A Marriage By Chance

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue

Silver City, Nevada

March, 1894

Three queens and a pair of deuces appeared before him, and Peter Biddleton all but licked his lips as his eyes flickered to the mound of cash in the middle of the table. It was a cinch, he decided. He had bet first on the three ladies, tossing in his other two cards, and watching as the dealer slid two more in his direction. Now he felt the thundering of his heart as the pair dealt him nestled beside the aloof trio of royal blood.

“Reckon I can bet,” he drawled, pushing in his last gold piece, watching as it rested against several more just like it, there where bits and pieces of cash lured him.

The dark-featured man across the table watched from beneath hooded eyelids, silent as he considered the cards he held. And then he placed them facedown on the table and nudged three gold coins toward the pot. “Got something you’re proud of, sonny?” he asked mildly. “It’ll cost you to stay in.”

Peter aimed a futile glare at the man who spoke. Tall, dressed in the well-worn garb of a cowhand, the stranger had walked with an arrogant stride across the floor of Molly’s Saloon only two hours before. He’d watched for long moments, then joined in the game already in progress. Now his dark, flat gaze focused on his lone opponent, the rest of the men surrounding the table watching with eager eyes the silent battle between the two men.

“That’s the last of my money,” Peter said reluctantly, glancing down again at the full house he was certain was a winner. It felt right. The cards were warm in his hand, the queens looking triumphant, the deuces paired beside them.

“Are you out?” the stranger asked, unmoving except for the lifting of his eyelids as he bent his attention on Peter’s face.

“I’ve got a half interest in a ranch in Wyoming,” Peter blurted. “Worth more than the whole pile,” he muttered, his free hand gesturing at the seductive kitty in the middle of the table.

“Call me or fold.” Lazily spoken, the words were a challenge, one Peter could not ignore.

“I’ll bet the ranch,” he said, making up his mind quickly, before the image of Chloe could force him away from the table and out the saloon door.

“Let’s see your deed.”

“I don’t have it,” Peter admitted. “But I’ll handwrite a letter of ownership.”

“Is there a lawyer in Silver City?” The dark eyes lifted to sort through the gathering crowd.

“I’m a lawyer.” Stout and well dressed, a middle-aged man stepped forward, then directed his attention to Peter. “You sure you want to do this, son?”

Peter nodded, his jaw set, his hands sweating.

“Where’s the ranch?” the lawyer asked, drawing a small notebook from his pocket. His pencil moved quickly across the page as Peter spoke, describing the location and size of the Double B Ranch, his father’s legacy, and then he placed notebook and pencil on the table. “Sign here,” he said, watching as Peter’s trembling fingers grasped the pencil.

Torn from the notebook, the single page fluttered in the air, settling with a whisper of sound atop the pile.

A long index finger nudged the brim of his black hat as the man across the table leaned forward, fanning four jacks across the battered tabletop.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, boy.”

Chapter One

Ripsaw Creek, Wyoming

April, 1894

“Of all the stupid idiots in the world, why did my brother have to be at the top of the list?” Chloe Biddleton’s hand clutched a single sheet of paper, the scrawled letters a tangible threat to everything she held dear. “Damn you, Peter,” she snarled, glaring up at the shimmering sky as though her brother might be visible there among the clouds. And then she repeated the words, softly, in a barely heard whisper, as hot tears filled her eyes.

“Let me see it.” Calm and patient, Hogan held out his hand. “Let me have the letter, Chloe.” Reins in hand, her ranch foreman stood before her, and Chloe placed the missive she’d all but clenched into a wrinkled ball in his palm. Hogan spread it carefully, reading the blotted words and phrases slowly, and his face took on a deadly cast.

“Sold you out, didn’t he?” He read it again, muttering phrases aloud. “A damn poker game. Boy never could hold five cards without losing his shirt.” And then his voice deepened. “Jasper Thomas Flannery. Sounds like a city slicker to me, Chloe. And he’s on his way to stake his claim.”

“If Peter ever shows up here again, I swear I’ll kill him.” Chloe’s anger knew no bounds as her gaze encompassed the house and barns surrounding her. “He lost half of my ranch to some dude, cleaned out our bank account, and I’m supposed to understand.” Her shoulders slumped as Hogan placed a callused hand on her arm.

“He never loved the place the way you do, Chloe.”

Her head lifted abruptly and her eyes glittered. “And that’s supposed to make it all right? He loved spending the money Pa left. I’ll bet he’s having a good time going through every cent of our inheritance.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Hogan agreed mildly. “Don’t get your drawers in a twist, boss. Maybe this fella will take a gander and decide to be a silent partner. Could be he’s not interested in running a ranch.”

“Yeah, and could be, with my luck, he’ll want to run the whole show.” She’d known early on that the day was headed for disaster. Losing a prized colt to colic in the early hours of the morning had been more of a heartbreak than a financial disaster, but that loss had set the tone of the whole livelong day.

She’d wished more than once for Aunt Tilly’s comforting presence during the long hours. From mending a jagged barbed wire cut on a cowhand’s arm to the burning of six loaves of bread, forgotten in the oven as she sewed up the injury, one thing after another had fallen into place, equaling total disaster. The sewing of torn flesh was bothersome, but she’d done it before. When it came to baking, the presence of Aunt Tilly was almost a necessity. And it would be several weeks before she returned for the summer months.

Now Hogan stood before her, weary from the long ride to town, where he’d picked up the mail and done the banking chores on her behalf. Wisely, she’d kept extra cash, both for minor emergencies and for the mortgage payment, beneath the mattress in her bedroom, away from Peter’s grasping hands. At least the ranch was safe for the next six months.

Hogan cleared his throat and she looked up at him. Don’t kill the messenger. The old adage held new meaning as she silently berated the man for the letter he’d carried.

“Don’t get mad at me, Chloe,” he told her, accurately reading the anger she tossed in his direction.