A Marriage By Chance
If she were his, he’d—But she wasn’t, he reminded himself. And stood no chance of belonging to him. Nevertheless, she was his partner, unwilling or not. He owed her his protection. His mother had taught him a few things before the fire that cost him the lives of both his parents. One was the sanctity of womanhood. It seemed that he’d taken on the task of keeping Chloe Biddleton safe, along with the responsibility of keeping the ranch afloat.
Breakfast was a simple affair. Tea and toasted bread usually. Today was doomed to be different. Chloe watched as her new partner approached the porch, his bedroll once more tucked beneath his arm, his hat pulled low, hiding his expression from view.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got coffee in there,” he began from the other side of the screened door. His voice was early-morning husky, and she rued, for just a moment, the urge that had sent him to the orchard to sleep. It wouldn’t have been any trouble to toss a set of sheets on Peter’s bed or offer him the parlor sofa to sleep on.
And so her tones were moderate as she waved him into the kitchen. “I have tea made. Does that suit you?”
His nose twitched and a glum expression turned his mouth down. “I can just about stomach it. Coffee’s better.” He cast a look at the stove. “I know how to make it, if you have the fixings.”
“In the pantry,” she answered, and then her upbringing had her on her feet. “I’ll get it. Sit down.” In moments, she’d rinsed the pot, filled it halfway and added coffee. The stove was freshly stoked, and she placed the blue-speckled pot on the hottest area. “It won’t take long. Would you like some bread? It got neglected yesterday when I had an emergency to tend to.”
He eyed the scorched loaves she’d rescued from the oven and nodded. “I’ll cut off the worst of it, if you’ll tell me where the knives are.”
Chloe waved at the shelf over the stove and he reached for the longest utensil, then busied himself with sawing off the darkest parts from the loaf she’d already cut into. “I heard from Hogan that you sewed up a man’s arm. That your emergency?” he asked, opening the oven door to place two thick slices of bread on the rack.
“Yes. It wasn’t pretty, but I managed to do the job. Eight stitches.”
“You’ve got a strong stomach,” he said, turning his head, his eyes fastening on her hands as she tore a piece of toasted bread into small bits.
“It comes with the job,” she said. Her appetite was gone, what little there’d been to start with. The ride to town was a necessity, although probably futile. Peter’s signature was strong and familiar on the paper she’d looked at yesterday. No doubt existed in her mind; yet, if there was any slight chance, any hope at all, she must pursue this to its end result.
“I’ll be leaving for town in half an hour,” she told him, watching as he opened the oven door to check on his bread.
He speared it with the knife and held it before him as he turned to face her. Chloe waved at the buffet where a stack of plates waited, and he followed her silent instructions. Plate in hand, he sat down across from her and she shoved the saucer of butter closer, offering her own knife for his use.
“Thanks,” he said, absorbed with spreading a thick layer of her butter on the crusty surface. “I didn’t eat supper last night. This smells good.”
“Why didn’t you go to the bunkhouse? They had a whole pot of chili.”
His shrug was telling, and she felt a pang of guilt. Courtesy called for a meal to any stranger coming down the road. And she’d sat in here eating her soup while J.T. went hungry. “I wasn’t sure how welcome I’d be, to tell you the truth,” he said after a moment. “Figured I’d wait till today, once you found out that my claim is on the up-and-up before I tackled your ranch hands.”
“Tackled?” She held her cup of tea midair, her eyes pinned to him as she considered his choice of words.
His look was level as he nodded. “They’ll have to decide if they can follow my orders or not, before I decide if they still have a job here.”
“Before you decide—” she caught her breath and almost choked on the bread she’d just begun to chew “—I hired most of those men, and if they cause a problem, I’ll do the firing. That’s not your problem.”
His head tilted a bit as he considered her. “Maybe that’s a matter of viewpoint,” he said. “They’ll take orders from me, or I’ll show them the road, ma’am. I’m half owner, remember? I mean to begin as I plan to go on with this arrangement.”
And she’d felt guilty for leaving him in the orchard overnight, and for not feeding him any soup. The tea was bitter on her tongue and the bread was a mass of gluten in her mouth. “That remains to be seen, Mr. Flannery,” she muttered, rising and wishing she could spit out the sodden mouthful that muffled her words.
