The Wedding Auction Read online

  The Wedding Auction

  by

  Celia Yeary

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Wedding Auction

  COPYRIGHT Ó 2008 by Celia Yeary

  All rights reserved. This is an “unedited” as is title. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by The Wild Rose Press

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 706

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Cactus Rose Edition, 2008

  Free Read

  Published in the United States of America

  Back home, finally, after weeks on the trail, and Colton Rains was bone tired. And dirty. Indian Wells never looked so good, with its one-street town, littered along half a mile of dusty road.

  “Hey, hold up there, son!” a deep gravelly voice said. “Pull up.”

  Colton did, in front of the General Store, run by old Mr. Fletcher.

  He dismounted. “What can I do for you, Milam?”

  The proprietor stood on the edge of the boardwalk in front of his store. “Come on in, boy, and I’ll git you a cold drink of cider. Have something to tell you, something you ought to know before you go any farther.”

  Inside the dim, crowded store, Colton walked to the back where Mr. Fletcher waited by a counter. He took the cup of cider, which was cool, certainly not cold, but it was good anyway.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Mary Etta, that’s what. Thought you should know. She’s auctioning herself off to the best bidder, to be that man’s wife by this time tomorrow.”

  Colton removed his sweaty felt hat and slapped it on his thigh. “What is tomorrow, anyway?”

  “Wednesday, the first day of October. By then, she plans on being somebody’s wife.”

  “Why? What the Sam hill you talking about? I’m gonna marry her! She knows that, the stubborn little fool!”

  “Well, you’d best git on your way, then, ’cause the auction’ll be startin’ any minute.”

  Storming out of the store, Colton cussed a blue steak, muttering every dang word he could think of. Let her out of my sight for a few weeks, and man, can she get herself in trouble.

  He kicked his poor sorrel’s belly to move her on down the road and out to Mary Etta’s place. It was a good three miles, but he’d make it, come hell or high water. No way was she going to get hitched to some no account, good-for-nothing bum.

  Sure enough, out by the entrance to her ranch house, she had nailed a sign to a post: AUCTION-GIVE ME THE BEST BID AND I’LL MARRY YOU-OCTOBER 1.

  In front of the house, six men milled around, talking, yelling, arguing. There was Ed Woodson, no less than fifty years old, with no hair on his head. And Raleigh Mabry, a wet-nosed kid without a pot to piss in. James John Wilson, as goofy and crazy as they come. Raymond Tarleton, a drunk and old to boot, and Leonard Shriver, the best prospect of the bunch, even though he was short as a stump and weighed in at about two hundred pounds. The man couldn’t even mount a horse—had to ride in a buggy all the time. How could he or any of these men run a ranch of 5,000 acres and hundreds of head of cattle? Well, none of these guys could, except maybe Randy Martin, a good-looking devil, just as full of it as you please, strutting around town, wooing all the eligible young ladies and some who weren’t.

  The crowd of men stood on the ground, and Mary Etta, all five-feet-two of her, stood on the porch, legs spread like a man, in her damned old man’s pants, or he should say boy’s pants. She wasn’t big enough to fill any man’s pants, or boots, or shoes, for that matter. What she needed was a smack on the bottom and a roll in the hay. Except if he said such things to her, she’d whip out that Colt .45 strapped around her nicely rounded hips, and aim it at him, square between the eyes.

  Lord, have mercy on a dying man. What am I gonna do with this little wildcat? What he’d like to do, a craving he’d had for years, and what he’d do now, though, were two different things.

  Reining in at the hitching post at the side of the house, Colton dismounted and tied his horse. The men and Mary Etta turned and stared as he strolled to the edge of the group. Without looking at her, or even acknowledging that she was there, he said, “Well, howdy, there, fellers. How’re you all doing today? Suppose you tell me what’s going on? Somebody die? Somebody sick or hurt?”

  Randy, the swain, as some might call him, said, “You’re a little too late, Colton, one of us is gonna marry Mary Etta tomorrow, and it ain’t gonna be you.”

  “And what makes you think that?” He removed his black felt hat and smoothed the brim all around, and replaced it firmly over his sandy hair hanging down his neck. Damn, he should have bathed and bought a haircut and shave. He rubbed his chin, covered in short blondish hair, all prickly and itchy. But he hadn’t had time. He’d been in the mountains for weeks, hunting down his quarry. All for Mary Etta.

