The Marshal's Wyoming Bride. Tatiana March
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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