From the stove the scent of coffee met her nostrils, and she snatched up the coffeepot with a folded dish towel, dumping it in the sink. It splattered her trousers and sprayed across the front of her shirt, coffee grounds scattering the floor at her feet.
“Burn yourself?” he drawled, his eyes watchful. And yet, there was an underlying note of concern she thought as she shook her head. Not for the world would she admit to the stinging sensation on the tender flesh above her waist. With a glare he seemed to ignore, she left the kitchen, stomping up the stairs to her room where she slammed the door with a flip of her wrist.
The shirt hit the floor and she strode to the long mirror, peering at herself, one finger tracing the pink skin where the damp fabric had left its mark. Her washcloth was handy and she rinsed it in the pitcher, then wrung it out and placed it over the area, her hand trembling as she held it in place. Not from the pain, for there was little to bear, but from the chagrin of looking a fool before the man in her kitchen.
She loosened her belt and dropped the trousers to the floor, stepping out of them readily as she levered off her low shoes. Stocking-footed, she walked to the bureau and pulled open a drawer, seesawing it a bit as she worked one-handed to find fresh clothing. There wasn’t much choice, her daily wardrobe consisting of a variety of shirts and several pair of nondescript trousers.
Back before the mirror, she removed the damp cloth and examined her skin. It wouldn’t blister, she decided, only be touchy for a day or so. And that she could live with. Easier than she could tolerate the arrogant cowboy who’d come to play squatter on her ranch.
He was still there when she stalked into the kitchen minutes later. “You all right?” he asked, holding a cup before himself.
“Are you drinking my tea?” she asked, fury chilling her words.
“Not yours, ma’am. I found my own cup and poured from the potful you made. I thought you might like fresh, so I poured yours out.”
He’d cleaned the floor, too, she noted, and wrung out the rag, placing it on the edge of the sink. Somehow, that small act cooled her anger and she only nodded as she refilled her cup and leaned against the buffet to drink it.
“I’ll ride along with you, if you don’t mind,” he said.
“I don’t need company,” she told him. “Just give me the paper Peter signed and I’ll take it to town to show the lawyer.”
He shook his head. “You may not need company, but that paper proves my claim. It doesn’t leave my pocket till you hear the verdict for yourself. And then I’ll deposit it in the bank vault for safekeeping. I’ve already spoken to the bank president.”
She felt a flush rise, and swallowed hot words of anger. “You discussed this with Mr. Webster? You told him that my brother gambled away half my ranch?”
He nodded. “I also told him it was worth his hide if that information went any further. As far as anyone else knows, I bought it from your brother. I told Hogan to let your hands know they’d be facing trouble if they let the cat out of the bag.”
Her shoulders slumped and she placed her cup on the buffet. “I’ll saddle a horse and be ready to leave in five minutes.” Unable to meet his knowing gaze, she tugged on her boots that sat by the back door, then snatched a jacket from a hook and jammed her arms into the sleeves. “I’d suggest you do the same. And bring your damn piece of paper along with you.”
Chapter Two
“The whole thing looks legal to me, Chloe. Are you certain that’s Peter’s signature?” Paul Taylor returned the letter she’d offered for his inspection. Then, while awaiting her reply, he picked up the document J.T. had offered as proof of his claim.
Chloe looked for a final time at the wrinkled letter and felt the hand of fate clutch at her heart. “Yes, I’m about as sure as I can be, without watching him write it. He has a distinctive hand.” Not neat, but certainly no one else she knew scrawled quite so boldly as Peter when he set pen to paper. “Can I do anything at all about it?” she asked quietly, ignoring J.T.’s presence at her side.
“Hmm—no, I doubt it,” Paul said, shaking his head as he finished reading the simple note the lawyer in Silver City had written up. “He’s tied it up neat and tidy, I’d say. Peter signed away his interest in your ranch, sure enough.” He glanced up at J.T. and his eyes were glacial. “Took advantage of the young man, didn’t you?”
J.T. returned the icy stare. Then, as Chloe shifted beside him, he stifled the harsh words that sprang to mind and softened his stance. “No, not really,” he murmured. “The boy was set on gambling away everything he owned, it seemed, and I figured it was worth my while to spend a couple of hours helping him along. I gave him a stake when the game broke up, and advised him to go home and face the music.”
He looked down at Chloe’s upturned face and shrugged. “Apparently, he decided against it, and wrote his sister a letter instead.”
