# The Marshal's Wyoming Bride

Tatiana March

Married in haste… …to a complete stranger!When Rowena McKenzie is accused of murder, she’s relieved to find an unlikely ally in Deputy US Marshal Dale Hunter. Having proved her innocence, she only has one thing of value with which to repay this handsome yet scarred and enigmatic man—the Wyoming ranch she inherited from her father two years ago. But Dale will only accept it if Rowena agrees to be his wife!

Married in haste…

…to a complete stranger!

When Rowena McKenzie is accused of murder, she’s relieved to find an unlikely ally in Deputy US Marshal Dale Hunter.

Having proved her innocence, she only has one thing of value with which to repay this handsome yet scarred and enigmatic man—the Wyoming ranch she inherited from her father two years ago.

But Dale will only accept it if Rowena agrees to be his wife!

“March’s The Outlaw and the Runaway will delight long-time and new fans alike.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Outlaw and the Runaway

“Exciting, emotional and sensual.”

—RT Book Reviews on From Runaway to Pregnant Bride

Before becoming a novelist TATIANA MARCH tried various occupations—including being a chambermaid and an accountant. Now she loves writing Western historical romance. In the course of her research Tatiana has been detained by the US border guards, had a skirmish with the Mexican army and stumbled upon a rattlesnake. This has not diminished her determination to create authentic settings for her stories.

Also by Tatiana March

The Virgin’s Debt

Submit to the Warrior

Surrender to the Knight

The Drifter’s Bride

The Outlaw and the Runaway

The Fairfax Brides miniseries

His Mail-Order Bride

The Bride Lottery

From Runaway to Pregnant Bride

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Marshal’s Wyoming Bride

Tatiana March


www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07433-9

THE MARSHAL’S WYOMING BRIDE

© 2018 Tatiana March

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Chicago, early spring, 1886

Dale Hunter sat in the office of US Marshal William J. Arnold and met the older man’s scrutiny without a flinch.

“Sure I can’t change your mind, Hunter?”

“No.”

“I could transfer you back to the Eastern Louisiana District.”

Dale shook his head. He didn’t belong anywhere anymore. Not in the South of his mother’s birth. Not in the North of his father’s. The only place he belonged was some remote piece of land where he could live alone, bothered by no one.

“I’m sorry, sir.” His tone was calm but implacable. “I’m tired of chasing moonshiners for the whiskey tax they haven’t paid, and I’m tired of arguing with local officials who resent federal intervention. In my three years as a deputy US Marshal I’ve saved most of the fees I’ve been paid. By now, I have enough for a down payment on a ranch where I can retire and live out my days in peace.”

Marshal Arnold’s broad face clouded. “Don’t give me that garbage. It sticks in my craw to hear a rich man talk about scraping together a few dollars.”

Dale spoke sharply. “My mother’s money is not mine.” He gritted his teeth, controlling the flare of guilt. He knew his mother had suffered more than any woman should. The War Between the States had destroyed her family—husband dead, daughter murdered, son’s quest for vengeance turning him into an outlaw at eighteen.

After eleven years outside the law, Dale had gained a pardon. His mother had expected him to take over the family business and find a suitable young woman to marry. Only he couldn’t do it. The nightmares stamped on his scarred face, the horrors that kept him awake at night made it impossible for him to fit into such a genteel lifestyle, and his refusal to follow his mother’s wishes had come between them.

“My mother’s money is not mine,” Dale said again, quietly this time.

Marshal Arnold cleared his throat. “Perhaps so. And I am grateful for the contribution you have made to the Marshals Service. Before I accept your resignation, I have one more assignment for you.”

“Thank you, sir, but I’m done.” Dale got to his feet, unpinned the tin star within a circle from the lapel of his suit coat and placed it on the desk between them.

Marshal Arnold gestured for him to sit down again. “Hold on a mite, Hunter. Where is this ranch you plan to buy?”

Dale shuffled on his feet. “California.”

At his reply, Marshal Arnold gave a satisfied smirk. “California? That is very convenient. The assignment is in the Arizona Territory, only a stone’s throw away. You could travel at the government’s expense and continue to your ranch after you have finished the job.”

Dale considered the suggestion. Train fares were expensive, and his savings were barely enough to cover the down payment on the property he wished to buy.

“What is the assignment?” he asked.

“It’s about a woman called Rowena McKenzie.” Marshal Arnold leaned forward in his seat. “A lady, I’m told. She’s been indicted for murder and refuses to speak up in her own defense. The local sheriff is reluctant to hang a woman, and the federal marshal for the territory is newly appointed, not yet confirmed by the senate. He is wary of stringing up a lady and making a mistake. I’d like you to go over and figure it out.”

“That’s it?” Dale frowned. “I’ll review the evidence, make sure they haven’t overlooked anything, and if the judge decides she’s guilty, the local law will take care of the hanging?”

Marshal Arnold nodded.

Dale reached down, picked up the badge from the desk and pinned it on again. “I’ll wire my report to you.”

When he was halfway toward the door, Marshal Arnold called out after him. “The appointment of the United States Marshal for the Arizona Territory is pending confirmation and it wouldn’t be the first time the senate has rejected a candidate. If a promotion would persuade you to remain with the Marshals Service, the position could be yours.”

Dale pretended not to hear. In the three years since his pardon, he had avoided going back to the western territories. He’d lived in the steamy South, in the cold and damp North, but he had never had the courage to face the dusty desert landscape where coyotes barked at night and buzzards feasted on carcasses. And he doubted the wisdom of doing so now.

* * *

There was no mistaking the look of relief on the face of Sheriff Macklin in Pinares when Dale walked into the ramshackle office and introduced himself. A big, burly man in his fifties, with graying hair in a military cut, the sheriff barely glanced at the official papers Dale held out to him.

“You’ve come to take the prisoner away?”

“No,” Dale replied. “I’m here to help you decide if she should hang or not.”

He took off his long canvas duster and shook away the droplets from the drizzle outside. To his relief, Pinares was on high ground, surrounded by pine-covered hills instead of the red, dusty desert of his nightmares.

He’d taken the train as far as Holbrook, a lawless Arizona ranching town, where he’d bought a horse from the livery stable and ridden the remaining thirty miles south. Preferring to arrive in the morning, he’d camped overnight outside town.

Like always, his legs ached after a day on horseback. He didn’t walk with a limp, for after he’d been injured in the gunfight to break away from the outlaw gang, the best surgeons in the country had pieced together the broken bones. Even more important, his arms had healed well enough for him to draw a gun or throw a punch with the same skill and accuracy as before. When fully clothed, the only visible legacy of his lawless past was the crescent-shaped scar on his left cheek and the slightly uneven sound of his footsteps.

Sheriff Macklin scrambled to his feet behind his battered desk. “No time like the present.”

Dale hesitated. Although he no longer wore his jet-black hair down to his shoulders, it could do with a cut. He ran the palm of one hand along his jaw and felt the roughness of stubble. A lady, Marshal Arnold had told him. He brushed aside his scruples. A disreputable look might be helpful in persuading a gently bred female to provide answers.

“Is there a medical report on the victim?” Dale asked.

The sheriff extracted a bunch of iron keys from his desk, shut the drawer with a bang and halted, eyebrows raised, keys dangling in his hand. “You don’t know the details?”

“Only that you have a female prisoner who goes by the name Rowena McKenzie indicted for murder.”

The burly sheriff nodded. “That’s the gist of it. There is no medical report on the victim, for the body can’t be retrieved. Miss Rowena shot a conman who was trying to flee after being caught selling shares in a phony mining claim. The conman, Elroy Revery, was whipping his wagon horse into speed when Miss Rowena fired a pistol at him. The horse bolted and the wagon took off with the body.”

“Didn’t anyone give chase?”

“Not right away. One of the men who’d lost money in the swindle suffered a mental fit, screaming and yelling, scaring the women. By the time we’d dealt with him and rode after Revery, we found his wagon tracks leading to the edge of Dead Man’s Gully. It’s a ravine a mile outside town, too steep to climb down. With a pair of field glasses you can see the smashed-up wagon and the dead horse at the bottom.”

“And the body?”

“Can’t pinpoint the location. Must be beneath the wagon, or thrown off and fallen between the boulders at the bottom of the gully. But there’s no doubt Miss Rowena killed him. She snatched Kurt Lonergan’s pistol from the holster and fired. Elroy Revery clutched his chest and toppled into the wagon. Before he fell, a dozen people saw blood spurting out between his fingers, staining the front of his shirt.”

With each word, Dale’s skepticism grew. He’d seen it before, a staged killing to facilitate a getaway after a swindle. He expected the ladylike qualities of the prisoner to be as phony as the mining claim her partners had been peddling.

“Is this Miss Rowena new in town?” he asked.

Sheriff Macklin shook his head, looking troubled. “I know what you’re thinking, but it can’t be. Miss Rowena came into Pinares two years ago and she’s been working in Alice Meek’s café ever since. Whatever her reasons, she shot Revery. I had to arrest her.” The sheriff jangled the bunch of keys in his hand and jerked his head toward the jail. “I’m counting on you to straighten this out. No one wants to see Miss Rowena hang.”

* * *

Dale’s first glimpse of the prisoner was her back. She was seated on the narrow cot in the nearest of the three jail cells, gazing up at the patch of overcast sky visible between the iron bars that covered the small window high up on the far wall. Dale halted midstep, nearly stumbled. Memories of his sister, Laurel, flooded his mind.

It wasn’t so much the slender body, or the glossy dark brown hair, the color of polished mahogany, although they were the same. It was the elegant line of her neck, exposed by the simple upsweep. It was the way she wore the faded blue cotton dress, as if it had been made for a queen. Instantly, Dale recognized the stamp of an expensive academy for young ladies, the kind that put emphasis on deportment and etiquette instead of practical skills.

Sheriff Macklin unlocked the iron grille and rattled it aside. “Miss Rowena, you have a visitor.”

