Princess and the Cowboy (Justice)

“It was a good dish.”

We lapse into silence, both looking up and not at each other as if eye contact would break the seal of whatever is keeping our hands to ourselves.

“Why does your dad only want you to be here for three days?”

“I think he wants to marry me off.”

I almost choke on my saliva. “T-to who?”

“He has a few candidates. Prince Rolf from Estavia might be the leading candidate. There’s also the Duke of Northridge, but I don’t think Papa is keen on the British these days, and the Duke’s title is lower.”

“Lower?” I echo faintly. And here I’d had this dumb idea that my family was trying to marry me off to this girl when her daddy was out shaking the bushes for the aristocracy. That should make me feel good, but for some reason it doesn’t. I blame the sudden sourness in my stomach on the Szechuan sauce. I need to lay off on the vinegar. Add more rice syrup.

“Yes. It’s a rather new title, granted by Queen Victoria. Daddy says the old duke bought it as there isn’t an estate or land that came with it.”

She obviously doesn’t need to marry for money. “You don’t seem too upset about the idea of an arranged marriage.”

“I’m not opposed to the idea. Papa wouldn’t marry me off to anyone I didn’t like, and he wants me to be happy. His and Mama’s marriage was arranged, and they were quite happy. After all, who knows you better than your parents, right? They should be able to pick someone who fits you well. It’s not like love matches work out well. Most of them end in divorce. Statistically arranged marriages last much longer.”

“Seriously?” I’ve never heard of that. I roll over on my side and prop my head up on my hand. Her expression in the moonlight is serious, so I don’t think she’s pulling my leg here.

“Yes. Obviously there are terrible abuses of arranged marriages, but the concept is not faulty.”

“So why aren’t you running home to get hitched to the man your dad’s picked out?”

She rolls over to face me. “I’m not ready to get married.” Her mouth turns down in a pout—a very kissable pout. “I just turned eighteen. I should be allowed to have fun. Go to parties. Travel. Make mistakes.”

My throat turns dry like dust. “What kind of mistakes?”

“I don’t know. I won’t know until I make them.”

Is it the moonlight that makes her skin glow? Is it a shadow or are her lips really that plump? I won’t know unless I touch them. I inch closer.

“What about you?”

Her words stop me short. “Me? Marriage?” The word is like a bucket of cold water. I edge away and flop on my back. “No. The Justices don’t believe in marriage. Or, at least, we didn’t used to.”

“What do you mean?”

“There used to be a thing that my older cousins believed in called the Justice Curse. If you fall in love with a woman and marry her, she dies before the age of thirty. There’s some facts to back up the superstition. No Justice woman has survived past the age of thirty since 1920.”

“None?” Maria nearly shouts in shock.

“Not a single one. They’ve died from natural causes, lightning strikes, car accidents, or, in my mom’s case, childbirth. I think it’s just a coincidence, but my oldest cousin, Calder, really believed in it. He refused to even look at women until Birdie came along, and now, despite Birdie having a few close calls, he’s going to marry her anyway. And Tucker’s going to marry Cam. Hell, I even thought they’d brought you here for us to hook up. Ain’t that funny?” I force out a hearty laugh and then stop when I realize she hasn’t joined in. I sneak a look in her direction, but I can’t tell if her feelings are hurt or she’s still ruminating on the curse.

“Is that why you were mean to me? Because you thought they were trying to force you to marry me?”

For a half second or more, I consider denying it. I blow out a long breath. “Maybe. The thing is, I have plans. I’m going to college this fall. Like you, I want a chance to breathe away from my family. Don’t get me wrong; I love my cousins. I love this land, but it’s all I’ve ever known. I want to…” I fall silent. What had she said? “Go to parties. Have fun. Travel. Make—”

“Mistakes.”

She says it at the same time as I do. “Exactly.”

And I know precisely the mistake I want to make at this moment. I reach over and thread my hand through her long hair and tug her close. “Let’s make our mistakes together.”

She lets me reel her in, slowly and gently. I place my mouth on hers and test out the softness. Very soft. Cotton balls, marshmallow, pillowy-soft. I run my tongue along the seam of her lips. She parts for me, and I slide in. Her taste is addicting, sweet and fresh like a cool spring. I could drink from this well all day long and never tire.