Paul watched the byplay in silence, then held out the document to J.T. and nodded, a curt movement of his head. “You’re in the clear, as far as I can tell. Enjoy your winnings, mister.”
His tone gentled as he turned his gaze on Chloe. “Can I do anything else to help?”
“No.” She shook her head, not willing to encourage him in any way, shape or form. Paul Taylor had more than once expressed a desire to keep company with her; and though he was a nice man, she wasn’t interested in pursuing a courtship with him. “I think you’ve covered it all,” she said quietly, and turned to leave Paul’s office.
The door closed behind her and J.T. caught up with her rapid pace as she headed for her horse. “Slow down, lady,” he said smoothly. “Let me drop this off at the bank and I’ll ride back with you.”
“I don’t need your company,” she told him sharply. “And I don’t intend to be seen waltzing around town with you.” Leading her mount to the edge of the boardwalk, she stepped into the stirrup and onto the saddle.
J.T. watched, and his chuckle galled her to the core. “You need to carry a mounting block around with you, ma’am. Either that, or get a shorter horse.”
She swung the black mare around and faced the man. “I’ve got shorter horses, but this is the one I prefer. Keep your advice to yourself, Mr. Flannery. I’m sure you’ll find good use for all your knowledge when you start working the ranch.”
He rocked back on his heels, hands thrust into his pockets, and his grin was cheeky, she decided. “Never said I had a lot of experience at ranching, Chloe. But I’m more than willing to learn the details from you.”
“And here I thought you were already making decisions about changing my way of doing things,” she taunted, holding a tight rein on her horse. The black pranced sideways, fighting the bit, and J.T. reached out a hand to grip the reins beneath the horse’s jaw.
“Now, here, I’m qualified to give a little advice, ma’am. The first thing you need to do is let up on those reins,” he said quietly. “Don’t let your temper spill over onto the animal you’re riding. You’ll have her all lathered up before you leave town.” The mare tossed her head and J.T. released his hold. He reached to tilt his hat brim a bit, then watched as Chloe turned the horse in a tight half circle and loosened the reins.
Her mount broke into a quick trot, and J.T.’s eyes lit with appreciation. The woman could ride, sitting the saddle like she’d been born there. Her head high, nodding at several passersby, Chloe rode quickly toward the edge of town, and J.T. headed for the bank. In moments he’d placed his proof of ownership into an envelope and watched as Mr. Webster deposited it in the big vault.
His next stop was at the general store, where he chose pants and shirts to fill in his sparse wardrobe, adding socks and drawers to the pile before he nodded to the woman who’d gathered the assortment together for him. “How much?” he asked.
“Let me see,” she told him, obviously adding the total in her head. “That’ll come to four dollars, even.” She took his money and hesitated. “You stayin’ at the Double B Ranch?”
“Word gets around fast, doesn’t it?” he said with a grin. “Yeah, I’m the fella that bought out Pete Biddleton’s share. Just arrived yesterday.”
“That boy’s a scamp,” the woman said, shaking her head in judgment. “Never figured he’d amount to much, even before his pa passed on. Since then he’s been pretty predictable, leavin’ everything up to his sister to tend to.”
“She seems pretty capable to me,” J.T. allowed mildly.
“And it’s a good thing she is,” the woman snapped. “That boy spent more time shufflin’ cards than he did workin’ the ranch. His pa was ready to disown him, according to Mr. Webster, then the old man died real sudden like, and the boy inherited half of everything. Doesn’t seem fair to Chloe, if you ask me.”
“Well, you never know how things will work out, do you?” J.T. said, picking up his package. “I assure you I’ll do my share of work at the ranch. She may be better off with me there, than with the last partner she had.”
“She’s been the backbone of the place since she was sixteen, when her mama took sick and died. Folks around here think a lot of Chloe,” the woman said, her eyes scanning J.T. as if she issued a warning.
“I’m sure they do,” he said agreeably. “She seems like a fine woman.” He headed for the door, aware of listening ears, grinning to himself as he thought of the discussion he would miss once the door closed behind him. He’d given the town a brand-new topic of gossip today and hadn’t offered much for them to base their speculation on.
