Page 95 of Snowbound Surrender
Miranda blinked and stared at him. “Because the responsibility was entrusted to me. Because that’s what Uncle Buford wanted.”
Randall shrugged. “You have to admit, it’s highly unusual for a lady such as yourself to tackle something like this. You could have let it go or sold it or washed your hands of the whole thing and gone home.”
Now she blinked rapidly at him, her cheeks going red with something that wasn’t bashfulness or embarrassment. “And you could simply ignore your father’s wishes and pursue whatever career you wanted to instead of bending to his whims.” She spoke forcefully, but as soon as she was done, she pressed her hand to her mouth.
A slow, wry grin spread across Randall’s face. “We’re in the same boat then.” He raised his tea mug, saluted her, then downed the rest of the lukewarm liquid.
Miranda sighed, her shoulders dropping. “I suppose we are, then. Neither of us is free to pursue the path we would prefer.”
For a moment, they sat there in glum silence. Randall would have given anything to be able to take Miranda in his arms to assure her that everything would be all right. The trouble was, everything she had implied was spot-on. He could ignore his father and do what he wanted. The question was, what could that be?
“Well, it looks like it’s gotten dark out there,” he said at length, gripping the side of the table and standing. “I’d better pack up Mendel’s Marvelous Brushes and see if I can’t find a hotel room for the night.”
Miranda rose as well and walked with him to the stage to help him pack his things. “If the hotel can’t take you, I think there’s a boarding house in town.”
Randall nodded. “That might do. I doubt there will be another stagecoach coming through. I can take the next train.”
“There should be one tomorrow.”
Their conversation struck Randall with so much sadness that he moved as if through molasses as he gathered his clothes and packed them back into the secret compartment of his trunk. Miranda gathered the brushes that had ended up scattered throughout the saloon. She returned the errant shaving brush last. As she handed it over, their hands touched.
Randall was seized with a jolt of longing more powerful than anything he’d ever felt. He closed his hand around Miranda’s and the brush. Holding his breath, he leaned closer to her, so desperate to kiss her that the air around them sizzled.
But of course he couldn’t kiss her. They may have shared a similar fate, they had even gotten along splendidly in theirbrief evening together, but Miranda was a respectable woman, a business owner, and he had been raised to be a gentleman. He leaned away.
“Well, goodbye, then.” He let go of her hand.
“G-goodbye,” Miranda whispered. The look of longing in her eyes was so potent that he almost dropped everything and scooped her into his arms. He couldn’t, though. He just couldn’t.
He turned and finished packing his trunk, then shut it and did up all of the fastenings. Next he strode across the room to snatch his coat up from the chair where he’d left it, bundling up. Once that was done, he retrieved his trunk and headed for the door.
“It’s been a true pleasure, Miss Clarke,” he said, smiling at her with his whole heart.
“It has,” she agreed, following him to the door. “If only…”
She let her words drift off into the ether, even though they both continued to stay there, hoping there was something more.
“Well.” It was all Randall could say. He smiled, heart breaking that their association had been so short, and turned to the door.
As he opened it, a fierce blast of icy wind slammed into him. It was a hundred times stronger than the wind that had chased him into the saloon. The flurries of that afternoon had transformed into thick, pelting snowflakes. The strength of the gale, the cold, and the snow was like walking into a wall. In fact, it was so ferocious that he couldn’t walk into it at all. It was all he could do to shut and secure the door.
Winded from ten seconds of effort, Randall put his trunk down and turned to lean against the door. “Well, Miranda, it would seem we have a blizzard on our hands.”
CHAPTER 3
Ten seconds of icy blast,and Miranda shivered down to her bones. At least, she thought that the shiver was because of the sudden—and slightly terrifying—blast of winter’s fury outside. It could have been the way that Randall met her eyes with a streak of seriousness that was new, and an invigorating contrast to his kindness and humor earlier.
“What do we do?” She hugged herself, rubbing her arms to chase away the chill and to still her racing heart.
Randall took a few seconds to answer, his breath coming in quick, deep pants. Once he recovered, he stood straighter and stepped away from the door. “It might not be as bad as it looked.” He rubbed his chin. “Maybe I can push my way through the gale to find the hotel.”
Bravely squaring his shoulders, he marched back to the door, took a deep breath, and pulled it open once more. And once again, a powerful blast of snow and wind pushed him back. A thick swirl of heavy snowflakes blew into the saloon.
Miranda hugged herself tighter, wincing. “Shut the door, shut the door!” she called out over the whining of the wind.
Randall did as she asked, putting his shoulder into his effort to battle against the wind. He exclaimed wordlessly as soon as the door was shut.
“You can’t go out there.” As much as Miranda wanted to remain calm and continue their cheerful banter from earlier, a deep sense of worry was seeping into her. She began to notice the howling of the wind against the corners of the building, the thump of loose branches from the bushes to the side of the saloon hitting against the wall. How had she not noticed those things before?
