The Marshal's Wyoming Bride. Tatiana March
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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.
Boom, boom, boom.
Rowena flinched at the sound. No one had ever pounded on her door like that before. Then again, she’d never been late with her rent before. In her haste to put down her mending, she pricked her fingertip with the needle. She muttered an unladylike word, sucked away the drop of blood and hurried across the cluttered boardinghouse room to the door.
On the landing outside, Marshal Hunter stood on the hooked rug, looming as tall and straight as one of the pines in the forest. The sight of him robbed Rowena of speech. His features reflected the winter chill outdoors, and a gun belt circled his lean hips. She’d never seen him armed before, but the ease with which he wore the pair of heavy pistols told her he was more used to being with them than without.
He must have noticed her wide-eyed stare, for he said, “They don’t allow guns in the courthouse. And the sheriff refused to let me carry firearms when I visited you.”
“Quite right, too,” she muttered. “I’m a dangerous felon and I might have tried to escape.”
Marshal Hunter’s mouth quirked into a smile. “You did snatch Lonergan’s pistol from the holster. That gives you a prior record.”
Rowena rolled her eyes, a habit her teachers had never quite managed to stamp out. She inspected her finger but conquered the urge to ease the sting by licking the tip. Her nerves rioted. “I’ll be riding out tomorrow,” the marshal had said yesterday. Only now did she realize how much those words had been weighing on her mind.
“How did you get on with Mr. Carpenter?” she asked.
“We need to talk.”
She made a vague gesture, meant to usher him away from her doorstep. “There’s a parlor downstairs for receiving guests.”
Ignoring her comment—and the requirements of propriety—Marshal Hunter edged into the room. The air of determination about him made Rowena scoot backward, granting him clear passage. Once inside, he lifted one booted foot a few inches from the floor and used the heel to kick the door shut. He surveyed her private domain. “It’s preferable we talk in here.”
Had he changed his mind about paying her fine? In terrified silence, Rowena watched him negotiate his way across the room to the window. She’d been overhauling her wardrobe, assessing the damage caused by sleeping fully clothed in the jail. Items of female clothing lay scattered upon every surface—a chemise on the back of a chair, drawers in a tangle on the small bureau, stockings draped over the nightstand.
The marshal halted by the window. Not turning around, he spoke with his back toward her. “According to Carpenter, to best pursue the claim for Twin Springs, we both need to travel to Wyoming. You may need to prove who you are, and you will need to refute any claims that you or your father had previously sold the property to someone else. And, instead of giving me a bill of sale, it will be better if we marry and I make my claim as your husband. That way, we don’t have to prove the validity of the sale from you to me, but I can simply file my ownership based on our marriage certificate and your father’s will.”
An ugly, unreasonable wave of anger surged in Rowena. Nothing to do with Marshal Hunter, but the memory of Freddy Livingston, and the callous way in which he had rejected her after their engagement had already been publicly announced. Since she’d left Boston, she’d never told anyone about the heartache and humiliation she’d suffered.
Her voice gained a bitter edge. “If you are asking me to be your wife, you ought to at least have the courtesy of looking at me.”
Marshal Hunter pivoted on his boot heels. The daylight through the window silhouetted him, leaving his face in shadows, but Rowena could feel the scrutiny of those cold green eyes.
“What I’m proposing is a business arrangement,” he informed her. “You said you wanted to go back to Twin Springs, settle there. If we marry, I can make that possible. We could share the property.”
With both her anger and her fear of going to prison after all finally ebbing, Rowena felt a stab of shame at her outburst. She’d been on edge all night, barely sleeping. She’d told herself it was the uncertainty over her future, but now she admitted to herself it had been the sense of unfinished business between herself and Marshal Hunter. Not just about Twin Springs, but the friendship they had forged during their afternoons in her jail cell. Somehow, that closeness needed to be acknowledged. And perhaps now it had been, in the form of a marriage proposal, albeit one of a very practical nature.