The ride back to the ranch was long, spanning almost two hours, and he wondered how often Chloe made the trek. Between them, they probably should have picked up supplies, but buying groceries was no doubt the last thing on her mind right now. She’d gone home empty-handed today, with only her frustration and anger for company. By the time she got to the ranch, she’d probably be in a stew, ready to make his life a misery.
He’d have to watch his step, especially when he announced his intention to move into the house. His new partner might be small, but he’d be willing to bet she knew how to handle a gun. And getting a load of buckshot aimed in his direction would certainly put a damper on his day.
“You’re gonna do what?” Hogan’s exasperated query was met by a shrug.
“I’m going to fix up a room for Mr. Flannery to sleep in,” Chloe said quietly. “He owns half the ranch, and that gives him the right to Peter’s bedroom, I’d say.”
“When did you decide to be so easygoin’?” Hogan asked. “Last I talked to you, you were hell-bent on makin’ the man’s life a misery. I thought sure you’d make him stay in the barn or the bunkhouse.”
“I know,” she said. “I thought so, too, but he gave Peter a stake after the poker game and advised him to come back home. At least that’s what he told Paul Taylor. I guess he doesn’t have any reason to lie about it.” She looked toward the town road where the big stallion would shortly appear, and decided she’d pretty well gotten over her mad. Fair was fair, and if J.T. had tried to do right by Peter, he deserved at least the treatment she would offer anyone else.
Hogan was silent for a minute, as he digested J.T.’s generosity. “He seems a good enough man to me,” he said finally. “So long as he doesn’t start throwin’ his weight around, we’ll get along all right, I expect.”
“Don’t count on that,” Chloe told him, remembering J.T.’s remarks. “He may be trying to run roughshod over all of us before he’s done.” She sighed, thinking of the tasks awaiting her in the house. “Once Aunt Tilly shows up, I’ll be free to work with you on roundup.”
“And I’ll feel better about having Flannery in the house with you,” Hogan said bluntly. “I don’t like to think about folks making remarks, with you and your new partner sharing the house. If you’re giving him Peter’s room do you need to be moving furniture or anything?” he asked. “I can send one of the boys up to give you a hand.”
Chloe shook her head. “No, he’ll get Peter’s room just as it is. Clean sheets is about as far as I’ll go to get it ready for him. And as far as propriety’s concerned, I’ve been doing a man’s job for a lot of years already, Hogan. Folks quit talking about me a long time ago. I don’t think half of them even consider me a woman. I’m just a rancher. And that suits me just fine.”
Hogan shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe not, Chloe. This might be a good thing for you, set you to thinking about woman stuff, instead of pushin’ yourself so hard. And another thing. You gonna be doing the cooking for Flannery, or send him out to the bunkhouse for his grub?”
She hesitated and then, casting another long look at the town road, made her decision. “I’ll feed him in the house. If it was Peter, I’d cook for him. The man is half owner, no matter whether I like it or not. And once Aunt Tilly gets here, she’ll be cooking for everyone anyway.”
“Chloe?” From the bottom step of the long, curved stairway, J.T. called her name, then listened as light footsteps moved overhead. A door opened and closed and he watched as Chloe hesitated at the top of the stairs. “Hogan said you were fixing up a room for me.”
“Did he?” Her foot touched the top step, and she grasped the banister as she made her way toward him. Pausing two steps above him, she hesitated, looking down at his upturned face. “I’d begun to think your hat was a permanent part of you,” she said idly, her gaze lifting to where dark waves cascaded almost to his collar.
“I take it off every once in a while,” he told her. “When I eat and sleep anyway.” Refusing to give way, he watched her patiently, waiting for her response, and then nudged her with another query.
“What changed your mind?”
“About the room?” Her shrug lifted one shoulder. “You own half the house. The least I could do was let you have one room to sleep in.”
He stepped back, allowing her passage past him, and then followed as she moved down the wide hallway to the kitchen. Leaning his shoulder on the doorjamb, he watched as she snatched an apron from a hook near the pantry, halting at the sink to wash her hands.
“I’m heating up chicken soup from last night, if you’d like to have a bowl,” she told him. “I’ll cook supper after a while, but this ought to hold you over for now.”
“I appreciate that.” For some reason she’d changed her tune, and he searched her profile for a clue to her mood. Women were usually a puzzle, and this one was no exception. “Some reason why you’ve decided to allow me in the house?” he asked, noting the subtle hesitation in her movements at his words. She paused in the pantry door, cans of fruit in her hands.
