The Marshal's Wyoming Bride

The judge made a stabbing motion with his gavel, pointing at her. “You could have gone to the sheriff.”

“I thought of it…of course I did… For days, I was fraught with indecision, torn between conflicting loyalties… But the sums they took were not significant…” Rowena nodded at the crowd, picking out some of the victims. “Mr. Timmerman, I know you spent much more than that on the new furniture for your living room…and Mr. Hoskins, I’ve heard you boasting that you gamble far greater amounts in the saloon every Saturday…and Mr. Silver, everyone knows that your new breeding bull cost at least three times as much.” Rowena spread her hands, looking contrite. “I feel bad for your losses, of course I do, but I know they will not have a lasting impact on your welfare. But these two men…” She shook her head and spoke with a plea in her tone. “I couldn’t have them arrested… I owe them my life…”

Gavel pointing, the judge addressed his words to Dale. “Marshal Hunter, you’ve entered yourself on record as a witness. Am I to believe this fancy tale?”

Dale got to his feet. “It’s not a fancy tale, Your Honor. My findings support what Miss McKenzie has testified. I believe these two conmen have been operating the same swindle throughout the western territories. They have escaped the attention of the law because they are careful to keep the amounts small, and I believe the mining claims they sell are genuine. They just happen to be worthless.”

The judge turned to Sheriff Macklin. “How much did the victims in this town lose? Has someone tallied it up?”

The sheriff handed over a sheet of paper. Head bent, eyes on the document, the judge announced his verdict. “The territory versus Miss Rowena McKenzie. The accused has been found guilty of participating in a fraud and has to make restitution to the amount of…” A pudgy finger traced down the column. “The amount of three thousand two hundred dollars, which allows everyone to be reimbursed and adds something for the court expenses. If the accused fails to make restitution within thirty days, she is sentenced to three years in the territorial penitentiary.”

The crowd gasped.

The gavel banged.

The judge called, “Next case.”

* * *

The sounds of the courtroom faded away in Rowena’s ears, as if she’d been trapped inside a bubble, isolated from her surroundings. She felt someone tugging at her arm. She turned to look and saw Sheriff Macklin frowning down at her.

“Miss Rowena, I’ve got to escort you back to the jail.”

Her eyes darted about, searching for Marshal Hunter. He was over by the judge’s desk, huddled in conversation. Of course, she was no longer his responsibility.

On legs that nearly buckled beneath her, Rowena rose from the witness chair and followed Sheriff Macklin out, past the rows of seats. People were staring. She clung to the deportment drilled into her by her expensive education and held her head high, but she knew the terrified look in her eyes betrayed her panic.

By the exit, she paused and turned around to face the crowd. “I’m sorry for what I have done. But I felt I had no choice. It is my firm belief that these men wouldn’t have survived a prison sentence. Not even for a year or two.”

Not pausing to evaluate if her apology had any impact on the hostile crowd, Rowena allowed the sheriff to escort her away. At the jail, the iron grille that had previously given her a sense of safety and privacy took on a sinister quality. She listened to it clunk shut and curled her hands around the solid iron bars.

“Sheriff Macklin, please… Yuma prison…do they take women…?”

“There’s been female felons incarcerated there.”

Felons. She was a felon. “Are they kept separate from the men?”

“I have no time for this, Miss Rowena. Not now. I’ve got to go back to the courthouse. We can talk in the evening.”

She watched him go, listened to his footsteps fade away, each muted thud stirring up guilt and doubt within her. “You can’t have your cake and eat it,” her father used to say. When she’d asked him to explain, he’d told her it meant that when a person faced two divergent paths, they could only follow one.

She’d chosen to protect Claude and Eugene. And in doing so she had betrayed her friends and neighbors. Don’t fall for those lies, she had wanted to yell at everyone. They are conmen. Fraudsters. But a greater loyalty had sealed her lips. She’d told herself it didn’t matter if people lost money, because the sums were small, easily afforded by the victims.

And then, when the angry mob had surrounded Eugene, and Claude had stumbled and fallen, unable to fire the shot required to make the charade complete, it had been no choice at all. She had acted upon instinct, the way one might jump into a river to save someone about to drown, and had assisted her friends in their escape.

And now she would have to face the consequences of her actions. What was Yuma penitentiary like? Horrors reeled through Rowena’s mind. Convicts, including murderers and rapists, gaining access to the female prisoners. Male guards taking liberties. Beatings. Poor food. Lack of medical care. Intrusive physical examinations.

