Wild Western Women Mistletoe, Montana: Sweet Western Historical Holiday Box Set by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Virtual Bookseller, LLC
Published: 2016-10-30T04:00:00+00:00

Exasperation. That was the word Miranda Clarke had been searching for this last hour. She was exasperated up to her eyeballs.

“No, Mr. Hoover, I will not pour you another one,” she sighed, nudging the old, rail-thin man off of the bar stool he’d sunk into two hours ago. “You’ve had quite enough already.”

“But you pour that sarsaparilla so pretty-like,” Mr. Hoover croaked and grinned, getting his balance, then shuffling across the saloon’s large, empty room toward the door.

He swayed, and Miranda caught him, murmuring, “That wasn’t sarsaparilla.” She glanced around at the thinning patrons of the saloon, anxious to get on with things. None of them were pleased with her for closing up early, just as she wasn’t particularly pleased with any of them for being there in the first place. At least the disreputable women had stopped patronizing the place since she’d taken over and put her foot down.

At least, all but one. Her gaze settled on the tall, lithe figure of Starla, with her red, satin petticoats and painted face. “Starla, could you help?”

“Sure, honey.” Starla sashayed away from the end of the bar and scooped Mr. Hoover under his arms. “Come on, Frank. Time to head home.”

“You should all head home,” Miranda told the three other men lounging around the saloon, finishing their drinks. She smoothed her hands over her conservative skirt, tucked the fly-away strands of her soft, brown hair back into the severe bun she wore, and pressed her hand to her high-necked bodice. “Please,” she added.

The men hummed and grumbled. The two playing cards at one of the liquor-stained tables stood, leaving their cards and several empty bottles where they were.

“What kind of saloon closes before the afternoon is over?” one commented to the other.

“A piss-poor one, that’s for sure,” the other replied. Miranda tried not to wince at their harsh language.

The two men shrugged into their wool coats and marched grumpily toward the door. Miranda wanted to shake her fist at them or give them sharp kicks in their rears as they left, but in the first place, a lady would never do such a thing, and in the second, they were right.

She sighed, shoulders sagging, and turned to walk back to the bar. Old Teddy Potts, the last man standing, slipped hazily off his bar stool, leaving a shining quarter on the counter.

“Cheer up, sweetie,” he slurred. “Old Buford mighta been a bit barmy to leave his old place to you, but it’s Christmas.”

Miranda blinked. She planted her hands on her hips. “And?”

Teddy chuckled, stumbling toward Miranda and giving her arm a good pat. “Christmas is a time of magic, of wishing on moonbeams, of miracles. Didn’t your old Uncle Buford ever tell you that?” He hiccupped.

“No, he did not.” As soon as the words were out, she softened her expression and turned to escort Teddy to the door. The man was harmless, dependent on drink, and had been one of her batty uncle’s best friends. “Uncle Buford would have done better to leave this saloon to you in his will, Mr.

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