Tatiana March - The Marshal's Wyoming Bride

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.