Tatiana March - The Marshal's Wyoming Bride

But now, in Rowena’s company, he felt as if he was getting a glimpse into what he’d missed out on, all those parties and balls, the pleasure of a woman’s voice, her laughter. Although Rowena’s gentleness and her impish sense of humor appealed to him, he couldn’t deny there was a carnal element to his fascination. All too often, his eyes strayed to the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the fullness of her mouth, but he possessed enough discipline to keep her from becoming aware of it.

He could see no harm in it, so he allowed the feeling to grow, safe in the knowledge it couldn’t lead to anything. Rowena McKenzie was not the kind a woman a man could trifle with. Perhaps it was curiosity more than anything, a new experience, attraction that was more than just physical. And, to start with, spending his nights racked with unfulfilled desire had seemed preferable to nightmares. As Rowena McKenzie got deeper and deeper under his skin, Dale had begun to doubt the wisdom of that assumption.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I am retiring from the Marshals Service.”

“Retiring? Aren’t you a bit young for a rocking chair on the porch?”

“I’m thirty-two. And I don’t plan to be idle. There is this place, this valley over in California…the prettiest place you ever saw, with a stream running through it… I stumbled upon the property by chance a year ago, when my horse went lame…”

Half resenting the words as they spilled out, he went on nonetheless, telling her of the ranch, of the old man who wished to sell. He told her how he’d saved every penny of his fees and could now just about afford the down payment, with a bank lending the rest.

As he talked, Dale felt a tension coil within him, like the anticipation before a gunfight. He had never shared his dreams with anyone, except perhaps the dream of breaking away from the outlaw life, a dream he’d once shared with his friend Roy Hagan.

When he stopped, emotionally drained, silence fell. Rowena clutched the pack of cards in her hands. “I once knew such a place, too.” Although her tone was wistful, she cast him an odd, speculative look. Dale had noticed it once or twice before, as if she were somehow assessing him, measuring his mettle. And then, with a visible effort to regain the lighthearted mood, Rowena dealt the cards, placing them on the table with an exaggerated flourish.

A pair of tens for him. When Rowena saw her own hand, her face lit up. To keep things simple, they skipped the initial rounds of betting and went straight to replacement cards. She took only one. He asked for three, failed to improve on the pair.

Rowena opened, forefinger tapping at her lips, her attention riveted on the cards. Dale suppressed a sigh. Another bluff. The pot grew until they had fifteen million of imaginary money on the table. Rowena laid down her cards. “Ace high.”

Dale revealed his own hand. “When will you learn that a busted straight is worth nothing?”

“You ought to have folded when I kept raising.”

“Never expect to control what the other players do.” He updated the scorecard. “You owe me thirty-two million and change.” With a rueful smile, he looked up at her. “ Cherie , promise me you’ll never gamble with real money.”

She laughed, that light, sunny sound that touched something inside him. He spoke quietly. “Don’t gamble with your life either, Miss Rowena. The judge arrived a few hours ago. He is reviewing his docket today. He’ll hear the criminal cases first, before the civil disputes, and yours is the only one. Your trial will take place tomorrow morning.”

Dale knew he could have revealed the truth by now—that there had been no murder, merely an elaborate charade to facilitate the escape of the two conmen who’d been selling shares in a worthless mining claim—but he also knew that Sheriff Macklin wouldn’t accept his findings without the prisoner’s own testimony.

Every day, the postmaster’s boy came by to tell Miss Rowena there had been no telegram. Dale didn’t know what information the telegram would contain, only that Rowena was determined not to disclose her innocence until it arrived. He hoped she wouldn’t take her obstinacy too far. Judge Williams could be like a bear, easily riled, and the judge’s verdict, however misguided if handed down in a fit of anger, would become the law.

Chapter Three

Dale surveyed the packed courtroom. Traveling theater shows were rare and not everybody could read, which added to the value of court hearings as entertainment. Feet shuffled, cigar smoke curled in the air. The stove in the corner radiated heat, raising the temperature in the room. Women fanned their flushed faces and men tugged at their shirt collars, until someone had the good sense to prop the door open and let in a cool draft.

Sheriff Macklin rose to his feet and called out in a formal tone, “The court is in session, the Honorable Judge Williams presiding.”

The crowd hushed into silence. The judge flapped his meaty hand to wave away the preliminaries. Squat like a frog, with a jowly face and florid complexion, his every gesture spoke of impatience. He shuffled his papers. “The Territory of Arizona versus Miss Rowena McKenzie. What is this? A deputy US Marshal will testify for the defense?”

Dale had entered himself on the record and was seated in the front row with the other witnesses. He stood up. Before he had a chance to speak, the rapid clatter of footsteps and a childish voice disturbed the silence.

“It came, Miss Ro! It came! Your telegram!”

A boy of about eight, swamped in his older brother’s hand-me-downs, charged into the room and scrambled to a halt in front of Miss Rowena. He thrust a folded telegram at her. “It came just now on the wire, clackety-clack . Pa wrote it down and I brung it over as fast as me feet carried me.”

Rowena folded open the telegram, gave the message a cursory glance and threw her arms around the boy. “Oh, Clarence, you are wonderful. I’ll pay you later. A dollar. Remind me.”

Blushing, the boy extracted himself. “I don’t need no money, Miss Ro.”

“But you shall have it anyway.” Relief evident upon her features, Miss Rowena turned to the judge. “May I take the stand first, Your Honor? I think it will save time.”

Sheriff Macklin swore her in, her hand on the Bible that must have been handled by more criminals than clergymen. While Miss Rowena gave the oath, a smile hovered around her mouth. She sat down in the witness chair and turned to the judge. “I plead innocent, Your Honor, due to the simple fact that there was no killing.”

A startled intake of breath hissed around the courtroom. Everyone kept their eyes riveted on the witness stand. Still coasting on the rush of relief, Miss Rowena burst into rapid talk. “You see, I know these two men—Elroy Revery and Robert Smith—from the past. They operate a swindle, and they have an emergency measure that allows them to escape, should the need arise.”

Gesturing, she went on with her explanation. “Revery leaps onto his horse—or onto the wagon bench if the horse is in harness—and Smith, who is pretending to be one of the disgruntled investors, fires his pistol. The horse is trained to bolt at the sound. Revery has a pouch of red ink hidden beneath his shirt. He makes the pouch burst and slumps down, clutching at his chest, as if mortally wounded. The horse canters away, carting Revery to safety. Smith behaves like a madman, to create a diversion that stops anyone from setting after Revery.”

Rowena paused, to allow the judge to review the details in his mind. “See?” she said brightly. “It’s a simple plan, but it works. No one realizes Smith is part of the swindle, and he quietly slips out of town. He has never been arrested for doing the shooting, because everyone believes Revery got what he deserved. And, because everyone believes that Revery will die from the bullet wound, they don’t worry too much about chasing after him. Only on this occasion Smith fell over in the crowd, and he couldn’t fire his pistol, so I had to do it instead of him.”