The girl—she looked barely over twenty—rose to her feet and whirled around, every motion graceful. Dale felt his breath catch. He had to clench his hands into fists to hide the impact she had on him. He wanted to ignore her beauty, wanted to treat her just like any other prisoner, but he couldn’t help the way his eyes swept over her features, taking in every detail.

Her face was not dainty, like Laurel’s had been. Her features were fuller, with a square chin and a bold line of dark, almost straight eyebrows. From this distance, Dale guessed her eyes were a deep blue, an unusual combination with the dark hair.

As he stared at the girl, he could see a blush fan across her cheeks. If possible, her posture grew even straighter. He wondered if she could feel the pull of attraction, the way he did, and was reacting to him as a man, or if her discomfort was due to a guilty conscience and the fear of consequences of her criminal acts, or if she was merely embarrassed by the boldness of his inspection.

Dale stepped into the cell, oddly reluctant to get anywhere near her, to expose himself to the power of that beauty. “How are you, Miss McKenzie?”

She inclined her head to acknowledge his greeting.

Dale turned to the sheriff. “I’ll take it from here.”

He waited for the man to lumber down the corridor. When Dale was alone with the lady, he turned toward her and sought refuge in his experience, relying on a hundred similar situations. And yet no other situation of stepping into a prisoner’s cell had ever been the same as this.

“My name is Dale Hunter, and I’m a deputy US Marshal. I’ve been tasked with…helping you to prepare for your defense.” He’d been planning to say tasked with finding out if you’re guilty or not, but somehow the words came out different.

Again, she gave him that regal nod. Dale felt irritation join the mix of his confused emotions. As foolish as it might sound, he wanted Rowena McKenzie to seek help from him. But it was clear that instead of seeing him as a white knight, she regarded him as the enemy.

“Why did you shoot Elroy Revery?” he asked.

“I have nothing to say.”

Dale nodded, as if to accept the challenge. “Why don’t we sit down?”

Miss McKenzie’s eyes flickered to the cot covered with a rumpled blanket.

“Well?” Dale gestured. “Please, be seated.”

Her mouth flattened into a line before easing back to its plump fullness again. “If you want both of us to sit down, you’ll have to get a chair.”

A lady. No doubt about it. Even while locked up in a jail cell, she clung to the constraints of her upbringing and she would refuse to sit on a bed beside a man, for it had been drilled into her that such behavior might taint her reputation beyond repair.

Dale retreated into the corridor. When out of sight, he closed his eyes for a few seconds. The past, Laurel, and all the guilt and shame that went with her memory washed over him. He knew it wasn’t just Rowena McKenzie’s beauty that had affected him so. It was the echoes of the past, of how he had failed to save Laurel, and those echoes made him want to save Rowena McKenzie, as if preserving one woman’s life might balance out the loss of another.

But the past could never be changed. Only accepted. Perhaps even forgiven, although never forgotten.

With a tired shake of his head, Dale pushed aside the grim thoughts. He picked up a rickety wooden chair from the corridor, carried it into Miss McKenzie’s cell and propped it against the wall. Cautiously, he lowered himself onto the seat. The chair creaked but held his weight. Only when he was safely seated did the lady perch on the edge of the cot, wriggling her backside to find a comfortable position on the lumpy mattress.

“So,” Dale said, closing his mind to everything but the facts of the case. “Why did you shoot Elroy Revery?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Did you know him from before?”

“I have nothing to say.”

Oh, but you’re saying plenty, ma cherie, Dale thought. The flicker in your eyes just revealed that you knew him in the past.

“So, why would you want to kill an old acquaintance?”

“I have…” She was halfway through her stock answer before the question fully registered. Her lips pressed together, as if to trap any unwise words inside. She quickly regained her composure and finished in a mutter, “…nothing to say.”

Dale found himself staring at her full, wide mouth. Heat rose beneath his collar. He’d succeeded in blocking out the tragic memories of Laurel, but he didn’t have the same success in steeling himself against Rowena McKenzie. She’d ruined his concentration. A twist of shame at the lack of professional discipline tightened in his gut. Never before had inappropriate thoughts about a female prisoner taken hold of his mind.

Bristling, he scowled at her. “This is a hanging town, and Judge Williams is a hanging judge. With a Democrat taking over the White House, the judge has been tied up with administration, but he is riding circuit again and will be here within a week. Do you really want to be strung up? A rope round your neck, a trapdoor beneath your feet and a hangman to pull the lever and let you drop?”

“I have nothing to say.”

Angry at himself, angry at her, Dale pushed up to his feet. The flimsy wooden chair gave an ominous creak. On an impulse, he curled his hand over the top of the backrest, lifted the chair a few inches from the floor and slammed it down again, breaking it into pieces.

“It’s that quick,” he warned her. “Once you are standing on the gallows, it will be too late to change your mind and decide that you would rather live, after all.”

From the way her nostrils flared and her breathing quickened, Dale knew she wanted to talk, had to fight to hold back the words that might save her life, but her willpower was greater than her fear.

“I have nothing to say.”

“Are you afraid of someone? Afraid to talk?”

She pressed her fingertips together in a gesture Dale recognized from his mother, from Laurel—a means by which a lady stopped herself from fiddling with her clothing or her jewelry.

“I am waiting for a telegram.”

“A telegram? Will that prove your innocence?”

She considered a moment, and then she spoke very carefully, weighing up each word. “It will allow me to prove my innocence.”

Dale frowned. “It will not prove your innocence, but it will allow you to do so. How will you be able to do that? What information will the telegram bring?”

“I have nothing to say.” The firm tone of her voice made Dale suspect she feared she had already said too much, so he chose another line of attack.

“Is Rowena McKenzie your real name?”

“It is the name I was born with and expect to die with.”

Despite the tension in the air, a smile tugged at the corners of Dale’s mouth. “Not if you marry. Then you’ll die with your husband’s name.”

Miss McKenzie’s expression grew pinched, hinting at some past hurt. “Some women never marry but live out their days as spinsters.”

His smile deepened. “I doubt you’ll be one of those.”

But as soon as he had spoken Dale realized it might be difficult for a lady fallen on hard times to find a suitable husband. Affluent, educated men sought wives who could boost their fortunes and increase their social status. A café waitress could expect to be courted by ranch hands and storekeepers, and a gently bred female might consider such men too rough, too lacking in culture. It occurred to him that he and Rowena McKenzie had something in common. Both of them were caught between the world they grew up in and their present circumstances, not fully fitting in either world.

* * *

The rain had ceased and a cold, clear night was falling outside. Rowena huddled on the cot in her jail cell, her attention focused on the small square of starlit sky she could see through the iron-barred window.

Was she afraid? No, she was not. At least not afraid of the noose.

But she had once been afraid. Alone and afraid. And she had taken the route of a coward and fled from her father’s house, from her father’s grave, unwilling to take over the fight that had killed him, unwilling to stay on the land that had killed both her parents.

Only four years old when her mother died, Rowena could barely remember her. All she could remember was the distant chanting of the Shoshone by the stream where her mother had gone to do the laundry. They had killed her with a blow to the head and taken her scalp. Flaming red hair, it would now be a prized possession in some brave’s lodge.

And her father—she didn’t know who had killed him. Just over two years ago, she’d returned home from school in Boston, to see her father’s coffin lowered into a grave. He’d been gunned down, but no one could—or would—tell her who had fired the bullet.

Reese, the man in charge of the ranch, Twin Springs, had been a stranger to her. He’d claimed that her father had employed him and his band of gunfighters to defend the property. But Reese had been living openly in the house, as if he owned the place. Unable to tell enemy from friend, Rowena had fled into the night, leaving Twin Springs for others to fight over, like a pack of hungry dogs might fight over a bone.

Her thoughts drifted to the marshal who had come to interrogate her. Even now, in the privacy of her jail cell, Rowena could feel her pulse accelerating. She didn’t know what it was about him that disturbed her so. He wasn’t the most attractive man she’d met, but there was power about him, and determination and intelligence.

The marshal’s comments about a husband had stirred up unwelcome memories. Only two men had ever proposed to her. Freddy Livingston was rich and handsome, and she had imagined herself in love with him. He had courted her, believing her to be an heiress to a ranching empire, but the moment he had discovered the modest nature of her father’s holdings he had cast her aside. Had he broken her heart? No, Rowena decided. The shame of a public rejection had hurt more than the loss of Freddy as a future mate.

And the other proposal had hardly been a proposal at all. It had been Reese pointing at a young man in the crowd of men at her father’s graveside. “We’ll hold the ranch for you. It would make things easier if you married Luke here. My son, and as good a man as any.”

She’d barely caught a glimpse of this Luke Reese, a shadow among shadows in the twilight of a winter evening. She’d had some idea of a lithe man of medium height, with high cheekbones and jet-black hair. Part Shoshone, if she wasn’t mistaken, and the grief of growing up without a mother had caused her to speak up too sharply.

“How dare you talk to me about marriage?”

That night, she had walked off into the frozen darkness. Maybe one day she would find the courage to go back and claim Twin Springs, the ranch that was hers by law. However, she might have to fight for the property, and a woman could not win such a fight alone.

To claim Twin Springs, she needed help from a man, a fighting man. She would have to employ a man as unyielding and capable as the marshal with cold green eyes and a crescent-shaped scar on his face. The imprint of fangs was clear to see, as if some wild beast had taken a bite out of him and found him too tough to chew. What was it her father used to say?

“Make a deal with the devil and you might end up in hell.”

With a sigh, Rowena burrowed deeper into the blanket, trying to ward off the night chill. Of course, it was just an empty dream. She had no money to employ a gunman of any stature, not even the cheapest whiskey-soaked old-timer, and she was not brave enough to simply ride up to Twin Springs and claim ownership.

She directed her attention to the more pressing problems. What had happened to the two conmen who had rescued her from a snowdrift after she’d walked away from her father’s funeral? Eugene Richards and Claude Desmond—or Elroy Revery and Robert Smith, as they were calling themselves for this particular caper. Had they become stranded after their circus-trained horse, the faithful Scrooge, met his end at the bottom of the gully? Were they trying to make their escape on foot, lost in the desert?

