Lynna Banning - The Law And Miss Hardisson

Everything was wrong, she thought in exasperation. Except for one thing, the voice countered. Him. You feel alive when he’s near.

“Nothing is wrong,” she lied. “I am not accustomed to frittering away a perfectly good workday on picnics and such nonsense.”

He nodded. “That figures.”

“Consequently, I have no intention of accompanying you anywhere, much less on horseback.” She flipped the white linen napkin open and settled it across her lap.

“I’ll hire a buggy instead.” His voice was calm, without the slightest inflection. His nonchalance made Irene clench her hands.

“No buggy,” she enunciated clearly. “No horse. And no picnic.” She dumped two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into her tea before she realized what she was doing.

Clayton signaled the waitress. “Better make it a dozen sandwiches. The lady will have quite an appetite.”

The girl giggled. “Certainly, sir.”

Irene gritted her teeth. “I will have no appetite whatsoever.”

He tilted his chair back and gazed at her. “I think you will.” Amusement and something else colored his voice, along with an undercurrent of steely determination that made her apprehensive.

“For one thing, with no buggy and no horse, that leaves us on foot.” He tipped his chair forward. “I know from experience that walkin’ works up a powerful hunger.”

“Never!”

“Right after breakfast,” he contradicted.

Irene squirmed on the straight-backed dining chair. “What makes you think I would even consider—”

“Because, Miss Hardisson, you still haven’t told me what I need to know, and I’m gettin’ itchy. Now I don’t hold with using force—” he looked deep into her eyes “—but the way I figure it, you owe me some information, so I’m gonna make you a proposition.”

Her eyes flashed in alarm. “Mr. Black!” Her tone made him think of a mid-January Texas frost. She’d mistaken his meaning.

Clayton swallowed to wet his throat. “You ever see a chess match?”

“Why no, but—”

“Well then, here’s the bargain. These two foreign fellas, Russians, I think, are playing chess over in Parker’s Meadow. I’ll take you to watch the match, and you’ll give me what I’m after.” He gulped. Balls of fire, what was wrong with his tongue?

She looked at him as if his ears were screwed on backward. For a long, long minute, she didn’t say a word. He tried to read her thoughts, but she met his gaze with carefully expressionless eyes. She’d make a good poker player. He couldn’t tell jack squat about what she was thinking.

He knew it was a long shot. She might have no interest in the game, much less stamina for an entire match, which could extend over the better part of a day. But she liked games, didn’t she? She liked challenges. He’d wager she didn’t know a thing about chess, but maybe she’d last long enough to let down her guard and tell him what he wanted to know about Brance Fortier. He’d been all over town this morning, and nobody even admitted seeing the outlaw leave. Fortier’d probably threatened them.

Two identical platters of food banged down between them. “Would there be anything else, sir?”

Clayton kept his eyes locked with Irene’s. “Yeah. Add a canteen of coffee to those sandwiches, will you?”

“Certainly, sir.”

He reached his good arm across the table and covered Irene’s small, manicured hand. “Well?”

The starch drained out of her. He’d set it up just right, he thought in satisfaction. She’d taken the bait. She’d be bored and talkative within an hour, and he was an expert at ferreting out information.

She looked him in the eye. “May I have your word of honor you will not attempt to compromise me, Mr. Black?”

“My word of honor.” No risk there, he thought. She was his link to Fortier; he’d treat her with velvet gloves. His gut told him the outlaw was long gone, and he ached to be after him. But he figured he could spare three more hours, tops, if it would save him some time later on. Otherwise, he’d have to try to pick up a cold trail, and that was slow and tedious. This way, he could save a day, maybe two.

Besides, he liked the company of this prickly lady lawyer with an unexpected aptitude for five-card draw. At the moment, gazing into her upturned face, watching her rosy lips open to admit a dainty forkful of ham, he didn’t know which he wanted more—breakfast or Irene Hardisson.

Watch it, mi amigo. In your line of work, a woman like this is a dead end.

He knew that, all right. Had known it for years.

Being a Ranger’s wife is no kinda life for a woman, his father had said. Every single day, she’s just one rifle bullet away from widowhood.

Part of him acknowledged the raw truth of the words. Another part of him was so desperately alone he didn’t care about the risk.

Forget it, you dumb son of a gun. You know what you have to do. And you know the price.

God’s little scorpions, sometimes he wished that sensible part of him would just shut the hell up.

“It’s a package,” Irene said at last.

Clayton started. “A deal,” he corrected. Suddenly he wished he’d never proposed the idea. The thought of Irene and himself out in a grassy meadow somewhere made him feel hot all over. He’d sure like to do something other than watch a chess match.

He had to chuckle at that. Truth was, in spite of what Pa always said, he’d got this particular green-eyed woman kinda stuck in his throat.

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