He watched those gray-blue eyes, as she accepted the ring; he saw the love there. He wondered if a woman any prettier existed, or a man any luckier than he was today. Did he really have any right calling someone as beautiful and kind and understanding his wife? Would he bring her only pain and sorrow? He had wanted so much just to ride out of her life and leave her to better things; but it had been impossible to see her again and not want her. She had made it all so easy, and he saw no fear or doubt in her eyes now as the priest pronounced them man and wife.
He leaned down and kissed her lips lightly, and the people around them clapped, a few of the Mormon women actually crying. “Yo te quiero, mi esposa,” he told her softly.
“I love you, Jake.” She saw tears in his eyes, and her own quickly misted. “We’ll be all right.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I know that.”
They embraced, and the orchestra broke into a snappy tune that put everyone in a party spirit. Miranda thought how she could tell their children that their parents’ wedding was even attended by a few Indians. Children. How would Jake feel about being a father? It would surely be a traumatic experience for him. She had not even thought about it until now. They had not discussed it. She set the thought aside as their Mormon friends surrounded them and congratulated them, hugging and kissing and laughing. The little band changed to a slower tune, and everyone urged the newlyweds to dance alone. “The first dance for Mr. and Mrs. Jake Turner,” someone shouted.
Jake put a hand to Miranda’s waist, and they began to move in a circle. “I’m not very good at this—not much experience,” he told her.
“Well, this farm girl who hasn’t gone out with a man in over three years is a little rusty herself.”
He whirled her around to the music, both of them becoming less and less aware of those around them. Miranda wondered at how surprising life could be. She had shot this man, learned to hate his kind. Then there he was, lying in her own bed. How had she fallen in love with him? How had she known somehow, that first day in the supply store, that the tall, dangerous-looking stranger with the guns and wearing the canvas slicker would end up playing an important role in her life? Now here she was, Jake Harkner’s wife. The bride of an outlaw. No, not an outlaw. Not anymore. If only society would leave him alone now, they could be happy.
They moved through the formalities in a near daze, both of them a little overwhelmed that they had really done this, both of them eager to prove it to themselves by consummating their vows. They visited, thanked those who had given gifts, ate cake, and drank lemonade. Jake drank a little whiskey given to him by the soldiers, but he allowed himself only two shots. As soon as it was dark, he whisked Miranda up into his arms and carried her off toward the waiting wedding wagon amid laughter and teasing remarks from those around them.
The voices faded, and Miranda rested her head on Jake’s shoulder. “It was a perfect wedding, Jake, even without a church and all the fancy trimmings.”
He set her on the gate of the wagon, bracing his hands on either side of her and leaning close to kiss her lightly. “Once we get settled, wherever that might be, you’ll have a place of your own, Randy. I’ll do the best I can.”
She touched his face. “I know that. I’m just happy being your wife. When we do have a place of our own, we can make love whenever we feel like it. It gives us something to look forward to.”
He grinned, kissing her harder then. He moved his lips to her neck. “If that’s the case, when will I get any work done? I’ll be in bed with you all the time.”
She laughed lightly, savoring the feel of his tongue flicking at her throat. He climbed up beside her and they moved under the canvas and mosquito netting where they could see each other better by a dimly lit lantern. Jake drew her down into the feather mattress, glad the night was cooler than it had been for several weeks. He studied the trusting, gray-blue eyes, began pulling pins from her honey-blond hair, wondered at the perfect features of her face. How small it was. He could probably crush it with one big hand, and sometimes he wondered that he didn’t hurt her accidentally, her being so small-boned and delicate; but she wasn’t delicate on the inside. This was one strong woman who knew what she wanted and took any risk to have it.
“I can’t believe you’re really my wife.” He traced his fingers over her face, her lips. “I’m not saying I’ll be perfect. It’s not easy pulling out of a past like mine, and trouble hunts me down like a wolf after a rabbit; but I’ll do what I can, short of robbing a bank, to make sure you’re taken care of and have a place of your own.”