The Marshal's Wyoming Bride
Married in haste…
…to a complete stranger!
When Rowena McKenzie is accused of murder, she’s relieved to find an unlikely ally in Deputy US Marshal Dale Hunter.
Having proved her innocence, she only has one thing of value with which to repay this handsome yet scarred and enigmatic man—the Wyoming ranch she inherited from her father two years ago.
But Dale will only accept it if Rowena agrees to be his wife!
“March’s The Outlaw and the Runaway will delight long-time and new fans alike.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Outlaw and the Runaway
“Exciting, emotional and sensual.”
—RT Book Reviews on From Runaway to Pregnant Bride
Before becoming a novelist TATIANA MARCH tried various occupations—including being a chambermaid and an accountant. Now she loves writing Western historical romance. In the course of her research Tatiana has been detained by the US border guards, had a skirmish with the Mexican army and stumbled upon a rattlesnake. This has not diminished her determination to create authentic settings for her stories.
Also by Tatiana March
The Virgin’s Debt
Submit to the Warrior
Surrender to the Knight
The Drifter’s Bride
The Outlaw and the Runaway
The Fairfax Brides miniseries
His Mail-Order Bride
The Bride Lottery
From Runaway to Pregnant Bride
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
The Marshal’s Wyoming Bride
Tatiana March
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-474-07433-9
THE MARSHAL’S WYOMING BRIDE
© 2018 Tatiana March
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Version: 2020-03-02
MILLS & BOON
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
SIGN ME UP!
Or simply visit
signup.millsandboon.co.uk
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Extract
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Chicago, early spring, 1886
Dale Hunter sat in the office of US Marshal William J. Arnold and met the older man’s scrutiny without a flinch.
“Sure I can’t change your mind, Hunter?”
“No.”
“I could transfer you back to the Eastern Louisiana District.”
Dale shook his head. He didn’t belong anywhere anymore. Not in the South of his mother’s birth. Not in the North of his father’s. The only place he belonged was some remote piece of land where he could live alone, bothered by no one.
“I’m sorry, sir.” His tone was calm but implacable. “I’m tired of chasing moonshiners for the whiskey tax they haven’t paid, and I’m tired of arguing with local officials who resent federal intervention. In my three years as a deputy US Marshal I’ve saved most of the fees I’ve been paid. By now, I have enough for a down payment on a ranch where I can retire and live out my days in peace.”
Marshal Arnold’s broad face clouded. “Don’t give me that garbage. It sticks in my craw to hear a rich man talk about scraping together a few dollars.”
Dale spoke sharply. “My mother’s money is not mine.” He gritted his teeth, controlling the flare of guilt. He knew his mother had suffered more than any woman should. The War Between the States had destroyed her family—husband dead, daughter murdered, son’s quest for vengeance turning him into an outlaw at eighteen.
After eleven years outside the law, Dale had gained a pardon. His mother had expected him to take over the family business and find a suitable young woman to marry. Only he couldn’t do it. The nightmares stamped on his scarred face, the horrors that kept him awake at night made it impossible for him to fit into such a genteel lifestyle, and his refusal to follow his mother’s wishes had come between them.
“My mother’s money is not mine,” Dale said again, quietly this time.
Marshal Arnold cleared his throat. “Perhaps so. And I am grateful for the contribution you have made to the Marshals Service. Before I accept your resignation, I have one more assignment for you.”
“Thank you, sir, but I’m done.” Dale got to his feet, unpinned the tin star within a circle from the lapel of his suit coat and placed it on the desk between them.
Marshal Arnold gestured for him to sit down again. “Hold on a mite, Hunter. Where is this ranch you plan to buy?”
Dale shuffled on his feet. “California.”
At his reply, Marshal Arnold gave a satisfied smirk. “California? That is very convenient. The assignment is in the Arizona Territory, only a stone’s throw away. You could travel at the government’s expense and continue to your ranch after you have finished the job.”
Dale considered the suggestion. Train fares were expensive, and his savings were barely enough to cover the down payment on the property he wished to buy.
“What is the assignment?” he asked.
“It’s about a woman called Rowena McKenzie.” Marshal Arnold leaned forward in his seat. “A lady, I’m told. She’s been indicted for murder and refuses to speak up in her own defense. The local sheriff is reluctant to hang a woman, and the federal marshal for the territory is newly appointed, not yet confirmed by the senate. He is wary of stringing up a lady and making a mistake. I’d like you to go over and figure it out.”
“That’s it?” Dale frowned. “I’ll review the evidence, make sure they haven’t overlooked anything, and if the judge decides she’s guilty, the local law will take care of the hanging?”
Marshal Arnold nodded.
Dale reached down, picked up the badge from the desk and pinned it on again. “I’ll wire my report to you.”
When he was halfway toward the door, Marshal Arnold called out after him. “The appointment of the United States Marshal for the Arizona Territory is pending confirmation and it wouldn’t be the first time the senate has rejected a candidate. If a promotion would persuade you to remain with the Marshals Service, the position could be yours.”
Dale pretended not to hear. In the three years since his pardon, he had avoided going back to the western territories. He’d lived in the steamy South, in the cold and damp North, but he had never had the courage to face the dusty desert landscape where coyotes barked at night and buzzards feasted on carcasses. And he doubted the wisdom of doing so now.
* * *
There was no mistaking the look of relief on the face of Sheriff Macklin in Pinares when Dale walked into the ramshackle office and introduced himself. A big, burly man in his fifties, with graying hair in a military cut, the sheriff barely glanced at the official papers Dale held out to him.
“You’ve come to take the prisoner away?”
“No,” Dale replied. “I’m here to help you decide if she should hang or not.”
