Willow: A Novel (No Series) by Linda Lael Miller Page B

throwing her brother off that conversational trail. “You should be more careful,” she muttered. “Contrary to what you probably tell yourself, Steven Gallagher, you don’t lead a charmed life.”
    Steven laughed and plucked a blade of grass to turn in his hands, as Gideon had turned a tiger lily only minutes before. “Lancelot is well away, m’lady,” he teased. “I made sure of that before showing myself. When did he arrive in our fair town?”
    Willow flinched at the mention of the silly name she’d given Gideon in her innocence; she’d forgotten how much she had confided to her older brother over the years. “He came yesterday—just in time to stop me from marrying Norville.”
    There was an awful silence, followed by a breathless “To stop you from what ?”
    Willow straightened her spine, then raised her chin anotch. “You heard me, Steven. I was going to marry Norville. I was even standing at the altar. Then Lan-Gideon walked in and proceeded to inform the whole community that I couldn’t be married because I was already his wife.” Willow stopped the account there, closing her eyes, bracing herself for the inevitable explosion.
    Instead, Steven gave a ragged burst of laughter. “I owe our Lancelot a debt of gratitude, it appears. That was brilliant!”
    For a moment, Willow was puzzled. But then she realized that Steven thought Gideon had merely been bluffing. “I don’t think you understand,” she said quietly. “Steven, I really am married to Gideon. Truly.”
    Steven’s mouth fell open; for once in his dashing and completely misguided life, he was speechless.
    “It happened two years ago, Steven, when I visited San Francisco with Evadne,” Willow rushed to explain. “You remember, don’t you, when she decided to dress me up and present me to society?”
    Most likely, Evadne had hoped to marry Willow off. Leave her behind in San Francisco when she returned to Virginia City.
    “I remember,” Steven rasped, his aristocratic face completely devoid of color.
    Painfully, knowing that it had to be done, Willow explained the prank Gideon had played on her, the prank that had turned out to be a documented reality.
    At the end of the account, Steven shot to his feet, towering against the morning sun like an angry Adonis. “I’ll kill him!” he bellowed.
    With what she hoped was a calming demeanor, Willow stood up and approached Steven, then caught his muscular arms in her hands. “Gideon could have made love to me that night, Steven,” she said rationally. “I thought it was our wedding night and I would have allowed him to. But he didn’t. H-he said it was all a terrible mistake and brought me back to the mansion . . .”
    Steven wrenched free of her grasp, then paced back and forth in the deep, windblown grass, his face murderous. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?” he demanded, after some time.
    Willow ached with embarrassment and residual pain. What a bumpkin she’d been, back then. How Gideon and Zachary and the others must have laughed at her gullibility.
    “I didn’t want you to know, Steven. Surely you can understand how stupid I felt!”
    Before Steven could reply to this, one way or the other, the hoot of a night owl rang through the bright June morning. It was a signal, of course; Coy or Reilly warning Steven that someone was coming.
    Steven gave Willow one beleaguered look and disappeared into the cottonwood trees farther up the hill.
    Two minutes later, Norville rode out of the brush on horseback, looking very pleased with himself. Dressed in black trousers and a smudged white shirt that was stained under the armpits, he was even less appealing than usual.
    “Well,” he drawled, his tone scathing. “Fancy meeting you here!”
    Willow was in no mood for an encounter with Norville,and she stalked over to Banjo, who was grazing nearby, and took his dangling reins in hand. “You followed me,” she accused, swinging up into the saddle, ready to flee if Norville