“I already explained that.” The cans hit the table with a thump. “You own half of it,” she said simply. “Or at least half of the part that isn’t mortgaged.”
J.T. ambled toward the round table in the middle of the room. “I didn’t know there was a mortgage on it. Peter didn’t tell me that.” He shot her a sidelong glance as he pulled a chair from beneath the oilcloth-draped table, then hesitated. An offer of help might be appreciated. “You want me to get out the dishes?”
“All right.” She pulled a kettle from the back of the stove, lifting the lid to inspect the contents. “This is almost ready. We’ll have shortcake with it. I made biscuits.” The tinned peaches sat on the buffet and she pulled out a can opener from a drawer, offering it in his direction. “You know how to use one of these?”
“I reckon I can figure it out,” he said, tossing the utensil in the air and catching it by the handle. “I’ve kept one in my saddlebag ever since I discovered all the different things I could do with it.”
“Those saddlebags looked pretty flat to me,” she said, lifting an eyebrow as she glanced again in his direction. “You travel light.”
“Doesn’t pay to haul too much around with you, I’ve found,” he said, working at the cans of peaches. “Where do you want these?”
Chloe pointed at a blue bowl on the buffet. “Pour them in there. Soup bowls are in the left hand door, spoons are on the table in the jar.” She picked up a ladle and lifted the lid of the kettle, watching as the steam rose. “Why don’t you hand me the bowls?”
Abandoning the peaches for a moment, J.T. did as she asked, reaching to accept the hot vessel from her hand. Beneath his callused fingers, the back of her hand was soft, and he thought she slid it from his touch with haste. But not rapidly enough to dispel the effect of warm skin and the faint scent of soap wafting from her hair.
He placed the bowl on the table with care, reflecting on the woman behind him. This wasn’t in the plan, this sudden awareness of her as a female. He’d assessed her yesterday, viewed her with an eye to getting in her good graces, hoping to ease into the running of this operation without any amount of hassle. That alone had been a futile thought, he decided, recalling her eyes spitting fury in his direction.
Taking a liking to the woman was a far cry from being attracted to the female element. And why that was a fact was beyond his reckoning right now. He only knew that for a moment, there’d been a recognition of that subtle warming within him that signaled desire.
“I’ll get the biscuits from the oven,” Chloe said from behind him, and he turned, grasping the second bowl, only to find she’d slid her hand from contact with his, her eyes avoiding him. Her movements were brisk as she retrieved the biscuits, as if she were more than familiar with the kitchen and the tasks inherent in providing meals. Yet, who had she cooked for, he wondered. The boy had taken his leave months before, apparently.
Chloe had been alone. Alone with a handful of ranch hands, and the awesome responsibility of turning a profit from a ranch that was struggling along without a bank account to dip into. Damn. Peter Biddleton had a lot to answer for.
“Who’s Aunt Tilly?” he asked idly, picking a spoon from the jar in the center of the table.
“My father’s sister,” Chloe told him. “Where did you hear about her?”
“Hogan told me she’d be here soon.” He grinned. “That was when he told me there’d be a chaperon to keep me in line.”
Chloe turned a sharp look in his direction. “You’ll mind your manners or end up in the bunkhouse, Aunt Tilly or no.” She picked up her spoon and dipped it into the fragrant soup. “She came to us after Pa died, pitched in and took care of things. I ended up working the ranch, taking Pa’s place. When cold weather came that year, she took a train south to her daughter’s place for the winter. Did the same thing before the first snowfall back before Christmas. I got a letter from her last week, saying she’d be back as soon as the weather broke, probably within two weeks.”
“Did you ever think of offering her a permanent job here?”
Chloe looked up at him as she buttered a biscuit. “She may decide to stick around, once she sees you here. She’s a real stickler when it comes to respectability, and she won’t like the idea of our sharing the house.”
“I pretty much expected a battle over that,” he said quietly. “You surprised me, Chloe.”
“I’ve learned there’s some things you’ve just got to live with,” she said. “It seems you’re on my list, J. T. Flannery.”
The youth named Willie was cocky. There was no other word to describe the toss of his head and the arrogant look he offered as Chloe entered the barn. “Ma’am?” His single word caught her attention and she turned at his bidding. “You need anything?” he asked, his gaze sweeping her length.