Tatiana March - The Marshal's Wyoming Bride

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.