lucky. Good morning to you. You feeling better?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Did you find the shaving paraphernalia I left for you?”
    He rubbed his smarting cheek again. “Oh, yes, ma’am.”
    Grandma guffawed. “Just look at him—all scratched up like a rooster caught in chicken wire. Ain’t nobody learnt you how to shave, sonny?”
    “Not with a blunt object,” he replied dryly.
    “Huh?” Grandma asked.
    Jessica was laughing. “Sit down, Lucky, and I’ll bring you some coffee.”
    “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
    He took a seat at the long trestle table and sipped the strong brew from a blue enamel cup. Within seconds Cole strode in, dressed for the range in jeans and a long shirt, followed in quick order by the boys, who filed in one by one, well-scrubbed, from the bunkhouse. They took their places, barely ac knowledging him with stiff nods.
    Lucky was astounded at the feast the two ladies served up—flapjacks with hot syrup, fried eggs and ham, biscuits with cream gravy. Although the fare was definitely mouthwatering, Lucky was stunned at the massive amounts the other men consumed. He could only watch in mingled fascination and disbelief as Zach wolfed down five pieces of ham and at least as many eggs, and Matt devoured four huge biscuits soaked in gravy.
    “Eat up,