Dance to a Wylder Beat

By Marilyn Barr

Nartan Sagebrush's name may mean "to dance" in Arapaho, but he dances in secret. Forced to abandon his Shamanic apprenticeship, he is overwhelmed with homesteader life, and even his spirit guides are at their wit's end. Nartan takes fate into his own hands. Instead of divine intervention, a wife will help with his responsibilities and in assimilating into the Wylder community.

Olive Muegge answers Nartan's "wife wanted" advertisement. Wildly independent she has secretly dreamed of a family to call her own. The secret she carries inside makes her an outcast and her wild ways don't fit the quiet wife Nartan thinks he desires.

Despite their differences, they are drawn to each other but a mistake may drive them apart. Will Nartan embrace his Shamanic past to save them both or will he choose to rid himself of Olive forever?

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jul 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781509236954

Marilyn Barr

Biography Marilyn Barr currently resides in the wilds of Kentucky with her husband, son, and rescue cats. When engaging with the real world, she is collecting characters, empty coffee cups, and witchy things. She would love to hear from readers via her website https://www.marilynbarr.com/ where you can get a free book from her! http://www.marilynbarr.com

Book preview

When I turn back, the men are wrestling in a cloud of dust. Dead Eyes’ friends hoot like owls while a small crowd gathers around the scene. Being half-drunk, Dead Eyes is two steps slower than Nartan, who is landing punches on both sides. When Dead Eyes slams his gun on the ground in surrender, the dust settles, and I can study my future husband.

Nartan’s muscular body straddles the smaller man while his broad chest billows. His hat has blown off in the scuffle, revealing two thick black braids adorned with feathers. Tendrils of raven-black hair wave around his head. Quiet wife for a quiet life my bloomin’ butt. This man is a sweet lick of passion wrapped in a delicious exterior. I think I’m gonna like being Mrs. Sagebrush just fine. I can handle an odd stick as long as he has the countenance of Nartan because I’m not as normal as I appear myself.

Praise for Marilyn Barr

Equal parts Kelly Armstrong and May Sage, Marilyn Barr is a gifted shifter romance writer. Her characters leap from the page.

~-N.N. Light’s Book Heaven

I now officially love Strawberry, Kentucky, and the author Marilyn Barr! This was my first novel by Barr, and I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed it. The paranormal story was unlike any other I’ve read, and it was such a great read. The shifter aspect was pitch-perfect throughout the novel.

~-HeyitsCarlyRae Book Reviews

Dance to a Wylder Beat

by

Marilyn Barr

The Wylder West Series

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.

Dance to a Wylder Beat

COPYRIGHT © 2021 by Marilyn Barr

All rights reserved. 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, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2021

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3694-7

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3695-4

The Wylder West Series

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To the members of my Shamanic Meditation Circle. Thank you for sharing your love, light, culture, and wisdom with me. I could not have written this without you.

Author’s Note

Dance to a Wylder Beat is a combination of significant research, my experience as an energy healer, the experiences of my Native American colleagues in my meditation circle, and my imagination. I apologize in advance for any errors it may contain regarding Arapaho traditions. I only have the utmost respect for them and all the people in the Native American nations. I have done my best to give the Arapaho culture the respect it deserves, and any offense was not intentional.

Chapter 1

I didn’t think my coach-mate’s pallor could get any whiter, but I was wrong. That’s right. My destination is my new husband’s arms, I repeat with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. I have never laid eyes on Mr. Sagebrush, but I’ll lie with him tonight, I add only to watch her blanche with embarrassment on my behalf.

She dabs the corners of her eyes and hugs her smallest child a little closer. I have listened to more about Charlotte and her three children than I ever wanted to hear. The five of us have shared the ride from Lusk to Wylder, Wyoming Territory where the family is meeting Charlotte’s father to escort them on the railway line. I am thankfully saying goodbye to the little family in Wylder because it is the hometown of Mr. Nartan Sagebrush. By hook or by crook, I will be Mrs. Sagebrush within a month’s time, and I will never have to run again.

I ain’t just shooting my mouth off, Olive. You’re a sweet little thing. I would hate for you to suffer the same fate as me, Charlotte says for the thousandth time. I will not let her burst my bubble. I am not judging her for being a grass widow because I understand her man beat on her. The children are clean but barefoot with ragged clothes. I remember life in ragged clothes, so I don’t fuss at them for getting rowdy. I let the little monsters climb over me and wrinkle my flowered dress out of pity while their mother prattles endlessly.

I should feel fortunate to wear a new ruffled dress and shoes from the old states back east, but instead I am itchy. The glare of the gaudy pink color is a little nauseating, but I’m getting used to it. Even the puffy clouds against the bright blue sky can’t distract me from my discomfort. My shoes pinched the dickens out of my toes until I kicked them under my seat. Yellow, pink, and purple wildflowers dot the dusty ground, but I hardly notice them amongst the sagebrush. Sigh, sagebrush…

Why was I born with a nice person face? Loud-mouthed, hot-tempered women shouldn’t give false promise with such a nice person face. It encourages unfortunate souls like Charlotte to confide in me when I would have preferred to ride in silence. Rolling and unrolling the telegraph printout I stole from the Lusk office is the only indication as to my irritation. Would a low-life write such a fine advertisement?

A quiet wife for a quiet life. Only friendly, hardworking ladies with easy dispositions need to apply.