Doubt and worry dulled her vision, dimming the stars visible between the iron bars. She had made her choices, but guilt ate away at her. Why did it have to be so hard to do the right thing? Why did it have to be so hard to know what was the right thing to do?

Claude and Eugene had found her nearly frozen to death, and had put their business activities on hold while they nursed her through the fever that followed. She’d known that they earned their living by dishonest means, but she had never seen it done. They had laughed about it, making it sound like an amusing escapade, a gambling game.

When she was well again, the pair had dropped her off at a stagecoach depot with enough money to last until she found a place to settle down. And now, two years later, fate had brought them to Pinares, and the cruelty and selfishness of their actions had become evident, leaving her with an impossible choice.

The people in Pinares were her friends. And by not exposing the scam she had failed to protect them. But what could she do? While she’d been close to death, Claude and Eugene had confided in her, shared their traumatic past. Claude, a slender man with delicate features, had been abused as a boy, hired out to men who gained pleasure from hurting children. And Eugene, a giant of a man, had been locked into a broom cupboard by his father, to stop the teenage boy from sneaking into the pantry and stealing food to nourish his growing body.

The history of incarceration in a closet barely big enough to accommodate the breadth of his shoulders had left Eugene terrified of enclosed spaces. And Claude would rather die than relive his childhood torment. Prison would be the end of them.

So, she had chosen to protect those two. But soon she’d have to tell the truth, even if no telegram arrived to let her know that Eugene and Claude had escaped to where the law couldn’t reach them. The pair of fraudsters might have once saved her life, but her loyalty didn’t extend as far as dying at the end of a rope to keep them out of prison. However, until the circuit judge arrived, she would have to remain silent, waiting for the right moment to reveal that she could not be guilty of murder, because there had been no murder at all.

* * *

The hotel room was quiet, the mattress firm, the sheets clean, but none of it improved Dale’s mood. He’d made a dog’s dinner of it. He’d barged into the jail, expecting to coax the facts out of the accused and be done with his assignment within a day.

Restless, he rolled over, the sheets tangling around him. He could always tell when a nightmare hovered at the gates of his mind. Sometimes he preferred to stay awake all night instead of letting the past horrors intrude. But tonight the long ride from the railroad took its toll. As Dale slipped into the shadowed world of slumber, Rowena McKenzie seemed to accompany him, her elegant beauty like a ghost of a life he had once expected to lead—the life of a gentleman, with a gentleman’s manners, a gentleman’s house, and a gentleman’s wife.

When the nightmare came, it was not the rancid breath of a coyote in his nostrils and the fangs tearing into his cheek. Neither was it bullets slamming into his flesh and the ground rising up to meet him as he tumbled down to the canyon floor. Those restless dreams were a legacy of the gunfight to break out of the lawless life.

This nightmare was from deeper into his past. He was twelve years old, the summer hot, Spanish moss hanging from the trees, the river low and sluggish as he and Laurel—already a young woman at sixteen—sat fishing on the bank. He could hear the sound of heavy boots crashing through the undergrowth. Coarse voices. Laurel’s whisper.

“Hide. Hide. Let me take care of them. Whatever happens, don’t come out. Promise me… Promise…promise.”

The images jumbled, flashed before his eyes. Soldiers holding Laurel down. One of them had his trousers pulled down all the way to his ankles. Bare buttocks rising and falling, rising and falling. Throughout the assault, Laurel made no sound at all but the soldiers joshed each other.

“Hey, Krieger, hurry up, it’s my turn.”

“Shut up, Ives, you idiot.”

Dale watched from his hiding place behind a tree, fraught with despair. He’d promised to Laurel not to come out. But the guilt, the sense of helplessness felt like a rock crushing his chest. Tears of shame stung his eyes. At twelve years old he regarded himself a man, and now he was behaving like a little boy, too frightened to intervene while the soldiers did those terrible things to his sister.

Craning forward so he could study the men waiting for their turn, Dale memorized the name of each man, and their features. Fisting his hands, he gave himself over to the hatred, his little boy’s mind striving for that grown-up feeling again.

When it was over, when all four men had sated their lust, they buttoned up their trousers and shared a smoke. Laurel lay on the ground, her dress torn, blood on her thighs, one arm slung across her face to keep her suffering private. But she was alive.

Not daring to move for the fear that the snap of a twig or the rustle of leaves might alert the men to his presence, Dale blinked away the tears of pity and shame and waited for the soldiers to be off on their way again.

“The little bitch, we have to do something.”

“No, leave her be.”

The one wearing a sergeant’s stripes dug out a few coins, tossed them down.

“Buy yourself a new dress, sweetheart.”

Heavy boots crashed past Dale’s hiding place. He counted the men passing. One. Two. Three. Only one more, and they’d be gone. He could go to Laurel. Help her. Comfort her.

A gunshot.

“Hey, Krieger, what did you do that for?”

“Couldn’t leave the little bitch telling tales.”

Dale woke up, the sheets soaked with perspiration, his body trembling, the nightmare still holding him in its grip. Two sets of patrician beauty, one merely a promise at sixteen, the other fully blossomed in her early twenties, merged in his mind. And it became clear to him that whatever the outcome of his investigation—whether Rowena McKenzie was guilty of murder or not—he could not let her die at the end of a rope.

Chapter Two

Tired and bleary-eyed, Dale ate breakfast in the hotel dining room. Sitting alone at a corner table, he fished a pencil stub from his pocket, tore a piece of paper from an old copy of the Arizona Weekly Citizen, and jotted down a list of questions:

1. Who was the man who caused a commotion when Revery was shot?

2. When did that man come into town and where was he now?

3. Had anyone seen Rowena McKenzie talking with Revery?

4. Who owned the wagon Revery crashed into the gully?

5. Who owned the wagon horse that ended the same way?

6. Had Rowena McKenzie lost any money in the swindle?

7. Who else had lost money and how much?

Not wasting any time, Dale tossed down his napkin, finished his coffee and set off to conduct his interviews. Outside, the street was quiet. Clouds had gathered in the sky again, and yesterday’s drizzle was turning into a few flakes of snow, the final gasp of winter. Good, Dale thought. The bad weather would keep people indoors and the storekeepers would have more time to talk.

He started with the barbershop. The small, dapper man with an oiled mustache gave him an assessing glance. “A haircut, sir?”

Dale nodded, took down his hat and settled in the reclining leather chair. Might as well use the time productively while he went about his business.

By early afternoon, he’d had his boots polished, his coat pressed, the fraying cartridge loops on his gun belt restored. He’d tasted three different kinds of angel cake, sipped whiskey and beer and tea and coffee. He’d listened to voices that ranged from shrilly female to the croak of an adolescent boy to the raspy cough of a man who smoked too much.

Everyone had good things to say about Rowena McKenzie. Pinares had been founded by Quakers, and although no one used thou or thee anymore, the abhorrence of violence that went with the religion was deeply ingrained in the community. In some other town, Rowena McKenzie might not even have been arrested for what she had done, but instead the citizens might have taken up a collection to reward her for so efficiently dispatching the conman who had taken advantage of their trust.

Dale’s best source of information was Alice Meek, the sturdy proprietor of the café where Rowena McKenzie worked. Needing little prompting, the woman talked in a breezy monologue while she chopped meat and vegetables for a stew, the only item on the lunch menu chalked to the blackboard by the entrance.

“The man that caused the commotion were a feller by the name of Robert Smith. New to town, he was. A small man, quiet and well spoken. A good customer at lunchtime. The first one to lay his money down for this mining claim. Kept telling everyone what a good investment it was. Went right off his head, poor soul. Don’t know what became of him. Rode off that very night. I reckon he took to hiding, too afraid to let his wife know he’d lost the money he was meant to use to bring his family out here. He were from Pennsylvania.”

“Did Miss Rowena get taken in by the swindlers, too?”

Carrot slices tumbled into the cauldron. “Miss Rowena? Invest? Poor lamb, she ain’t got a penny to spare. I’d like to pay her more but times are tough.” Mrs. Meek shook her head. “She’d been ill with a fever, Miss Rowena, but when she got to her feet again she went round warning people against parting with their money. Nobody listened to her, though, even though she has more book learning than any of them, of course excepting Mr. Carpenter—that’s the lawyer—and Reverend Poole.”

“Did you ever see her engage in private conversation with Revery?”

Mrs. Meek slammed the meat cleaver over a chunk of beef, mouth pursed, mental struggle evident on her rounded features. “Might as well tell you. Things usually come out anyway. Minna Tellerman—that’s the hotel owner’s wife—seen her come out of Revery’s room one night. Now, if it were any other woman, I’d think she been doing a bit of trade, if you take my meaning. But not Miss Rowena. She’s a lady, a real lady. Not a lady of the night.”

At his next stop, the livery stable, Dale discovered the wagon used in the escape had been rented but the horse, a big chestnut thoroughbred, had belonged to Revery, and he had ridden the animal into town. It was uncommon to have a horse trained for both harness and saddle, a detail which added to Dale’s suspicions.

A telegram to the Claims Recorder in the Warren Mining District received the surprising reply that the mining claim the swindlers had been peddling did in fact exist and had been legally filed, but the land had been sampled and was deemed worthless. However, the presence of the nearby Copper Queen mine in Bisbee, valued at nearly two million dollars, allowed even plain gravel to be marketed as if it were solid copper.

Dale returned to his room, compiled a list of the victims and the amounts they had lost. No one had been swindled out of more than one hundred dollars, a relatively modest amount in such an affluent town, and the majority of the victims had lost fifty or twenty-five dollars. It seemed the fraudsters were skilled in estimating what people could afford, and only allowed them to invest accordingly, using the excuse that they had a limited number of shares in the claim available and needed to give everyone an opportunity to profit.

When the list of investors was complete, Dale added up the total. Altogether, Revery and his accomplice, Robert Smith, had taken just over three thousand dollars.

