Carol Finch - Oklahoma Wedding Bells

She watched in satisfaction as the ruffian shook his head to gather his wits, then gasped in alarm when he made a grab for one of the pistols on his hips.

“Watch out!” she called to her rescuer.

She wasted her breath. Tremain had lightning-quick reflexes and had already sprung into action. He shoved his boot heel against the man’s wrist, dislodging the weapon and making him howl in pain. Tremain confiscated both pistols, then stepped on the hooligan’s neck to discourage him from trying to gain his feet.

For a horse trader, Tremain was downright impressive when it came to hand-to-hand combat. Josie wondered if it was his Cheyenne training that prepared him to react so quickly and effectively. Probably, she decided. She could use a few lessons in self-defense from him. Clearly, she wasn’t as good at fending off attackers as she’d thought.

“Do you have something you’d like to say to the lady?” Tremain asked in a low, vicious tone as he towered over the downed man like a seething thundercloud of doom.

“No, and you can go to hell,” the man choked out.

“Already been there. Now it’s your turn to see what it’s like.”

Josie pushed herself into a sitting position to massage her aching back, which had slammed into the ground one too many times in the past two hours.

“You okay, Miz Malloy?” Tremain asked, without taking his fierce glare—or his booted foot—off her tormentor.

“I’ve been better,” she admitted. “But thanks for asking.” She rolled to her hands and knees, favoring the wrist she’d hurt earlier that evening, and then rose slowly to her feet.

Her rescuer grabbed the drunkard and hoisted him off the ground. The man swayed as Tremain shook him, as if to clear his whiskey-saturated senses. Josie knew it wouldn’t help. She had pounded her attacker with her makeshift club, but he had consumed a pint of whiskey, and the blows hadn’t fazed him.

“Come with me,” the horse trader demanded sharply. “You need to sober up, and a bath wouldn’t hurt, either.”

With satisfaction, Josie watched Tremain shove her assailant into the creek. The hombre landed with a splash and came up cursing the air black-and-blue.

When Josie heard more thrashing in the underbrush, she whirled around. Her yelps had drawn attention, apparently. A dozen men, weapons at the ready, appeared.

“You okay, Miz Malloy?” Orson Barnes, the leader of the group, asked worriedly.

“I am now,” she assured the rescue brigade.

The settlers glared at the drunkard, who had slogged ashore and stood there dripping wet, glowering at Tremain.

“There was no call to rough me up,” he muttered, then gingerly examined his bloody lips. “I was just having a little fun.”

“Well, I wasn’t!” Josie huffed indignantly. “If my fiancé hadn’t shown up when he did, I would have been mauled.”

For the life of her, she didn’t know why she blurted that out. Maybe because she had been mulling over the prospect during her ride back to camp. She had planned to see what Muriel thought of the idea, but they hadn’t gotten around to the topic before they arrived and found themselves swarmed by four eager-to-please suitors.

For certain, Josie had shocked this latest group of men speechless. Whiskered jaws dropped. Eyes popped. Weapons sagged in the men’s hands. In synchronized motion, the would-be settlers’ stunned gazes swung to Tremain, who stared at her with that poker-faced expression he wore so well.

“Your fiancé? ” the crowd crowed in unison.

“That’s right,” she confirmed, as she turned her back on them and walked up to Tremain. “My fiancé.”

She cast him a please-don’t-deny-it stare, then slipped her hand into his before she pivoted to face the baffled men. She noted that Muriel had arrived on the scene, along with another dozen men. The recent arrivals looked as shocked by the announcement as the first group.

Muriel didn’t appear the least bit surprised, however. She stifled a grin of wry amusement and hung back from the congregation of men.

“That true, horse trader?” someone called from the middle of the crowd. “You proposed and she accepted your offer over everybody else’s?”

Josie held her breath, wondering if Tremain planned to humiliate her in front of their captive audience, or play along with her impulsive announcement.

“Didn’t she just say so?” he asked, his deep, resonant voice carrying over the crowd.

She nearly swooned in relief, but tried her damnedest not to let her reaction show. Her relief turned to amusement when the men quickly switched their attention to Muriel, who flung up both hands and said, “Don’t look at me as a potential wife. I accepted Commander Holbrook’s proposal an hour ago, while we were riding.” She flashed a beaming smile. “Josie and I are planning a double wedding after the land run.”

Beside Josie, Tremain leaned down as if to whisper sweet nothings in her ear. “Are you proposing to me? Isn’t that unconventional in white society?”

“Where is it written that a woman can’t propose?” she challenged quietly.

“Nowhere I know. It’s what I’d expect from a misfit like you … so I accept.”

He draped his arm over her shoulder, drawing her closer. Ordinarily, she was inclined to step away when a man crowded her. She’d learned early on not to accept displays of affection, because suitors always wanted more than she intended to give. Oddly enough, however, she didn’t object to Tremain’s feigned interest. She felt safe and protected after her run-in with the foul-smelling drunkard, who would have molested her if Tremain hadn’t shown up when he did.

“Does Holbrook know he recently became engaged?” Tremain murmured against the side of her neck, causing goose bumps to pebble her skin.

“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice a little on the unsteady side. “Muriel and I didn’t have a chance to discuss anything privately. Four men approached the minute we dismounted in camp.”

“You know this is going to cost you, don’t you?” Tremain whispered devilishly. “Muriel, too, I suspect.”

“ How much , Tremain?” Josie asked, when she saw the wicked gleam in his sea-green eyes and the ornery grin twitching his lips. “I’m saving my funds for improvements on my homestead, if I manage to stake one.”

“We’ll work something out, trust me.”

She flashed a smile for the benefit of the attentive males watching their every move. Then she said in a low voice, “Just so you know, I don’t trust any man’s intentions….”

Her voice trailed off when Tremain’s raven head came slowly and deliberately toward hers, as if giving notice that he was going to kiss her in front of God and everyone watching. Not only that, but he was staking his claim on her . Josie waited, unsure if she wanted to know how he tasted, to know if he kissed the same way he fought—roughly and forcefully.

“You’re a smart woman not to trust a man’s motives,” he murmured, his lips a hairbreadth from hers. “I myself don’t trust anyone’s motives, yours included. Just so you know …”

Then he kissed her, satisfying her curiosity—and stirring something wild and hungry deep inside her. She hadn’t expected tenderness from a man who had reminded her of the flapping buzzard of doom a quarter of an hour earlier. Yet tenderness was what she received from Solomon Tremain. Though he was amazingly gentle, molten fire simmered beneath the surface. It seeped into her blood, bringing it to a quick boil, triggering white-hot sensations she hadn’t wanted—or expected—to feel.

She didn’t realize she had curled her arm around his neck to inch closer until she was there, enjoying the feel of his powerful body meshed familiarly against hers. She found herself wanting something she couldn’t explain, and until this very moment hadn’t realized existed.