Page 116 of Snowbound Surrender
“Ah, itwasa house of every kind of vice.” Randall leaned forward, pointing at her. “What it will become is what you make of it. All I gave you was a premises and capital. I never said you had to continue to operate it as a saloon and whorehouse.” He blinked at his own pronouncement and sat a little straighter as if intrigued by the idea.
Prickles of inspiration broke out along Miranda’s skin. “That’s…that’s true. He never said I had to continue to operate the place as a saloon. He never said I had to sink down into the kind of activity that he preferred.” She tilted her head to the side, a thousand thoughts flooding her all at once, like moonbeams breaking through the clouds. “Maybe…maybe Uncle Buford didn’t leave me an immoral travesty of an institution after all. Maybe he left me a way out of the life I was trapped in, a chance to create something new and recreate myself in the process.” She blinked. “Oh!”
Her pulsed raced, but now it was for an entirely different reason. This whole time, she’d wedged herself between the proper, stiff, miserable life she’d been leading and the wild, vice-ridden life she imagined her uncle was trying to force her into. But the middle ground, the area of exploration and innovation, that was where she really stood. She had the whole spectrum of possibility before her. All that remained to be seen was what she would do with it.
“Oh,” she repeated, pressing her hand to her chest. “Thisisa good way to figure things out.”
Randall stood and crossed the space between them. He wore a broad smile and pulled Miranda into his arms. “I think I would have liked to meet your Uncle Buford after all. He sounds like a wise and wonderful man.”
“You know, I suppose he was.”
“Not at all like my father.”
Miranda pulled back to look into his face. “Your father?”
Randall huffed and shook his head. “My father wouldn’t know the first thing about giving someone the means to live their own life. He’s far too busy trying to mold mine into what he wants it to be.”
“Then you should tell him no.” It seemed obvious to her.
Randall laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “You don’t know my father.”
All at once, her eyes went wide as inspiration hit her. “Here.” She crossed to the chair where he’d been sitting and plopped into it. “You played Uncle Buford for me, now I’ll play your father. Spit it out, son! What do you have to say to me?” She dropped her voice to a masculine octave.
Randall let out a weak laugh and rubbed a hand over his face. “This isn’t about me, it’s about you finding your way,” he argued.
“Come on, son. If you don’t say what you mean, how do you intend to make something of yourself?” she puffed up her chest the way she had seen the mayor of her hometown in California do when he was being particularly pompous.
Randall frowned. “My father’s idea of a man who’s made something of himself is different than mine.”
Still in character, Miranda barked, “What are you, son? A man or a mouse?”
“I’m a better man than you,” he snapped so suddenly that Miranda had to struggle to stay in her persona.
“What do you have to show for it?” She played devil’s advocate, or rather, father’s advocate. “Where’s your fortune, your prestige?”
“I don’t care about money and position.” Randall threw out his hands, giving in to the fantasy. “I never did. That was your dream, not mine.”
“Pish tosh! What other dream is there?”
“Love,” Randall nearly shouted in return. “I want to do a job I love. I want to stay in one place, in a town I love. I want to marry the woman I love, not the heiress who will bring the biggest fortune with her.”
Miranda arched a brow and pursed her lips. He hadn’t told her that his father had ever pressured him into marryingan heiress, but it made perfect sense. How dare the man! She wanted to shout at him now.
“I want to marry Miranda,” Randall went on, then blinked out of the charade. “I want to marry you.” He looked her straight in the eyes, her, not some image of his father. “I want to build a life with you, here in Mistletoe. I want to…to turn this saloon into a first-class restaurant.”
“Oh!” The idea lifted Miranda right out of her seat. “What a wonderful idea. Your cooking is exquisite, and I don’t think I’d mind playing hostess in a restaurant at all.”
Fueled by her declaration, Randall stepped up to her and took her hands. The fire from confronting ‘his father’ was still in his eyes. “I don’t care about any of the things my father has tried to push on me. I’m glad that I got a chance to travel and experience so many different kinds of lives, but perhaps because of that, I know which one is the life I want. This one, right here. And I don’t care if we’ve gone about everything backwards and upside down and against the standards of polite society.”
“Neither do I,” Miranda added, breathless.
As if she had argued with him instead of agreeing, he went on with, “I enjoyed making love with you last night. I’ve never felt so wonderful in my life. You’re beautiful and strong and passionate, and I don’t give a fig if proper society deems the magic we created as scandalous. It would be scandalous if we hadn’t given ourselves to each other. It would be scandalous if we didn’t give ourselves to each other every day for the rest of our lives.” He pulled her into his arms, tipping her back as if he would kiss her. “I want to be yours, Miranda. Randi’s Randy. For the rest of our lives and forever. And I don’t care what my father says.”
“Then kiss me,” she ordered him, dizzy with delight.
He did just that, lowering his mouth to capture hers. Nothing could have made Miranda happier. She threw her armsover his shoulders, threading her fingers through his hair, and returning his kiss with all the newfound hope and passion in her soul. They could build a life together, they would. They would take Uncle Buford’s gift and turn it into something that would make the two of them and all of Mistletoe proud. They would turn their lives into more than any of the people who had tried to trap them in roles that didn’t suit them had ever dreamed they could. They would be happy.
Their kiss continued. Randall lifted Miranda to her tiptoes, and she backpedaled as he walked her to the edge of the stage, then lifted her to the floor. He backed her toward one of the saloon tables and would have bent her to lay across it in the most delightfully wicked way if a loud banging hadn’t come from the front door.