I have read the words a thousand times. I am kind of a friendly girl…until my temper’s hitched, but otherwise I shouldn’t have applied. Only the tribe’s spiritual leader’s, Sorrel Horse’s, assurance I am just what Nartan needs bolsters my courage. Sorrel Horse should know—he was Nartan’s Kit Fox and Star Mentor before Nartan left the Arapaho tribe.

Nartan and his brother are part of the leader’s plan to preserve their culture after the Government sided with the Shoshone in the 1874 raid of their circle. The brothers established residency in Wylder with only their spirit guides to help them.

I hope you are very happy, Miss Olive, Charlotte says with a face pinched as if she just shot straight whiskey.

I know I will be, I just know— My heart sinks as we approach the stagecoach platform. A weathered man with a cane and hunchback awaits us. I had assumed Nartan was my age and mentally kick myself for not asking Sorrell Horse about his looks. Beggars can’t be choosers, and I needed to get off the Wind River Reservation. Besides I didn’t want the good Samaritan Sorrell Horse to think I am shallow. Nartan was described as kind, compassionate, and fair. Knowing I won’t end up like Charlotte is enough for me to take a chance on him.

Grandpa! Grandpa! The wild heathens reach a fever pitch as we pull past the usual arrival platform to give Charlotte quick access to the train. The smallest child launches from Charlotte’s lap, out the window, and into the arms of the hunchback. I wince at the old man’s grunt on impact. Guess the mystery of his business is solved, but I cannot get my hopes up to be dashed. A man who is kind but needs to place an ad for a wife is either ugly as sin or an odd stick.

I pull my sheepskin sack over my shoulder and help Charlotte gather her cases onto a small cart. She hesitates to pull down a smaller trunk from the far side of the stagecoach. Instead, she calls repeatedly to the driver who is the type to superintend and not get his hands dirty.

Never mind, I got it, I call to the family as I jump into the muddy street. This is the last good deed I’m doing for the little vipers. As the mud squishes between my toes, I struggle to bring the small case out of its bindings. A hand reaches over me to deftly loosen the knots. It is connected to a forearm roped with muscles that disappear under a flannel shirt. I toss the small case to Charlotte and give her a terse goodbye. With my luck, she knows this man too.

My heart flutters when I twist back to where the man in the flannel shirt has retreated to the porch on the other side of the street. His gorgeous frame lounges on the fence top rail with three other men who do not have the physique of the first. A hat obscures his face, but the rest of him would be the cream gravy of husbands.

If we could take the hat into the bedroom, I’d fulfill my wifely duties no matter what lay beneath it. My hips sway in exaggeration as I approach the man I hope is Nartan. I’d look bang-on sexy if the squish and suction of my feet in the mud didn’t ruin each step.

Thank you for your help, Mister… I try to purr my greeting, but I need to shout over the loud music coming from inside the building behind him. I step up to the porch and lean against the building as if I own the place. His friends erupt into a chorus of catcalls and whistles, but they fade into the background as he tips his hat back. Cold, dead eyes stare back at me. My breath hitches as fear skitters down my spine like mice cowering from an approaching hawk.

It’s not a name I want in a show of appreciation, Dear Miss, but the action I require, he replies while cupping his groin at me. He’s had way too much who-hit-john and is looking for more than I bargained for. Who does this reprobate think he is? He takes a step toward me, and if I were smarter I would back down. Instead, I stare him down with fire building in my belly.

That’s more than I’m prepared to give, I snap, you should be ashamed of yourself. You are in mixed company on the main street of this town. Children are watching your crude behavior. I thought you were a well-mannered man, but I was mistaken. You are a scoundrel!

Mistaken now, but with a few coins you will be taken too, he says with nods to his friends. They throw their heads back in laughter as he grips my arm hard enough to leave marks.

Hey, I yell loud enough to call the attention of the whole territory of Wyoming. Unhand me, you swine!

I hear my name being called, but I’m too engrossed in my battle with Dead Eyes to answer. One of Charlotte’s brood answers with my location as I continue to struggle. The reply behind me is muffled but sounds a lot like, why me. Dead Eyes starts to drag me into the loud building when I notice the sign outside…the Longhorn Saloon.

Wait a darn minute, Buster. I ain’t no saloon girl, I yell as I beat my fists against his arm.

You’re bold as brass, coming over here, Dead Eyes says with a chuckle. You will make a fine addition to the group inside. A proper lady would have a chaperone or at least shoes. I’m sampling you for quality.

My shouts turn to screams, and my fists turn to claws. I plan to draw blood until he lets go. Men love my curves but tend to back away when I show my crazy. We are nearly through the door when I’m grabbed by the waist and pulled outside to the edge of the porch.

My shoulder is pulled out of the socket before Dead Eyes releases it. My back slams against a wall of muscle so hard my breath comes out in a whoosh. I stop screaming to recover, and then silence rings in my ears.

You heard the lady. If you want a good time, Miss Adelaide will set you right, but this one is spoken for. The rumble at my back adds to the tingles on my skin as the deep voice rolls over my head. My rescuer’s voice is steady and quiet compared to my hysterics. Surrounded by the scent of tobacco, incense, and wild man, I am reminded of sacred lodges and their mystic Shaman inhabitants.

The woman is born for whoring. Look at her hips and how she shoves her assets out. She came over here, Dead Eyes spits. He brushes his hand against his holster to flash the butt of his gun.

"You saw her plain as day step out of the arrival coach