Daniel's Bride
by Miller, Linda Lael
around Jolie McKibben's neck, smelling of sweat and horseflesh and hemp. Frantic
protests of innocence had long since rendered her throat too raw to speak, and
she felt nothing except a certain defiant numbness as she stared back at those
who had gathered to see her hanged. Her blue-green eyes were dry and hot, but a
tiny stream of perspiration trickled between her breasts, like a tear gone
astray.She stood in the bed of Hobb Jackson's hay wagon, her fair hair sticking
to her scalp under the dusty bowler hat she wore, her wrists bound tightly
behind her back, her chin at the most obstinate angle possible. She could hear
the team of horses behind her, neighing and blowing impatiently in the slow heat
of a summer morning. In another few moments, the marshal would give the signal,
the horses would pull the rig from beneath her feet, and she would be left to
dangle and choke at the end of that dirty rope.All because she'd had the bad
judgment to fall in with Blake Kingston. It didn't seem just that she had to die
for what he'd done, but then, Jolie had never known life to be fair. For her, it
had been a struggle, right from the very first.The undertaker, a heavy man
sweating in a dark suit, dried his brow with a handkerchief and raised his round
face to look into Jolie's eyes. "Let's get this over with," he said. "Miss
McKibben's been duly tried and sentenced and there's no sense in dragging things
out."Jolie felt her knees go weak and tried to put the starch back into them by
sheer force of will. "I didn't rob the bank," she croaked out, needing to say
the words one last time even though they'd been falling on deaf ears for a
month. "And I didn't shoot anybody, either.""Just hang her," someone called from
the crowd.It was then that a big man came out of the mercantile, a flour sack
over one thick shoulder, his face hidden by the brim of a large, stained hat. He
wore plain brown trousers, a rough-spun shirt the color of buttery cream, and an
old buckskin vest. He silenced the yammering spectators just by sweeping them up
in a single scathing glance, then set the bag on the wooden sidewalk with an
unhurried motion and came down the steps. He crossed a street paved in mud,
manure, and sawdust and stood at the rear of the wagon."Now, Dan'l," fretted the
wizened old marshal, "don't you go interferin' in this here hangin'. We done
tried this woman right and proper, and we found her guilty."Daniel.Jolie's heart
gave a surging thump, but she couldn't afford to hope for rescue. The
disappointment would be another burden, and the load she carried was already
crushing.The farmer swept off his hat, revealing a head of wheat gold hair, and
gazed up at her with eyes the same shade of blue as a summer sky in the early
morning. He was not handsome, this man, and yet something wrenched painfully
inside Jolie as she regarded him."This the lady bank robber?" he asked, his low
voice revealing none of the agitation that raised an invisible charge from the
small mob gathered to view the proceedings.Jolie ran the tip of her tongue over
dry, cracked lips. For reasons she couldn't begin to sort through, it was
crucial that this particular man not walk away believing she was guilty of
robbery and murder. She took a step forward, and the rope chafed the delicate
skin of her throat."Doesn't look like the type to me," Daniel reflected, raising
one brawny hand to rub a clean-shaven chin. Desperate to find something to focus
on other than the grim realities, Jolie took note of the fact that he was the
only male present who didn't sport a mustache, a beard, or both.The corpulent
undertaker -- his wagon stood waiting nearby, with the name Philias Pribbenow
stenciled on the side-waddled forward, mopping his nape with the kerchief. "If
you were interested in the proceedings, Daniel," he said, "you