Of course, Revery and Smith were unlikely to be their real names. Frowning, Dale searched his memory. He could recall reading about a similar case in Colorado a year earlier. On that occasion, the perpetrators had called themselves Edmond Rawlins and Billy Jones. One name with matching initials, the other so common it wouldn’t trigger any alarm bells. Everything tied together neatly. The only thing Dale couldn’t figure out was how Rowena McKenzie fitted into the setup. He got to his feet, glimpsed at his new haircut in the mirror and pulled on his freshly pressed coat. Time to find out.

* * *

It was not lonely in the jail. Women came to visit, delivering clean clothes and gossip. As long as the other two cells remained unoccupied, the nights were calm. The meals were adequate and the sheriff provided hot water to wash and the privacy to benefit from it.

If it hadn’t been for the worry about Claude and Eugene, and the guilt over having betrayed the people in Pinares that constantly chafed at her, like a pair of ill-fitting shoes, Rowena might have regarded her incarceration as a holiday. She harbored no fears about her own fate, for she took it for granted that the judge would believe her when the time came to reveal the truth. But today she felt restless. When her ears picked out a slightly uneven cadence of footsteps in the corridor, her heartbeat quickened.

She bounced up from the cot. Turning her back to hide her efforts, she fluffed up the wispy curls at her temples and adjusted the collar of her sage-green wool dress, a worn but good quality garment which Permelia Jenkins, the tailor’s daughter, had only just that morning returned after cleaning and pressing it with an expert touch.

Today the sheriff must have dispensed with his guardian duty, for the marshal with a crescent-shaped scar on his cheek walked up to the cell unaccompanied. A jolt went through Rowena at the sight of him. He’d had a haircut. And he’d tidied up his clothing. Although the difference was subtle, it emphasized the combination of violence and elegance that would surely have sent all her old school friends into a swoon.

The marshal unlocked the iron grille with one hand, while dangling a sturdy captain’s chair from the other. Not making a sound—not even a muffled clunk, as if to compensate for his angry outburst the day before—he lowered the chair to the floor, settled onto the wooden seat and fired a question at her.

“How do you know the men called Elroy Revery and Robert Smith?”

Rowena controlled a flinch. So, the marshal had already figured out the connection between her and the fraudsters. She sank to sit on the cot. “I have nothing to say.”

“What are their real names?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Why did you help them escape?”

She clamped her lips together. I have nothing to say no longer seemed an adequate response, so she chose to meet a question with a question.

“How did you get your scar?”

“Do they have some kind of hold on you?”

“How did you become a federal marshal?”

That last question hit its mark. She could tell from the slight narrowing of those cool green eyes that watched her every move. “I have a deal for you,” Marshal Hunter said. “I shall answer one of your questions if you answer one of mine.”

Rowena mulled it over. In the back of her mind, she could hear her father’s voice, raspy from a lifetime of herding cattle in the harsh Wyoming climate. “Make a deal with the devil and you might end up in hell.” He’d quoted those words about using violence to defend the ranch, and the memory of his reluctance had made her doubt the word of Reese, the gunman who claimed her father had employed him.

But now, as Rowena met the sharp scrutiny of Marshal Hunter, an odd tingle of anticipation and daring skittered along her skin. Such a bargain could be used to provide misdirection, confuse the marshal’s train of thought. And, in truth, she wanted to learn more about him. What harm could there be, if she posed her questions wisely and gave her replies with caution.

“Can I choose which questions to answer?”

Marshal Hunter nodded his assent.

“How did you get your scar?”

“I was left for dead and a coyote tried to have me for his supper.” He paused and gave her a speculative look. “How did you end up in Pinares?”

Rowena suppressed a smile. So, he had accepted she wouldn’t talk about the shooting. He would lead her round and round the topic, attempting to trip her up. Sitting straighter on the cot, she curled her hands around the rough timber edge and sharpened her concentration. “I came here soon after I left school. How did you become a federal marshal?”

“I had nothing better to do. Where did you go to school?”

“Boston. Where did you grow up?”

“Louisiana. Are you running away from something?”

“I…” She was wearing thick socks and no shoes, and she lifted her heels, balancing the balls of her feet against the cold cement floor, the nervous movement hidden by the folds of her green wool skirt. “I was running away…when I came here…” Rowena lowered her lashes, but she could not resist glancing up again. She studied the crescent-shaped scar on the marshal’s face—a scar that bore the fang marks of a coyote. “And you…when you became a United States Marshal…were you running away from something?”

To her surprise, Marshal Hunter broke into a smile. It transformed his face, making him look young and carefree. The green eyes sparkled with humor. “I was running away from something,” he admitted. “And that something was an overbearing, determined mother who had her own ideas about how I should live.” The smile lingered. “My turn. Who were you running away from?”

She hesitated, then spoke quietly. “Myself.”

“Never an easy thing to do,” the marshal replied with a note of empathy in his tone.

Rowena nodded. “My turn.”

She intended to fire out another question, but her mind went blank. She had asked about his home, about his choice of career. What about his family? Before her brain caught up with the implications of the question, she blurted out, “Are you married?”

Slowly, the marshal’s expression sharpened and those green eyes fastened on her, so bold and direct Rowena believed they could see to the very core of her. But when the marshal replied, his voice was bland, perhaps a little impatient. “Why do you want to know?”

Up to now, she’d been enjoying the sparring. It had been like bantering with her suitors in Boston—not that she’d had many, for unlike some of her school friends she possessed neither great wealth nor important family connections—but what she felt now was not the girlish, superficial fluster of those occasions. What she felt now was deep and dark and laced with undertones of danger.

She inhaled a fortifying breath and refused to contemplate why the question about the marshal’s marital status might be of interest to her. “No particular reason,” she replied with a casual air. “I was just making conversation. And that was your question. My turn.”

She racked her brain, but her concentration was in tatters. She couldn’t think of anything that would allow an emotional retreat, could come up with no casual question that would draw them back from the dangerous waters of exchanging intimacies, of confessing hidden thoughts.

“Will you come back tomorrow?” she asked finally.

“Yes.” Like a gentleman who has been given a hint that his allotted visiting time had come to an end, the marshal rose to his feet. “Good night, Miss McKenzie.”

He retreated with those strangely deliberate footsteps she’d noticed before, not because of any visible quality in how he walked, but because her musician’s ear had picked out the distinctive cadence of his boot heels against the cement floor.

As the marshal turned around to slide the iron bars back in place, Rowena couldn’t stop herself from staring at him. One by one, she registered every part of his appearance—the coal-black hair, freshly cut, the gaunt face with high cheekbones, the green eyes framed with dark lashes, the hard slash of a mouth, the lean yet powerful body. Marshal Hunter stood still, aware of her scrutiny. For a while, it appeared to Rowena that time had stopped turning.

After what seemed like an eternity, the marshal dipped his head in a curt nod of farewell and vanished out of sight, leaving her alone with an avalanche of confused thoughts that ran the gamut from past failings into future possibilities.

* * *

Dale finished his morning shave and studied his reflection in the gilt-framed mirror hanging above the cracked porcelain washbasin in his hotel room. What had Rowena McKenzie seen when she’d stared at him with such intensity? Had she been repelled by his scar?

Are you married? Are you married? Are you married?

The question seemed to whisper at him from every corner of the shabby, well-worn hotel room. Dale shook his head, as if to dislodge the soft feminine voice that appeared to be stuck inside his mind. The attempt proved as futile as swatting at a fly with a piece of string.

He’d never considered that marriage might be an option for him. And yet, he could not stop his thoughts from reeling back to Roy Hagan, a friend he used to ride with in his outlaw years. Born with different colored eyes, Roy had been an outcast all his life. He’d been an outlaw when he met Celia, a bank clerk’s daughter, and escorted her on a trail through the Arizona Territory. They had fallen in love, and despite Roy’s lawless background, Celia had accepted him. She’d given herself to him, had fought to have a future with him. Their love had seemed so perfect, so complete, even with death looming over them, for at that time Roy had not yet broken free from the Red Bluff Gang, or been granted a presidential pardon. But Celia had loved him anyway, had been prepared to risk her life and sacrifice her reputation to be with him.

Could it happen to him? Could a woman love him like that?

Dale scowled at his image in the mirror. Of course it couldn’t happen to him. Rowena McKenzie had stared at him because she’d been repelled by his scar. He had done his duty. He had uncovered the facts, at least enough to piece together a clear picture of the situation.

Number one: he knew that Robert Smith and Elroy Revery were professional fraudsters who had perpetrated the same scam on many occasions. On at least one such occasion Revery—or whatever was his real name—had been shot and carted away by a bolting horse. As Revery had since reappeared, it was evident that he had not died, and the same was likely to apply on this occasion. The lack of a body supported that assumption, although this time Revery had been forced to sacrifice his horse.

Number two: Rowena McKenzie was an honorable person—Dale trusted his lawman’s instinct on that—and she had lived in Pinares for two years, during which time Revery and Smith had been operating elsewhere. During those two years Miss McKenzie had not sent or received any letters or telegrams. She could not have been in contact with the fraudsters. It must be a coincidence that they had come to Pinares.

Number three: Rowena McKenzie had done her best to stop people from investing in the worthless mining shares, and hence it appeared that she was not part of the fraud. However, she had secretly visited Revery in his hotel room, which was evidence of a bond between them. The bond did not seem sinister, with the conmen having some kind of a hold over her, for Miss McKenzie seemed confident that once she revealed the truth about the shooting her troubles would be over. Further, she did not appear to have any dark secrets that could be used to blackmail her.

Number four: Rowena McKenzie had grabbed Kurt Lonergan’s pistol from the holster and fired the shot that allowed Revery to escape. She had done this after Smith, masquerading as one of the disgruntled investors, fell over in the crowd and was unable to use his gun. Clearly, she had facilitated the escape of the conmen, but it appeared to have been an impulse, dictated by the occasion. Had it been premeditated she would have arranged to be carrying a gun.