She’d be twenty-six when she came out, and she might look like an old woman. Feel like an old woman, too—no future, no hope, nothing to look forward to. She couldn’t let it happen. Deftly, bursting into action, Rowena bent over, rummaged beneath her skirts and extracted a tightly rolled document from a narrow pocket sewn into her petticoat.

Her father’s will, leaving Twin Springs to her. She had treasured the document, believing one day she would go back, find a way to fight for what was hers. Now those dreams had to be swept aside in the face of greater necessity.

She would ask the attorney, Mr. Carpenter, to sell the land on her behalf. He would come to see her if the sheriff sent out word. Slowly, her panic subsided. Everything would turn out all right. Claude and Eugene would be safe. Everyone would get their money back. She would have lost any chance of reclaiming Twin Springs, but those chances had been slim anyway.

Pacing the cell, Rowena waited for the sheriff to return. Outside, the light gained midday brightness and then dimmed again. No visitors came. No one brought her food. Either everyone was too busy at the courthouse, or they had turned their backs on her.

Finally, voices. She rushed to the iron grille, pressed her face between the bars and yelled into the corridor. “Sheriff Macklin! Sheriff Macklin!”

The burly lawman appeared, keys dangling in his hand.

“Sheriff Macklin, can you please fetch Mr. Carpenter for me? I have a property I can sell. I can reimburse everyone.” She was babbling, the words tumbling out like grains in a mill. “I meant no harm. I will make restitution, just as the judge ordered.”

The key rattled in the lock. The grille slid open with a screech. Sheriff Macklin stepped aside and gestured for her to come out. “You’re free to go, Miss Rowena. Your fine has been paid.”

“Paid?” Her brows drew into a baffled frown. The telegram had said: Safe in San Francisco. Catching boat immediately.

The message had been to inform her that Claude and Eugene were beyond the reach of the law, and it would be safe for her to reveal the truth. There was no way the conmen could have found out about her plight, could have wired the money to pay her fine. She made a small, helpless gesture with her hand. “But how…who…?”

“Marshal Hunter had a bank draft for three thousand and the rest in cash.”

Stunned, Rowena blinked. She could clearly recall the marshal telling her that he could only just afford the down payment on the property he wished to buy, that he carried a bank draft for the exact amount. In settling her fine, he had not only given up the land he coveted, he had also spent most of his traveling cash. In her mind, she could hear his voice, the way it had softened when he described the land, and she recalled how his gaunt features had lit up with pleasure, how his wistful expression had revealed a longing for a place to call his own, a place to lay down roots.

Guilty conscience stalking like a ghost by her side, Rowena walked out of the jail. It was not her dream that had been sacrificed, but Marshal Hunter’s dream. As she made her way through the evening chill to the boardinghouse, the rolled-up document hidden beneath her skirts tapped against her leg, like the finger of fate pointing out that she possessed the means to make restitution, to help the marshal resurrect his dream of land of his own.

* * *

There was no time to waste, for Marshal Hunter might be planning to ride out at first light. Barely pausing at the boardinghouse to make sure her room and her belongings remained undisturbed, Rowena hurried over to the hotel.

Minna Tellerman was sitting behind the reception counter, busy with a needle and an embroidery hoop. Rowena walked up to the frail woman and managed a shaky smile. “Hello, Mrs. Tellerman. Could you tell me where I can find Marshal Hunter?”

Minna Tellerman—whose husband had bought a share in the worthless mining claim—refused to meet Rowena’s eyes. “Room four. Turn left at the top of the stairs.”

So, restitution might not buy forgiveness. Rowena turned to go, then spun back and spoke softly. “I’m sorry for not having revealed the truth sooner, Mrs. Tellerman. I hope you have heard that everyone will be reimbursed in full?”

Minna Tellerman’s chin dipped in a reluctant nod that confirmed she had indeed heard the news but was not allowing the recovery of her husband’s investment to blunt her resentment. Pointedly ignoring Rowena, she focused on her embroidery.

Ill at ease, Rowena gathered her skirts and set off up the stairs. Some of the men waiting to enter the dining room followed her path with sly, disrespectful looks. Puzzled, Rowena averted her face. Then it struck her, another blow to her already battered armor. Gossip must have gone around that Marshal Hunter had paid her fine, and people believed that for a man who barely knew her to spend such a large amount for her benefit, she must have given him something in return.

Shame burned on her cheeks, but she soldiered on, located the correct room, raised her hand and rapped on the door. “Marshal Hunter. It’s Rowena McKenzie.”

That familiar, uneven trail of footsteps crossed the room. The door sprang open and Marshal Hunter stood in front of her, hair mussed, the tails of his shirt hanging free. Rowena hesitated. The rules of social propriety seemed inconsistent—it had never crossed her mind there might be something improper about the marshal visiting her in jail, but entering a man’s hotel room seemed out of the question.