  Speaking of the little spitfire, she stepped to the top of the steps, placed her hands on her tiny waist, arms akimbo, and spoke. “Colton Rains, you get off my property, you hear me? Now, and I mean this minute, or I’ll…I’ll have the sheriff arrest you for trespassing!”

  Whew! She was as riled as she-cat, bristlin’ and spittin’. Her voice, though, no matter how hard she tried to be stern and in charge, came out in a sweet feminine tinkling sound that made his heart thud in his chest and his blood run hot through his veins.

  “Trespassing! That sign on the road was an invitation for any man in the county to ride right up here and ask for your hand. I’m as entitled as any man here, Mary Etta, so shut your mouth and get on with the auction. I’m in.”

  Her voice dropped a few notes. “You’re in? You mean the auction? You’re going to bid on me?”

  “Damned right. Get on with it. It’s hot out here.”

  “Stop that cussing in front of me, you lop-eared jack….rabbit and I’ll start when I get good and ready.” She stooped to pick up a small basket, trimmed with a big, pink bow. Clearing her throat and flipping back her long, blond curly mass of hair, she said, “Now, there’s seven of you, so you’ll choose a little piece of paper with a number on it… Wait just a minute. I need to pick out eight, nine, and ten, ’cause there’s just seven of y’all. Now, step up and a choose number. We’ll go in order, starting with one.”

  The men followed her directions. Colton got number three. “Who’s got seven? I’ll trade.”

  “Me,” Leonard Shriver said. “You’re a fool to trade, Rains. She’ll pick one before she ever gets to you.”

  “Umm, you’ve got a point. Miss Mary Etta? May I please make a suggestion?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him and pursed her lips. “You’d better not be up to any shenanigans, Colton. What is it?”

  “I don’t think you should choose a husband before you hear all seven of us. That’s only fair, so we’ll all be on equal footing.”

  “Well…all right. I suppose that’s a good idea. Let’s start. I need to get this over with. Work has piled sky-high while I’m fooling around trying to find a husband.

  “Now, see, this is how it is. My pa willed me this ranch two years ago when he passed over to be with the Lord, but he made a provision that said I had to be married by the first day of October, 1878. Now, why he did
that I don’t know, but he did, and that’s all there is to it. Me? I’d rather not be pushed…”

  “Mary Etta?”

  “Now, what, Colton? Why can’t you be quiet?”

  “Times a’wastin, that’s why. Anyway, we’re burning up out here in the sun, while you’re up there in the shade. It’s already four o’clock. You’re running out of time, girl.”

  “Oh, all right. Now, here’s what I want, gentlemen. When it’s your turn, tell me what you offer in return for my hand. And it better be good. I’m not marrying some lazy tramp who’ll sit in a chair all day. That is, unless you’ve got a whole bunch of money, then I’d consider it. Number one. Step up and let me have it.”

  Raymond Tarleton, half-drunk on his feet, weaved back and forth as he walked to the porch. He stood there and studied the first step. After a couple of minutes, he turned and rambled to his horse, and after three tries, mounted. He rode away.

  Randy Martin laughed out loud. “He couldn’t even climb the first step!”

  “Shut up, Martin,” Colton said. “It’s not your place to criticize him.”

  “Number two.”

  Seventeen-year-old Raleigh Mabry held his hat in both hands, twisting the daylights out of it. “Yes, ma’am. You see, I don’t have any money, but I could be a good husband. I’m young—probably won’t die on you—and I can work hard.”

  “Well, thank you, Raleigh. That was mighty sweet.”

  Colton snorted.

  “Number three.”

  Leonard Shriver lumbered to the steps and, holding onto a post, hauled his bulk to the porch. He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I’m your best bet, Miss Mary Etta. I have money in the bank and a nice house in town. My wife died a few years ago, and her cooking things and dishes are waiting right there. You could turn your ranch over to somebody else, and all you’d have to do is put three meals on the table. That’s all I’d require of you.”

  “Ummm, well, you see, Leonard. The point is that I want to live here. It’s my home and I have a cattle business. You’d have to move out here.”