He took off his long canvas duster and shook away the droplets from the drizzle outside. To his relief, Pinares was on high ground, surrounded by pine-covered hills instead of the red, dusty desert of his nightmares.
He’d taken the train as far as Holbrook, a lawless Arizona ranching town, where he’d bought a horse from the livery stable and ridden the remaining thirty miles south. Preferring to arrive in the morning, he’d camped overnight outside town.
Like always, his legs ached after a day on horseback. He didn’t walk with a limp, for after he’d been injured in the gunfight to break away from the outlaw gang, the best surgeons in the country had pieced together the broken bones. Even more important, his arms had healed well enough for him to draw a gun or throw a punch with the same skill and accuracy as before. When fully clothed, the only visible legacy of his lawless past was the crescent-shaped scar on his left cheek and the slightly uneven sound of his footsteps.
Sheriff Macklin scrambled to his feet behind his battered desk. “No time like the present.”
Dale hesitated. Although he no longer wore his jet-black hair down to his shoulders, it could do with a cut. He ran the palm of one hand along his jaw and felt the roughness of stubble. A lady, Marshal Arnold had told him. He brushed aside his scruples. A disreputable look might be helpful in persuading a gently bred female to provide answers.
“Is there a medical report on the victim?” Dale asked.
The sheriff extracted a bunch of iron keys from his desk, shut the drawer with a bang and halted, eyebrows raised, keys dangling in his hand. “You don’t know the details?”
“Only that you have a female prisoner who goes by the name Rowena McKenzie indicted for murder.”
The burly sheriff nodded. “That’s the gist of it. There is no medical report on the victim, for the body can’t be retrieved. Miss Rowena shot a conman who was trying to flee after being caught selling shares in a phony mining claim. The conman, Elroy Revery, was whipping his wagon horse into speed when Miss Rowena fired a pistol at him. The horse bolted and the wagon took off with the body.”
“Didn’t anyone give chase?”
“Not right away. One of the men who’d lost money in the swindle suffered a mental fit, screaming and yelling, scaring the women. By the time we’d dealt with him and rode after Revery, we found his wagon tracks leading to the edge of Dead Man’s Gully. It’s a ravine a mile outside town, too steep to climb down. With a pair of field glasses you can see the smashed-up wagon and the dead horse at the bottom.”
“And the body?”
“Can’t pinpoint the location. Must be beneath the wagon, or thrown off and fallen between the boulders at the bottom of the gully. But there’s no doubt Miss Rowena killed him. She snatched Kurt Lonergan’s pistol from the holster and fired. Elroy Revery clutched his chest and toppled into the wagon. Before he fell, a dozen people saw blood spurting out between his fingers, staining the front of his shirt.”
With each word, Dale’s skepticism grew. He’d seen it before, a staged killing to facilitate a getaway after a swindle. He expected the ladylike qualities of the prisoner to be as phony as the mining claim her partners had been peddling.
“Is this Miss Rowena new in town?” he asked.
Sheriff Macklin shook his head, looking troubled. “I know what you’re thinking, but it can’t be. Miss Rowena came into Pinares two years ago and she’s been working in Alice Meek’s café ever since. Whatever her reasons, she shot Revery. I had to arrest her.” The sheriff jangled the bunch of keys in his hand and jerked his head toward the jail. “I’m counting on you to straighten this out. No one wants to see Miss Rowena hang.”
* * *
Dale’s first glimpse of the prisoner was her back. She was seated on the narrow cot in the nearest of the three jail cells, gazing up at the patch of overcast sky visible between the iron bars that covered the small window high up on the far wall. Dale halted midstep, nearly stumbled. Memories of his sister, Laurel, flooded his mind.
It wasn’t so much the slender body, or the glossy dark brown hair, the color of polished mahogany, although they were the same. It was the elegant line of her neck, exposed by the simple upsweep. It was the way she wore the faded blue cotton dress, as if it had been made for a queen. Instantly, Dale recognized the stamp of an expensive academy for young ladies, the kind that put emphasis on deportment and etiquette instead of practical skills.
Sheriff Macklin unlocked the iron grille and rattled it aside. “Miss Rowena, you have a visitor.”
The girl—she looked barely over twenty—rose to her feet and whirled around, every motion graceful. Dale felt his breath catch. He had to clench his hands into fists to hide the impact she had on him. He wanted to ignore her beauty, wanted to treat her just like any other prisoner, but he couldn’t help the way his eyes swept over her features, taking in every detail.
Her face was not dainty, like Laurel’s had been. Her features were fuller, with a square chin and a bold line of dark, almost straight eyebrows. From this distance, Dale guessed her eyes were a deep blue, an unusual combination with the dark hair.
As he stared at the girl, he could see a blush fan across her cheeks. If possible, her posture grew even straighter. He wondered if she could feel the pull of attraction, the way he did, and was reacting to him as a man, or if her discomfort was due to a guilty conscience and the fear of consequences of her criminal acts, or if she was merely embarrassed by the boldness of his inspection.
Dale stepped into the cell, oddly reluctant to get anywhere near her, to expose himself to the power of that beauty. “How are you, Miss McKenzie?”
She inclined her head to acknowledge his greeting.
Dale turned to the sheriff. “I’ll take it from here.”
He waited for the man to lumber down the corridor. When Dale was alone with the lady, he turned toward her and sought refuge in his experience, relying on a hundred similar situations. And yet no other situation of stepping into a prisoner’s cell had ever been the same as this.
“My name is Dale Hunter, and I’m a deputy US Marshal. I’ve been tasked with…helping you to prepare for your defense.” He’d been planning to say tasked with finding out if you’re guilty or not, but somehow the words came out different.
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.