“I need to talk to you,” she informed him, a pointless comment since there could hardly be any other reason for her to appear at his doorstep.

The marshal stepped out into the corridor and left the door ajar behind him.

Rowena gathered every bit of courage, every aspect of ladylike decorum she could muster. “I understand you settled my fine. Why did you do it?”

When they first met, Marshal Hunter had hidden all his emotions behind a blank mask, and now he put on the same neutral expression. “Had some money on me. Seemed as good a way to spend it as any.”

Exasperated, Rowena flapped her hand in the air. Why did men think it made difficult situations easier if they pretended it didn’t matter? “What about your land?” she demanded to know. “That ranch in California you said was the prettiest piece of property you’d ever laid eyes on.”

“There’ll be other parcels of land.”

“Maybe. But we both know what you have given up.” She met his guarded gaze with a fraught look that implored him to stop belittling his sacrifice. Being denied the opportunity to express her gratitude wouldn’t lighten the burden, but instead add to it. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. And please don’t do me the discourtesy of saying something trivial, like ‘You’re welcome’ or ‘Don’t mention it’.”

Marshal Hunter said nothing, merely nodded.

Rowena went on, “I know explanations and excuses won’t change anything, but please don’t think ill of me. I was faced with a choice. The people who invested were only losing modest amounts of money, something they could easily afford. Claude and Eugene—those are their real names—would have lost their freedom. Both of them had a tragic childhood, filled with neglect and abuse. I feared prison might destroy the last of their humanity. And I owed them a debt of gratitude.”

“It is not my forgiveness you should seek. I’ll be gone tomorrow. Address your apologies to the townspeople.”

“I’ve tried.” Rowena expelled a sigh. “I fear they may be unwilling to listen.”

“What did you expect? You had to choose sides, and you chose against them. They have been campaigning on your behalf, proclaiming your innocence. They’ll feel foolish and angry now to discover that you were deceiving them.”

Fighting spirit rallied within Rowena. She adjusted the folds of her skirts and lifted her chin. “I felt an obligation to protect those who would have lost the most.”

“The law does not recognize compassion. It only recognizes right and wrong.” The marshal’s voice lost its challenging tone. “I don’t judge you for what you did. I figured out the way of it from the start—that you knew those two men from the past and were protecting them. If I wanted to judge you, I would have done it by now.”

“Yes. Well, anyway…” Rowena let her shoulders slump. “You are absolutely right. The people in town, although foolish, were acting honestly. Claude and Eugene were crooks. I shielded them, and I can see why a judge might consider that a crime, and why people who lost money might resent me.”

Marshal Hunter lifted his brows with a hint of mockery, as if to remind her that the judge and the tricked investors had a point. “You came to thank me and you’ve done it.” His tone was wry. “Don’t torture yourself by worrying about me. I can remain with the Marshals Service, save up again. Like I said, there’ll be other pieces of land.”

“That’s just it.” Rowena held the rolled-up document out to him. “I can give you a ranch. Twin Springs, Wyoming Territory. My father left it to me in his will.”

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.

“However, even if you managed to prove ownership, the ranch could be occupied by squatters. You might then have to fight them to gain possession.” A note of warning entered Carpenter’s tone. “I have to stress that there are a number of risks involved in pursuing your claim. Is Miss McKenzie being honest with you? Will you be able to disprove any competing claims? Can you evict any potential squatters already in residence?”

The lawyer sat straight again, adjusted his silk tie and gave a discreet cough. “Should you decide to accept those risks, and go ahead and marry Miss McKenzie, I would advise you to make sure the marriage becomes binding. Otherwise, after you’ve secured the ownership of the ranch, Miss McKenzie could file for an annulment and send you off on your way. You’d have done everything, perhaps even risked your life, for nothing.”

Dale thanked the lawyer, collected his papers, paid the bill and left. His mind seemed to have seized up, refusing to process the information. The clearest thought in his head was that Carpenter was not an alcoholic. He was a skilled lawyer who lacked confidence. The shot of whiskey had merely served to sharpen his wits and loosen his tongue.

Outside, the sky was gray. Gusts of wind whipped along the street, chasing litter and making shop signs clatter. He set off and kept walking, all the way to the end of Main Street and beyond, where the town petered out. Turning left, he took a winding path up into the pine forest. The chill in the air bit through his clothing, but he liked it. It was dry cold, unlike the damp winters of the northeast. Wyoming would be like that, too.

Like the wind stirring in the trees, the lawyer’s words whispered through his mind.