Number five: Rowena McKenzie was refusing to defend herself against a murder charge. She was waiting for a telegram that would allow her to reveal the truth. The telegram must be to let her know that Revery and Smith were safely out of the territory, and any other territory or state where there might be a warrant out on them.

This information, part fact, part speculation, ought to be enough to convince any judge that Rowena McKenzie should not hang, but should instead remain in custody until she was prepared to talk. He could relay his findings to Sheriff Macklin and be on his way to California. He ought to hurry, sign the agreement to buy his ranch before anyone else discovered the place and pushed the price beyond his reach by offering more.

Are you married? Are you married?

Ignoring the voice that whispered inside his head, Dale pulled his suit coat on. His task was not completed. He understood the chain of events, could be almost certain that Rowena McKenzie had not committed murder. However, she had aided and abetted fraudsters, and he couldn’t consider his job finished until he had discovered what had caused her to do that. It would then be up to the judge to decide if Miss McKenzie was guilty of participating in a fraud, or had merely acted unwisely out of misplaced loyalties.

* * *

Outside, the sky was laden, the ground white with a layer of frost. Steeling himself against the icy wind, Dale hurried down the street to the small brick building that housed the jail and the sheriff’s office.

Sheriff Macklin sat at his desk, feet propped on top, a steaming mug of coffee balanced between his hands. “Go right in,” he told Dale. “She’s between visitors. The cell door is unlocked.”

Dale walked down the corridor, keeping his footsteps quiet. He found Rowena McKenzie in her jail cell, squatting on all fours beneath the window, peering at something on the floor. Like yesterday, she was dressed in a green gown, with a shapeless man’s sweater worn on top to provide an extra layer of warmth.

“Miss McKenzie.”

Even though she ignored his greeting, her body seemed to stiffen. Then she sighed, loud enough for the sound to carry out to him, and hard enough for her shoulders to slump. She scampered up to her feet and turned to him, a frown of dismay on her face.

“I almost had him,” she complained. “Or her. I don’t know which.”

He stepped into the cell. “Had what?”

“Mousie.” Her expression softened. “He—or she—is a tiny mouse. A field mouse, I think. I’ve been feeding him with bread crumbs. He’s been letting me get very close. I was hoping that today he would let me pick him up, but you scared him away.”

“I have that effect on small children and mice.”

Miss McKenzie glanced at him, but either she missed the reference to his damaged looks or chose to pay no attention. Once again, Dale speculated about her past. She must have been brought up wealthy. However, he could sense no bitterness in her, no resentment over her loss of status in life. To the contrary, she seemed to possess the ability to find joy in little things, even having a rodent for a pet.

“Try it,” she urged him now, gesturing toward the floor beneath the window. “Mousie knows she didn’t get all the bread crumbs. She’ll be back.”

Dale edged closer and dropped to his haunches where he could see a scattering of bread crumbs. He wondered if Miss McKenzie realized she had just made her little mouse into a female, presumably for his benefit. He kept still, his attention on the floor. Silence settled over the jail cell. Just as well, Dale thought, for he seemed at a loss for words.

Seconds ticked by, turned into minutes. Rowena McKenzie crouched beside him. Their bodies seemed very close to each other in the confines of the narrow space. Dale could feel the sleeve of that shapeless sweater brushing against his arm, adding to his awareness of her presence.

“Listen,” she whispered. “Mousie has returned.”

The slight rustling sound grew louder, and then a tiny gray-brown mouse emerged from a crack in the brickwork. Scurrying, the creature hurried over to the pile of crumbs and began to feast on them.

“See,” Miss McKenzie said. “She is not afraid of you at all.”

Side by side, they watched the mouse, until the clatter of footsteps along the corridor sent the tiny creature into a frantic flight back into the safety of the hole in the brick wall. Instinctively, Dale curled his hand around Miss McKenzie’s elbow to help her up. She accepted the gesture with practiced ease, which added to his certainty that she’d been brought up a lady, accustomed to men who performed such courtesies.

By the time a sturdy woman wrapped in a long wool cape came to a halt by the open iron grille, they were facing the entrance, however Dale’s hand remained curled around Miss McKenzie’s arm.

“Good morning, Miss Rowena.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Powell.”

The woman held out a basket. “Brought you lunch.”

The visitor’s face was red from the cold, her nose dripping, but she managed to give Dale a haughty look. “I trust you to do your job, Marshal. None of us understand what’s going on, but we know Miss Rowena is no murderer. We don’t need no badge and gun to figure that out.”

Rowena flapped her hand. “Oh, don’t be so grumpy, Mrs. Powell. We were just feeding my pet mouse. The marshal wasn’t beating me up so I’ll sign a confession.”

“I’m not cooking lunch for no mouse,” the woman muttered. She pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “Well, I’d best be going. The chicken coop won’t clean itself and the firewood don’t fall into a pile on its own. I’ll see you on Tuesday, Miss Rowena.” With a curt nod of farewell, the visitor turned around and strode off, her bulky cape flaring behind her.

“I apologize for Mrs. Powell,” Rowena whispered after the woman’s footsteps had faded away. “She likes to gossip, and being stuck in a jail cell makes me a captive audience. You being here deprived her of spreading what little scandal she has managed to stir up since her last visit.”

Not pausing to ask if he wished to eat, Rowena stuck her head into the corridor and yelled, “Can I come out, Sheriff Macklin? I need plates and cutlery.”

“Prisoner transit approved,” the sheriff called back.

Bemused, Dale watched as Miss McKenzie marched out, graceful even with the shapeless man’s sweater covering her dress. Her feet were encased in thick socks that made her footsteps soundless. Her glossy mahogany hair was piled into an upsweep that her mouse-taming must have caused to unravel, allowing strands to flutter free around her face.

As Dale followed her with his eyes, he felt a tug in his chest. There was a gentleness about Rowena McKenzie that touched some sore spot inside him. He’d known ladies in his childhood, and many of them had been haughty and conceited. Lacking concern for the welfare of others, taking masculine admiration as their birthright, they had only shown friendship to those they considered their social equals. Rowena McKenzie was different, and that, combined with her beauty, fascinated him.

When she came back, she bustled about. Using the edge of the bunk as a table and the floor for seating, she served him a lunch of spicy stew. While they ate, they talked. Nothing personal, merely lighthearted observations about the town and its inhabitants. Two more times they were interrupted by visitors, a blushing teenage girl who came to lend Miss McKenzie a book, and an elderly woman who brought her another pair of thick wool socks.

“Why not tell the truth, Miss McKenzie?” Dale asked after the woman left. “The people in town worry about you.”

She stacked the empty plates, ready to return them to the sheriff’s office. “I will…eventually…when I have to…”

Dale didn’t press it. It might be something to do with her background, perhaps the events that had brought about her reduced circumstances. Most likely, she owed a debt of gratitude to the men she’d helped to escape, and her silence was to protect them. But did she understand the gamble she was taking with her life? She expected that once she decided to reveal the truth, everyone would believe her and the charges would be withdrawn. However, sometimes the wheels of law took a wrong turn, and being innocent might not be enough.

* * *

Dale shuffled the pack of cards and dealt two hands of five-card draw on the table fashioned from an overturned crate. Despite the bare brick walls, the jail cell appeared homely now. Books jostled for space with newspapers in the small bookcase he’d knocked together from a piece of waste lumber, and a coal burner in the corner provided a source of heat.

Rowena picked up her cards, studied them with a notch between her straight, dark brows. Unable to hide the flicker of excitement, she rearranged the cards in her hand, extracted three and laid them facedown on the table.

“Three,” she said.

Dale gave his own hand a cursory study. Two eights, two kings, a queen. Why did luck favor him now that he would have preferred it to remain absent? He discarded one of the kings and dealt the replacements.

“Three for the lady. One for the dealer.”

Rowena picked up her cards. Her face clouded with disappointment. Dale gathered his own hand. Damn. Another eight. He kept his features impassive while he waited for Rowena to open the betting. Maybe he could scare her into folding.

“Bet one hundred thousand,” she said.

“Call your hundred thousand…and raise five hundred thousand.”

“Call your five hundred thousand…and raise another hundred thousand.”

Like the eager novice that she was, Rowena kept raising her bet. Between rounds of adding more imaginary money into the pot, she stared at her cards and tapped her forefinger against her pursed lips, a sure sign she was bluffing. Dale decided to rein her in, limit her losses. “Call your million.”

“Raise…” Rowena darted him a questioning glance. Dale replied with an imperceptible shake of his head, and to his relief Rowena had the good sense to stop.

With excruciating slowness, like tasting a foul-flavored medicine, Rowena spread her cards on the table. A pair of jacks. Dale revealed his own hand and jotted the entry to the exercise book they used for their score keeping. “You owe me seventeen million four hundred thousand dollars.”

Rowena rolled her eyes. “You’ll bankrupt me yet, you cardsharp.”

Smiling, Dale gathered the deck, passed it over to her. “Your turn to deal.”

Inexpertly, she shuffled the cards, talking at the same time. “I’m surprised the Marshals Service lets you stay in Pinares until the trial. You’re not doing much to earn your pay. It’s not as if I’m a dangerous criminal who needs constant guarding.”

“Marshals don’t get a salary. They get paid a fee for each assignment.” In truth, Dale knew he might be overstepping the boundaries with his visits, but he enjoyed her company. Every afternoon he arrived a little earlier and left a little later. Her feminine presence, her laughter, her beauty and her carefree manner seemed like a summer breeze that dispelled some of the darkness inside him. He was even regaining his sense of humor.

It seemed that for the first time since his genteel world of Southern aristocracy had vanished into cannon fire and flames, he was experiencing the social niceties he’d missed out on. From the age of twelve to eighteen he’d been consumed with tracking down and killing the soldiers who’d murdered Laurel. The next eleven years he’d lived in an outlaw hideout, isolated from the world, surrounded by cruel, coarse men.