  “I see. Tell you what. Let me think on that for a while.”

  “Yes, you do that, sir. Number four.”

  James John Wilson had been crazy for many years. At least that’s what everyone thought. At the very least, he was either slow-witted or goofy as all get out.

  James said, “Ahhh, I’m jest here for some fun. You go on ahead, Miss. I’m havin’ the time of my life.”

  Mary Etta sighed and looked skyward. “Number five.”

  Ed Woodson, fifty and bald, but in good shape because he was a hard-working man, walked to the porch. “Miss Mary Etta, you know I have a ranch near here. Not quite this big, but it’s good land and I run a few cattle. I live alone, never been married, but I sure would like to be. I know I’m older than you by a fair number of years, but I’ve waited a long time for a wife. I’d make you a good husband, I promise.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Woodson. Have you ever met Beatrice Norwood? She runs the millinery shop in town, and she’s the sweetest, nicest lady you’ve ever seen. Would you like to meet her?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I see her in church, but she don’t look at me at all.”

  “You must make the first move, Mr. Woodson. Probably if you…”

  Colton crossed his arms and shook his head. “Mary Etta, talk to the man later, will you?”

  “Humph. Number six.”

  Randy Martin swaggered up the steps and stood in front of her. Scum, thought Colton. If that loser so much as touches her, he’s dead meat. Didn’t remove his hat, the clod. Colton seethed with anger and disgust. The kid had been in town for nearly a year, and he’d hit on every female around. Rumors flew around about his loose ways with women, and the fact he didn’t seem to work. What did he do for a living?

  “Sir, if you’ll step back a little, I can talk to you better,” Mary Etta said. “You’re too close. Don’t touch me, please. Stand back…”

  Colton had had enough. He pushed the other men aside and stormed up the steps. Gripping Randy’s shirt by the front, he hauled the kid to his tiptoes and breathed right into his face. “Get your dirty paws off her, you stinking, rotten polecat. Didn’t you hear her? Don’t you know how to treat a lady? Get off the porch, mount up, and ride out. Now. And make it quick, or you and I will have one hell of a dust-up.”

  The men on the ground backed up a little as Randy stomped down the steps. With long angry strides, he reached his horse, mounted, and kicked his horse hard, taking off in a high run.

  Colton looked at those remaining. “Go home, boys. This auction has come to an end.”

  They obeyed, but Mary Etta began fussing at him. “Who do you think you are, mister? Who asked you to take charge of my auction?”

  “Oh. It’s not over, then, is it?”

  “No, it is not. I’ll close it down when I want to.”

  “You’re going to have to soon, because I’m the last one. Now, it’s my turn, and let me tell you what I’m offering.”

  She backed up a couple of steps, almost to the side of the house. Lifting her chin, she asked, “Well, number seven, what do you offer?”

  Colton removed his hat and threw it in a chair. “Fifty mustangs, prime horseflesh, holed up in a canyon, my men waiting ’til morning to drive ’em in.”

  He inched closer. “A good-sized ranch bordering yours, just waiting to merge and make a bigger and better operation.”

  She backed up to the wall.

  He placed his hands flat on the plank siding, trapping her, and moved close enough to touch her soft, sweet body. “A nice bank account because I worked my butt off so I could marry you. Years of pure love, ever since we were kids, playing together down at the river.”

  Softly, he touched her lips with his. Then he moved to her cheek, kissed there, and on to her neck, where he trailed a line of kisses down to her collarbone. Pulling back a little, he added, “And a heart full of love for you, Mary Etta. I fell for you when we were sixteen.”

  “So, is the auction over?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it surely is. Now, get your marrying dress on, and I’ll clean up the best I can, because we have a wedding to get to before dark.”

  “I love you, Colton Rains.”

  “And I love you, baby girl. When we’re old and gray, sitting in our rocking chairs on the porch, I want you to explain to me why you tried to auction yourself off to some other man.”

  ****

  Mary Etta looked in the mirror and positioned her best Sunday bonnet over her curls. Clasping her hands in front of her, she smiled and looked heavenward. “It worked, Papa. And thank you for giving me the ranch outright, without any strings attached.”

 

 

  Celia Yeary, The Wedding Auction

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