Page 115 of Snowbound Surrender
She planted her fists on her hips. “Exactly. Ooh, if he were standing here right now, I’d give him a piece of my mind.”
A crazy notion grabbed hold of Randall. This entire day had been so topsy-turvy, his life had changed and his future had just veered off on a path that would enrage his father while making him happier than he would have dreamed. It was as surreal as a melodrama, so why not make it as dramatic as possible.
He grabbed hold of Miranda’s hand and led her to the stage at the front of the saloon. “If you want to give your uncle a severe tongue-lashing, then do it.”
“I can’t. He’s dead.”
They stepped up onto the stage. It felt only right that what he was about to suggest happen on a stage. As he turned to face her, he shrugged. “Pretend I’m Uncle Buford. Tell me everything that you want to tell him.”
She let go of his hand, completely taken aback. “Really? Yell at you?”
Randall held his arms out and looked around the empty saloon. The light outside was definitely fading, but there was still a sense of lightness streaming through the snow-clouded windows. “Have you got anything better to do?”
Her lips twitched. Her eyes flashed. A wicked smile spread across her face. “No. I don’t. So sit back, Uncle Buford, and prepare to get what’s coming to you.”
CHAPTER 9
Excitement pumpedthrough Miranda’s veins as Randall hopped off the stage to grab a pair of chairs. She’d never dreamed anything like this was possible. Then again, in the last twenty-four hours so many impossible things had happened to her that she’d lost count. A giddy laugh rippled through her as Randall set the chairs facing each other, then gestured for her to take one. He sat in the other.
“Oh, no, Uncle Buford.” She jumped right into the fantasy the two of them were creating. “Youneed to sit down for this, but I am most certainly going to remain standing.”
“Yes, dear,” Randall replied in a strange voice. She blinked, realizing he must be attempting to imitate Uncle Buford, though he’d never met him.
“Uncle Buford had a low, gruff voice,” she whispered, breaking character for a moment.
“Right. Gruff.” Randall changed his voice to suit.
He didn’t have it quite right, but that wasn’t enough to distract Miranda from her purpose. She paced away, then back again, then planted her hands on her hips and snapped, “What gives you the right to ruin my life by leaving me this saloon?”
Without missing a beat, Randall huffed the way a crotchety old man would and said, “Who says I’m ruining your life?”
“I do.” Miranda pointed at herself. “I am the last person suited to run a saloon. A saloon which has obviously been more than that, if the scandalous things we’ve found cleaning up are any indication.”
Randall shrugged. “Where’s the harm in men and women having a little fun with each other? No one was forced into anything. It was a damned good time all around.”
Miranda sucked in a breath and took a half step back. She could have argued that she was shocked by Randall’s harsh language, but his words struck a little too close to home. It was surprisingly close to something Uncle Buford would have said. And shehadbeen enjoying herself, not just the night before, but all week. No one had forced her to get close to Randall. Growing more and more intimate with him, and then ultimately intimate, had felt like the most natural thing in the world.
She shook her head at her radical thoughts and returned to her argument. “That might have beenyourlife—and I should have known that’s what you were up to all these years, since mother and father shook their heads whenever you came up in conversation—but that wasn’t my life. My life was something entirely different, and you destroyed it.”
“But did you really like that life in the first place?” He was still speaking as Uncle Buford, but a flash of something purely Randall was in his eyes.
Miranda pursed her lips and crossed her arms tightly over her chest, half turning away. “It was the life I knew,” she answered quietly. “It was a proper life, a respectable life.”
“A life where you weren’t happy,” Randall as Uncle Buford said. “Don’t think I don’t remember the things you told me about your sister being the one who got all the attention, evenwhen she didn’t follow the rules. You, young missy, tried following the rules, and it didn’t work out for you.”
“That’s…” She wanted to finish ‘not true,’ but the words wouldn’t pass her lips. Because itwastrue.
“You always were my favorite,” Randall went on. “That sister of yours was never as interesting or lively or daring as you were.”
She rolled her eyes and turned back to him. Randall didn’t know Vicky. He didn’t know…
She paused, considering. Vicky was lively and pretty and made conversation easily, but try as Miranda might, she couldn’t think of a single goal her sister had in life other than catching and marrying the right man. Which she did, though thinking about it now, Micah was nothing compared to Randall. And ever since marrying Micah, Vicky had been nothing but whiney and boring.
“Yes, well, the saloon is a littletoointeresting for me,” she attempted to counter Randall-Buford’s argument.
“Poppycock!” Randall exclaimed so forcefully that Miranda jumped. “Why, you’re bright and witty and willing to try things that most of those milky-faced young ladies would never be brave enough to do. You just needed the right push to get you out of that stale old life and into a place where your talents could really be put to work.”
Her heart thrilled at the prospect, but she frowned. “Yes, but here? In this place? It’s a house of every kind of vice.”