When he’d gained a pardon, he could have re-entered the world he’d been born into, the world of ballrooms and parties, of plays and music, of culture and refinement, of money and comfort. However, although a pardon made him an honest man in the eyes of the law, it couldn’t restore his peace of mind. It couldn’t heal the guilt and shame over Laurel’s death. It couldn’t make his scars disappear. It couldn’t keep away the nightmares that forced him to relive the horrors of his past, time and time again.

The legacy of his outlaw years held him back from attempting to rebuild his life as a gentleman, a gentleman of high birth and affluent means. Instead, he had sought some measure of restitution by becoming a federal marshal, a man who upheld the law instead of flouting it.

Because of his past, Dale had never courted a girl. Sure, he’d paid for a whore in his outlaw years. But in the last three years he’d lived celibate. Not because of a moral conversion of some sort, but because he couldn’t tolerate the prospect that when faced with the sight of his scarred body a whore might demand extra payment.

But now, in Rowena’s company, he felt as if he was getting a glimpse into what he’d missed out on, all those parties and balls, the pleasure of a woman’s voice, her laughter. Although Rowena’s gentleness and her impish sense of humor appealed to him, he couldn’t deny there was a carnal element to his fascination. All too often, his eyes strayed to the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the fullness of her mouth, but he possessed enough discipline to keep her from becoming aware of it.

He could see no harm in it, so he allowed the feeling to grow, safe in the knowledge it couldn’t lead to anything. Rowena McKenzie was not the kind a woman a man could trifle with. Perhaps it was curiosity more than anything, a new experience, attraction that was more than just physical. And, to start with, spending his nights racked with unfulfilled desire had seemed preferable to nightmares. As Rowena McKenzie got deeper and deeper under his skin, Dale had begun to doubt the wisdom of that assumption.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I am retiring from the Marshals Service.”

“Retiring? Aren’t you a bit young for a rocking chair on the porch?”

“I’m thirty-two. And I don’t plan to be idle. There is this place, this valley over in California…the prettiest place you ever saw, with a stream running through it… I stumbled upon the property by chance a year ago, when my horse went lame…”

Half resenting the words as they spilled out, he went on nonetheless, telling her of the ranch, of the old man who wished to sell. He told her how he’d saved every penny of his fees and could now just about afford the down payment, with a bank lending the rest.

As he talked, Dale felt a tension coil within him, like the anticipation before a gunfight. He had never shared his dreams with anyone, except perhaps the dream of breaking away from the outlaw life, a dream he’d once shared with his friend Roy Hagan.

When he stopped, emotionally drained, silence fell. Rowena clutched the pack of cards in her hands. “I once knew such a place, too.” Although her tone was wistful, she cast him an odd, speculative look. Dale had noticed it once or twice before, as if she were somehow assessing him, measuring his mettle. And then, with a visible effort to regain the lighthearted mood, Rowena dealt the cards, placing them on the table with an exaggerated flourish.

A pair of tens for him. When Rowena saw her own hand, her face lit up. To keep things simple, they skipped the initial rounds of betting and went straight to replacement cards. She took only one. He asked for three, failed to improve on the pair.

Rowena opened, forefinger tapping at her lips, her attention riveted on the cards. Dale suppressed a sigh. Another bluff. The pot grew until they had fifteen million of imaginary money on the table. Rowena laid down her cards. “Ace high.”

Dale revealed his own hand. “When will you learn that a busted straight is worth nothing?”

“You ought to have folded when I kept raising.”

“Never expect to control what the other players do.” He updated the scorecard. “You owe me thirty-two million and change.” With a rueful smile, he looked up at her. “Cherie, promise me you’ll never gamble with real money.”

She laughed, that light, sunny sound that touched something inside him. He spoke quietly. “Don’t gamble with your life either, Miss Rowena. The judge arrived a few hours ago. He is reviewing his docket today. He’ll hear the criminal cases first, before the civil disputes, and yours is the only one. Your trial will take place tomorrow morning.”

Dale knew he could have revealed the truth by now—that there had been no murder, merely an elaborate charade to facilitate the escape of the two conmen who’d been selling shares in a worthless mining claim—but he also knew that Sheriff Macklin wouldn’t accept his findings without the prisoner’s own testimony.

Every day, the postmaster’s boy came by to tell Miss Rowena there had been no telegram. Dale didn’t know what information the telegram would contain, only that Rowena was determined not to disclose her innocence until it arrived. He hoped she wouldn’t take her obstinacy too far. Judge Williams could be like a bear, easily riled, and the judge’s verdict, however misguided if handed down in a fit of anger, would become the law.

Chapter Three

Dale surveyed the packed courtroom. Traveling theater shows were rare and not everybody could read, which added to the value of court hearings as entertainment. Feet shuffled, cigar smoke curled in the air. The stove in the corner radiated heat, raising the temperature in the room. Women fanned their flushed faces and men tugged at their shirt collars, until someone had the good sense to prop the door open and let in a cool draft.

Sheriff Macklin rose to his feet and called out in a formal tone, “The court is in session, the Honorable Judge Williams presiding.”

The crowd hushed into silence. The judge flapped his meaty hand to wave away the preliminaries. Squat like a frog, with a jowly face and florid complexion, his every gesture spoke of impatience. He shuffled his papers. “The Territory of Arizona versus Miss Rowena McKenzie. What is this? A deputy US Marshal will testify for the defense?”

Dale had entered himself on the record and was seated in the front row with the other witnesses. He stood up. Before he had a chance to speak, the rapid clatter of footsteps and a childish voice disturbed the silence.

“It came, Miss Ro! It came! Your telegram!”

A boy of about eight, swamped in his older brother’s hand-me-downs, charged into the room and scrambled to a halt in front of Miss Rowena. He thrust a folded telegram at her. “It came just now on the wire, clackety-clack. Pa wrote it down and I brung it over as fast as me feet carried me.”

Rowena folded open the telegram, gave the message a cursory glance and threw her arms around the boy. “Oh, Clarence, you are wonderful. I’ll pay you later. A dollar. Remind me.”

Blushing, the boy extracted himself. “I don’t need no money, Miss Ro.”

“But you shall have it anyway.” Relief evident upon her features, Miss Rowena turned to the judge. “May I take the stand first, Your Honor? I think it will save time.”

Sheriff Macklin swore her in, her hand on the Bible that must have been handled by more criminals than clergymen. While Miss Rowena gave the oath, a smile hovered around her mouth. She sat down in the witness chair and turned to the judge. “I plead innocent, Your Honor, due to the simple fact that there was no killing.”

A startled intake of breath hissed around the courtroom. Everyone kept their eyes riveted on the witness stand. Still coasting on the rush of relief, Miss Rowena burst into rapid talk. “You see, I know these two men—Elroy Revery and Robert Smith—from the past. They operate a swindle, and they have an emergency measure that allows them to escape, should the need arise.”

Gesturing, she went on with her explanation. “Revery leaps onto his horse—or onto the wagon bench if the horse is in harness—and Smith, who is pretending to be one of the disgruntled investors, fires his pistol. The horse is trained to bolt at the sound. Revery has a pouch of red ink hidden beneath his shirt. He makes the pouch burst and slumps down, clutching at his chest, as if mortally wounded. The horse canters away, carting Revery to safety. Smith behaves like a madman, to create a diversion that stops anyone from setting after Revery.”

Rowena paused, to allow the judge to review the details in his mind. “See?” she said brightly. “It’s a simple plan, but it works. No one realizes Smith is part of the swindle, and he quietly slips out of town. He has never been arrested for doing the shooting, because everyone believes Revery got what he deserved. And, because everyone believes that Revery will die from the bullet wound, they don’t worry too much about chasing after him. Only on this occasion Smith fell over in the crowd, and he couldn’t fire his pistol, so I had to do it instead of him.”

Stop smiling, Dale berated in his mind. Don’t look so damn pleased.

But, just like she lacked a poker face, Miss Rowena lacked the skill to hide her emotions, and now her entire demeanor reflected the easing of fear, the joy of finally being able to tell the truth.

The judge scowled at her. “You helped your accomplices to commit fraud?”

“No.” Furiously, she shook her head. “No! I don’t work with them. I’ve never participated in a swindle in my life, never cheated anyone. It is simply that I owed these men a debt of gratitude, for they once saved my life. I had to help them escape.”

“Fifty dollars I lost,” someone shouted.

“They took twenty-five from me!”

The judge banged his gavel. “Silence! Silence in my courtroom.”

The angry voices faded to a mutter.

“I tried to stop the swindle.” Alarmed now, Rowena faced the crowd, flinching at the angry stares directed at her. “I’d been laid down with a fever, and by the time I recovered and learned Revery and Smith were in town, the fraud had already been perpetrated. I went to see Revery, begged him to give back the money, but he said it would be too dangerous, that he would be prosecuted anyway. I tried to warn people, told them not to invest, but nobody would listen to me…”

The judge made a stabbing motion with his gavel, pointing at her. “You could have gone to the sheriff.”

“I thought of it…of course I did… For days, I was fraught with indecision, torn between conflicting loyalties… But the sums they took were not significant…” Rowena nodded at the crowd, picking out some of the victims. “Mr. Timmerman, I know you spent much more than that on the new furniture for your living room…and Mr. Hoskins, I’ve heard you boasting that you gamble far greater amounts in the saloon every Saturday…and Mr. Silver, everyone knows that your new breeding bull cost at least three times as much.” Rowena spread her hands, looking contrite. “I feel bad for your losses, of course I do, but I know they will not have a lasting impact on your welfare. But these two men…” She shook her head and spoke with a plea in her tone. “I couldn’t have them arrested… I owe them my life…”

Gavel pointing, the judge addressed his words to Dale. “Marshal Hunter, you’ve entered yourself on record as a witness. Am I to believe this fancy tale?”

Dale got to his feet. “It’s not a fancy tale, Your Honor. My findings support what Miss McKenzie has testified. I believe these two conmen have been operating the same swindle throughout the western territories. They have escaped the attention of the law because they are careful to keep the amounts small, and I believe the mining claims they sell are genuine. They just happen to be worthless.”

