It came to him in a flash. Missy remained. Yet that couldn't be. She didn't fit the description of the woman Hans had chosen on paper two months ago. Hell, he lacked too much sleep to play guessing games. “So, spit it out. What happened?”
Luke watched Missy lean against the wagon. Lean? It looked as if she wanted to burrow into the wood.
Hans pulled his hands out of his pockets, gestured with them in front of him. “I chose my bride, and Albert claimed Lila.” Lila. Ah yes, Hans had raved about her. “Tom chose Sarah instead of Roberta, and Peter wanted Roberta.”
Was anything ever simple? After an exhausting day of catastrophes, and this hopscotch of brides, a headache threatened.
“And now the last two don't match, is that it?”
Hans studied his boots, drove his hands back into his pockets then glanced at Missy. “We don't know if they'll match. They've. . . just met.”
It took a split second for Hans' words t o register, to become crystal clear. No. Hans knew why Luke had picked Rosie. He wouldn't intentionally turn the tables on him. But lust and love would, by damn. It made men commit worse crimes.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “You chose Rosie.” His words almost gagged him. He dreaded to hear Hans' confirmation. Hans nodded.
Acid churned in his stomach, and a sour taste spiraled up to his mouth. He'd purposely picked a voluptuous dance hall woman who'd have no problem finding another man after he'd finished here. One who most likely would go along with his scheme and the proposition he offered.
Jesus! He was in a world of shit.