The judge turned to Sheriff Macklin. “How much did the victims in this town lose? Has someone tallied it up?”

The sheriff handed over a sheet of paper. Head bent, eyes on the document, the judge announced his verdict. “The territory versus Miss Rowena McKenzie. The accused has been found guilty of participating in a fraud and has to make restitution to the amount of…” A pudgy finger traced down the column. “The amount of three thousand two hundred dollars, which allows everyone to be reimbursed and adds something for the court expenses. If the accused fails to make restitution within thirty days, she is sentenced to three years in the territorial penitentiary.”

The crowd gasped.

The gavel banged.

The judge called, “Next case.”

* * *

The sounds of the courtroom faded away in Rowena’s ears, as if she’d been trapped inside a bubble, isolated from her surroundings. She felt someone tugging at her arm. She turned to look and saw Sheriff Macklin frowning down at her.

“Miss Rowena, I’ve got to escort you back to the jail.”

Her eyes darted about, searching for Marshal Hunter. He was over by the judge’s desk, huddled in conversation. Of course, she was no longer his responsibility.

On legs that nearly buckled beneath her, Rowena rose from the witness chair and followed Sheriff Macklin out, past the rows of seats. People were staring. She clung to the deportment drilled into her by her expensive education and held her head high, but she knew the terrified look in her eyes betrayed her panic.

By the exit, she paused and turned around to face the crowd. “I’m sorry for what I have done. But I felt I had no choice. It is my firm belief that these men wouldn’t have survived a prison sentence. Not even for a year or two.”

Not pausing to evaluate if her apology had any impact on the hostile crowd, Rowena allowed the sheriff to escort her away. At the jail, the iron grille that had previously given her a sense of safety and privacy took on a sinister quality. She listened to it clunk shut and curled her hands around the solid iron bars.

“Sheriff Macklin, please… Yuma prison…do they take women…?”

“There’s been female felons incarcerated there.”

Felons. She was a felon. “Are they kept separate from the men?”

“I have no time for this, Miss Rowena. Not now. I’ve got to go back to the courthouse. We can talk in the evening.”

She watched him go, listened to his footsteps fade away, each muted thud stirring up guilt and doubt within her. “You can’t have your cake and eat it,” her father used to say. When she’d asked him to explain, he’d told her it meant that when a person faced two divergent paths, they could only follow one.

She’d chosen to protect Claude and Eugene. And in doing so she had betrayed her friends and neighbors. Don’t fall for those lies, she had wanted to yell at everyone. They are conmen. Fraudsters. But a greater loyalty had sealed her lips. She’d told herself it didn’t matter if people lost money, because the sums were small, easily afforded by the victims.

And then, when the angry mob had surrounded Eugene, and Claude had stumbled and fallen, unable to fire the shot required to make the charade complete, it had been no choice at all. She had acted upon instinct, the way one might jump into a river to save someone about to drown, and had assisted her friends in their escape.

And now she would have to face the consequences of her actions. What was Yuma penitentiary like? Horrors reeled through Rowena’s mind. Convicts, including murderers and rapists, gaining access to the female prisoners. Male guards taking liberties. Beatings. Poor food. Lack of medical care. Intrusive physical examinations.

She’d be twenty-six when she came out, and she might look like an old woman. Feel like an old woman, too—no future, no hope, nothing to look forward to. She couldn’t let it happen. Deftly, bursting into action, Rowena bent over, rummaged beneath her skirts and extracted a tightly rolled document from a narrow pocket sewn into her petticoat.

Her father’s will, leaving Twin Springs to her. She had treasured the document, believing one day she would go back, find a way to fight for what was hers. Now those dreams had to be swept aside in the face of greater necessity.

She would ask the attorney, Mr. Carpenter, to sell the land on her behalf. He would come to see her if the sheriff sent out word. Slowly, her panic subsided. Everything would turn out all right. Claude and Eugene would be safe. Everyone would get their money back. She would have lost any chance of reclaiming Twin Springs, but those chances had been slim anyway.

Pacing the cell, Rowena waited for the sheriff to return. Outside, the light gained midday brightness and then dimmed again. No visitors came. No one brought her food. Either everyone was too busy at the courthouse, or they had turned their backs on her.

Finally, voices. She rushed to the iron grille, pressed her face between the bars and yelled into the corridor. “Sheriff Macklin! Sheriff Macklin!”

The burly lawman appeared, keys dangling in his hand.

“Sheriff Macklin, can you please fetch Mr. Carpenter for me? I have a property I can sell. I can reimburse everyone.” She was babbling, the words tumbling out like grains in a mill. “I meant no harm. I will make restitution, just as the judge ordered.”

The key rattled in the lock. The grille slid open with a screech. Sheriff Macklin stepped aside and gestured for her to come out. “You’re free to go, Miss Rowena. Your fine has been paid.”

“Paid?” Her brows drew into a baffled frown. The telegram had said: Safe in San Francisco. Catching boat immediately.

The message had been to inform her that Claude and Eugene were beyond the reach of the law, and it would be safe for her to reveal the truth. There was no way the conmen could have found out about her plight, could have wired the money to pay her fine. She made a small, helpless gesture with her hand. “But how…who…?”

“Marshal Hunter had a bank draft for three thousand and the rest in cash.”

Stunned, Rowena blinked. She could clearly recall the marshal telling her that he could only just afford the down payment on the property he wished to buy, that he carried a bank draft for the exact amount. In settling her fine, he had not only given up the land he coveted, he had also spent most of his traveling cash. In her mind, she could hear his voice, the way it had softened when he described the land, and she recalled how his gaunt features had lit up with pleasure, how his wistful expression had revealed a longing for a place to call his own, a place to lay down roots.

Guilty conscience stalking like a ghost by her side, Rowena walked out of the jail. It was not her dream that had been sacrificed, but Marshal Hunter’s dream. As she made her way through the evening chill to the boardinghouse, the rolled-up document hidden beneath her skirts tapped against her leg, like the finger of fate pointing out that she possessed the means to make restitution, to help the marshal resurrect his dream of land of his own.

* * *

There was no time to waste, for Marshal Hunter might be planning to ride out at first light. Barely pausing at the boardinghouse to make sure her room and her belongings remained undisturbed, Rowena hurried over to the hotel.

Minna Tellerman was sitting behind the reception counter, busy with a needle and an embroidery hoop. Rowena walked up to the frail woman and managed a shaky smile. “Hello, Mrs. Tellerman. Could you tell me where I can find Marshal Hunter?”

Minna Tellerman—whose husband had bought a share in the worthless mining claim—refused to meet Rowena’s eyes. “Room four. Turn left at the top of the stairs.”

So, restitution might not buy forgiveness. Rowena turned to go, then spun back and spoke softly. “I’m sorry for not having revealed the truth sooner, Mrs. Tellerman. I hope you have heard that everyone will be reimbursed in full?”

Minna Tellerman’s chin dipped in a reluctant nod that confirmed she had indeed heard the news but was not allowing the recovery of her husband’s investment to blunt her resentment. Pointedly ignoring Rowena, she focused on her embroidery.

Ill at ease, Rowena gathered her skirts and set off up the stairs. Some of the men waiting to enter the dining room followed her path with sly, disrespectful looks. Puzzled, Rowena averted her face. Then it struck her, another blow to her already battered armor. Gossip must have gone around that Marshal Hunter had paid her fine, and people believed that for a man who barely knew her to spend such a large amount for her benefit, she must have given him something in return.

Shame burned on her cheeks, but she soldiered on, located the correct room, raised her hand and rapped on the door. “Marshal Hunter. It’s Rowena McKenzie.”

That familiar, uneven trail of footsteps crossed the room. The door sprang open and Marshal Hunter stood in front of her, hair mussed, the tails of his shirt hanging free. Rowena hesitated. The rules of social propriety seemed inconsistent—it had never crossed her mind there might be something improper about the marshal visiting her in jail, but entering a man’s hotel room seemed out of the question.

“I need to talk to you,” she informed him, a pointless comment since there could hardly be any other reason for her to appear at his doorstep.

The marshal stepped out into the corridor and left the door ajar behind him.

Rowena gathered every bit of courage, every aspect of ladylike decorum she could muster. “I understand you settled my fine. Why did you do it?”

When they first met, Marshal Hunter had hidden all his emotions behind a blank mask, and now he put on the same neutral expression. “Had some money on me. Seemed as good a way to spend it as any.”

Exasperated, Rowena flapped her hand in the air. Why did men think it made difficult situations easier if they pretended it didn’t matter? “What about your land?” she demanded to know. “That ranch in California you said was the prettiest piece of property you’d ever laid eyes on.”

“There’ll be other parcels of land.”

“Maybe. But we both know what you have given up.” She met his guarded gaze with a fraught look that implored him to stop belittling his sacrifice. Being denied the opportunity to express her gratitude wouldn’t lighten the burden, but instead add to it. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. And please don’t do me the discourtesy of saying something trivial, like ‘You’re welcome’ or ‘Don’t mention it’.”

Marshal Hunter said nothing, merely nodded.

Rowena went on, “I know explanations and excuses won’t change anything, but please don’t think ill of me. I was faced with a choice. The people who invested were only losing modest amounts of money, something they could easily afford. Claude and Eugene—those are their real names—would have lost their freedom. Both of them had a tragic childhood, filled with neglect and abuse. I feared prison might destroy the last of their humanity. And I owed them a debt of gratitude.”

“It is not my forgiveness you should seek. I’ll be gone tomorrow. Address your apologies to the townspeople.”

“I’ve tried.” Rowena expelled a sigh. “I fear they may be unwilling to listen.”

“What did you expect? You had to choose sides, and you chose against them. They have been campaigning on your behalf, proclaiming your innocence. They’ll feel foolish and angry now to discover that you were deceiving them.”

Fighting spirit rallied within Rowena. She adjusted the folds of her skirts and lifted her chin. “I felt an obligation to protect those who would have lost the most.”

“The law does not recognize compassion. It only recognizes right and wrong.” The marshal’s voice lost its challenging tone. “I don’t judge you for what you did. I figured out the way of it from the start—that you knew those two men from the past and were protecting them. If I wanted to judge you, I would have done it by now.”

“Yes. Well, anyway…” Rowena let her shoulders slump. “You are absolutely right. The people in town, although foolish, were acting honestly. Claude and Eugene were crooks. I shielded them, and I can see why a judge might consider that a crime, and why people who lost money might resent me.”

Marshal Hunter lifted his brows with a hint of mockery, as if to remind her that the judge and the tricked investors had a point. “You came to thank me and you’ve done it.” His tone was wry. “Don’t torture yourself by worrying about me. I can remain with the Marshals Service, save up again. Like I said, there’ll be other pieces of land.”

“That’s just it.” Rowena held the rolled-up document out to him. “I can give you a ranch. Twin Springs, Wyoming Territory. My father left it to me in his will.”

Marshal Hunter took the document from her, unrolled it and studied the pages in silence.

Her nerves rioting, Rowena kept talking. “I told you, I was running away from something when I came to Pinares. When I returned from school in Boston, I arrived in the middle of my father’s funeral. He had been killed in a range war.”

She blinked to keep the sad memories at bay. “My mother died in an Indian raid when I was small, and now my father… It felt as if the ranch had killed them both. Something inside me snapped. I just walked off into the night and didn’t stop walking until I collapsed. If Claude and Eugene hadn’t found me, I’d have frozen to death in a snowdrift.”

Marshal Hunter glanced up from the document. “Do you ever think of going back?”

“Every day,” Rowena admitted. “But I have no idea what’s been happening. The house might have been burned down. There may be squatters. I don’t possess the strength and courage it takes to fight for the ranch. But you do. I was going to sell the land anyway, so I could reimburse everyone for their losses and avoid going to prison. Giving Twin Springs to you achieves the same result. If it turns out the property is worth more than the fine you settled on my behalf, the excess will compensate for any risk you might face when claiming the land.”

She waited. From their poker lessons she knew Marshal Hunter’s features wouldn’t reveal his thoughts, but she stared at him anyway, her eyes traveling over his scar, the sharp blade of a cheekbone, the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth.

Finally, he spoke. “Do you have the title deed?”

“No.” She shook her head, relieved to hear the silence broken. “My father kept it in a strongbox in his study. Unless someone has stolen it, it might still be there. I know the deed was filed at the courthouse in Cheyenne. If the original has been lost or destroyed, you should be able to get a certified copy there.”

Marshal Hunter held out the will, but Rowena refused to accept the document. “Please. Don’t add to my burden by rejecting the offer. I don’t have the fighting skills to assert my ownership, which means the ranch is worthless to me. But it might be worth something to you.”

“Perhaps.” Marshal Hunter shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of doubt. The collar of his shirt was undone, and the movement made the front fall partly open, revealing bronzed skin with a sprinkling of dark hair. Before he adjusted the garment to cover the bare skin, Rowena could see a puckered white line that could only be another scar, although not as jagged as the one on his cheek.

“I’ll talk to a lawyer,” the marshal said. “Without the deed it might be impossible to prove ownership. I don’t want to add to my losses by resigning from my post and then finding out some other man has a stronger claim on your land.” He raked his free hand through his hair. “Good night, Miss Rowena. It has been a long day. Get some sleep and I’ll do the same. I’ll seek legal advice tomorrow and let you know the outcome.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

The marshal reached behind him and pushed the door open. When he was about to disappear out of sight, Rowena spoke to his back. “Why did you do it, Mr. Hunter?” Addressing him as mister instead of marshal somehow made the question more personal. “Why did you sacrifice your savings to help me?”

Without turning around, he replied, “I once had a sister. She came to a bad end. I didn’t want the same to happen to you.”

The door closed with a soft thud. No sound of footsteps followed, and Rowena could picture the marshal standing still, fighting the memories. In that instant it became clear to her that just like she had been, he, too, was running away from his past.

* * *

The short journey back to the boardinghouse had the potential to turn into a gauntlet. People might not actually pelt her with rotten eggs, but angry looks could hurt just as much. The sun had set, leaving the street in shadows. Keeping her head down, Rowena hurried along, the rapid click of her heels on the boardwalk betraying her unease.

Oh, no. A group of men loitered outside the tobacconist. She edged past. No one called out angry remarks. No one intercepted her. No one voiced accusations. To the contrary, a few of the men touched their hat brims as she passed, and some muttered a greeting.

Her heart lurched with hope. Perhaps there was forgiveness, after all. Increasing her pace, she darted down the steps at the end of the boardwalk—and nearly collided with a tall, thin woman rounding the corner.

“I’m sorry,” Rowena said. “I wasn’t looking ahead.”

She recognized Mrs. Moreton, the butcher’s wife. Quiet and timid, Mrs. Moreton suffered from ailments that confined her into the upstairs apartment she shared with her belligerent husband. When she eventually recovered and resumed her duties behind the store counter, not even a thick coat of rice powder could hide the fading bruises on her face.

“Miss McKenzie…” Mrs. Moreton spoke so quietly Rowena had to bend closer to make out the words. “That man, Smith…he had a hangdog look about him that I could relate to… I understand why you wanted to protect him, and I admire your courage. I don’t mind that my husband lost money. Not even if he takes his anger out on me.”

Before Rowena could reply, Mrs. Moreton slipped past and vanished into the store. Stunned, Rowena stood still. Tears of pity for the poor battered wife pricked behind her eyelids. The law might not recognize compassion, only right and wrong, but the weak needed the strong to protect them, and a fierce surge of pride filled her at the thought that she could count herself among the strong. She didn’t regret what she had done. She might have been foolish not to realize there would be a price to pay, but she would pay it. Pay it gladly, and make no more excuses for having put protecting life before protecting wealth.

* * *

The lawyer, Carpenter, was a neatly dressed man in his fifties, so cautious he appeared to mistrust even himself. The air in his office smelled of alcohol but it could have been the yeast vapors from the bakery below. Nevertheless, Dale kept a close eye on the lawyer. The advice of an intoxicated man might be worthless.

Carpenter slid the will back across his immaculate desk. “Difficult,” he said, shaking his head. “Someone could have used the title deed to record a transfer of ownership.”

“But I could dispute that, could I not, if I have a bill of sale from Miss McKenzie?”

“The bill of sale could be dismissed as a forgery. Or, the other party could claim that Miss McKenzie sold the ranch to them prior to selling it to you. If they find out about her criminal conviction for participating in a fraud, they could use the information to support a suggestion that she might have sold the same property twice.”

The lawyer cast a longing glance toward a cabinet by the wall, making Dale suspect he kept a bottle there. “I could do with a drink,” Dale said.

“I can accommodate you.” Carpenter bounced up, as eager as a grasshopper, and hurried to the cabinet. “I keep this for the benefit of clients,” he said as he returned to his desk with a bottle and two glasses. “Whiskey can ease the sting of bad news.”

He poured, and they lifted their glasses and downed their drinks. Making no offer of a refill, the lawyer put the bottle aside. “Let me see the will again.”

Dale slid the document over. Carpenter shuffled the pages, read out loud. “To my daughter Rowena McKenzie or to her husband…”

“There is no husband, as far as I know,” Dale pointed out.

Animated now, Carpenter leaned forward across the desk. “And that is the key to making the most of the situation. The best way for you to pursue your claim is to marry Miss McKenzie and make sure she travels to Wyoming with you. A legal marriage will give you a right by inheritance that cannot be disputed, and Miss McKenzie can prove that her signature on any document claiming a prior sale is not genuine. Of course, that is assuming she is telling the truth and there has been no prior sale.” The lawyer paused to let the idea of Rowena McKenzie as a habitual fraudster stew for a moment.

“However, even if you managed to prove ownership, the ranch could be occupied by squatters. You might then have to fight them to gain possession.” A note of warning entered Carpenter’s tone. “I have to stress that there are a number of risks involved in pursuing your claim. Is Miss McKenzie being honest with you? Will you be able to disprove any competing claims? Can you evict any potential squatters already in residence?”

The lawyer sat straight again, adjusted his silk tie and gave a discreet cough. “Should you decide to accept those risks, and go ahead and marry Miss McKenzie, I would advise you to make sure the marriage becomes binding. Otherwise, after you’ve secured the ownership of the ranch, Miss McKenzie could file for an annulment and send you off on your way. You’d have done everything, perhaps even risked your life, for nothing.”

Dale thanked the lawyer, collected his papers, paid the bill and left. His mind seemed to have seized up, refusing to process the information. The clearest thought in his head was that Carpenter was not an alcoholic. He was a skilled lawyer who lacked confidence. The shot of whiskey had merely served to sharpen his wits and loosen his tongue.

Outside, the sky was gray. Gusts of wind whipped along the street, chasing litter and making shop signs clatter. He set off and kept walking, all the way to the end of Main Street and beyond, where the town petered out. Turning left, he took a winding path up into the pine forest. The chill in the air bit through his clothing, but he liked it. It was dry cold, unlike the damp winters of the northeast. Wyoming would be like that, too.

Like the wind stirring in the trees, the lawyer’s words whispered through his mind.

“Marry Miss McKenzie… I would advise you to make sure the marriage becomes binding…”

Would she do it? Would she marry him? Even if she refused to consummate the marriage and they settled on a union which was nothing more than a business arrangement, he’d have the pleasure of her company. He could enjoy her warmth, her laughter, her serene presence that dispelled some of the darkness inside him.

And if she did agree to make the marriage binding, as the lawyer had so cunningly advised, he could have her. Perhaps just the once. Perhaps more than once. Would she touch him without horror when she felt the scars that covered his body? If she managed that, if she could tolerate him, the physical side of their relationship might create a basis on which friendship and affection could grow. His hands clenched into fists, as if he were already fighting not to touch her, not to demand more than she might be willing to give.