A Marriage By Chance

She wilted, accepting the letter from his hand, folding it carefully, almost feeling like she needed to preserve the latest threat to her welfare. “I’m not. Not really, Hogan. I’m just worn-out. I knew better than to count on Peter for any help. I guess I just didn’t think he’d be such a hindrance.” Her lips curved in a rueful smile, a gesture of apology to the man standing before her who worked so hard for so little recompense.

“Things’ll get better,” he said staunchly. “The herd looks good this spring, and you’ve got pret’ near two dozen mares already dropped their foals. There’s more calves out there than I can count—”

“And not enough hay to see us through to the first cutting,” she reminded him glumly. “We need a good spring rain to green up the pastures. At least the river’s running good, and we don’t have to tote water.”

“I arranged for a load of hay from Hale Winters on my way to town,” Hogan told her. “He’ll deliver it tomorrow.”

Chloe sighed and turned from him to walk up the porch steps. “Maybe Jasper Thomas Flannery will be old and fat and not long for this world. Do you suppose he’ll be willing to spring for a load of hay?” She laughed, a harsh sound unlike her usual cheerful demeanor. “Maybe when he discovers he hasn’t won a gold mine, I won’t have to put up with him for long.”

“Yeah, and maybe those hogs out in the pen will take off flyin’ any minute now.” Hogan lifted his gaze to a puff of dust in the distance. “Either we got company comin’, or that’s a dust devil whirlin’ up the road.”

Chloe turned back to follow his pointing finger, and then turned to meet his gaze. “Jasper Thomas, himself. How much do you want to bet?”

His horse was trail-weary, his saddlebags nearly empty, and his stomach in need of a good home-cooked meal. The bank in Ripsaw Creek was richer for the deposit he’d just made, and unless he missed his guess, the woman standing in front of the white ranch house a hundred yards ahead was his new partner.

A firm believer in fate, he’d sat in on the poker game on a hunch. Weary of wandering, his spirit yearning for a place to call his own. Now, at thirty-two, he’d decided to sink his funds into a homestead, settle down and think about a future. One that didn’t include a deck of cards. California was calling, a nebulous dream of home, and maybe even a family, luring him.

Four jacks. Four pieces of heavy, well-worn paper, had put the Double B Ranch in his pocket. Only half of it, he reminded himself. But with a woman as his partner, he’d still be in charge. Another look at the female watching him diluted the strength of that assumption.

J. T. Flannery touched his hat brim, lowering it a bit, the better to shade his eyes, and stiffened his spine. Trouble. He could smell it three hundred feet, dead ahead. The boy had been a soft touch, a weakling of the first water, a traitor to his family’s heritage.

The sister looked to be another story altogether.

She was short, but sturdy, with a neat compact body tucked into a pair of trousers and a dark shirt, and from her stance, he’d say she was halfway to being in a temper. Not that he could blame her any. He’d warrant she was expecting him, given the fact that the man pointed out as her foreman had collected the mail in town, and J.T. was dead certain Peter’s letter was contained in the batch. Generally, a barkeep knew everyone in the area, and the one J.T. had quizzed was free with information.

He’d watched as the lean cowhand rode from the bank to the general store, where the post office occupied one corner, noted the scowl on his face as the man examined the outside of the single envelope among the various catalogues and periodicals he held in his hand. An hour seemed like a reasonable length of time to dally along the way, assuring the letter would be read before they rolled out the welcome mat at the ranch. And at that thought he’d grinned privately, before lifting his considerable length into the saddle, and set off for the ranch.

“What do you want, stranger?” The woman asked as J.T. rode within six feet of her, refusing to back off as the big stallion snorted and stretched out his long neck to check her scent. She was brave, he’d give her that much.

“J. T. Flannery, ma’am, coming to claim my winnings.”

From the look in her eyes, it might not have been the brightest opening he could have come up with. She looked as though she were wishing for a shotgun to aim in his direction, and he tried in vain to restrain the satisfied grin that curved his lips. “I take it you’re not happy to see me,” he continued smoothly. And then he answered his own query with a slow shake of his head.

“Naw, I didn’t think you would be.” Watching her, he wondered at his own lack of caution. She wasn’t armed, but the man behind her wore a gun and she looked capable of snatching it from the holster and aiming it in his direction.

“You thought right, mister.”

Her voice was calmer now, but no less threatening for all its softness. He’d met more women than he could shake a stick at, but this one was in a niche of her own. No fussy ruffles for Peter Biddleton’s sister. No curls adorned her head. No paint or powder covered the freckles that thrived on her cheeks and across her nose. She was pure female, all right, but didn’t bother to dress up the packaging. Her long, dark hair was braided, the thick plait wound around her head, and her eyes were the icy blue of a winter sky.

She stuck her palms into the back pockets of her trousers and he almost grinned again at the picture she presented. If she only realized how her stance emphasized the lush lines of her bosom, how her neat little figure was revealed by the pose she’d taken, she’d no doubt shoot his eyes out for the liberties they took.

“So you’re the rotten bastard who cheated my brother out of his inheritance,” she said, her gaze narrowing as she took his measure. “And I suppose you think I’m going to welcome you and show you around, don’t you?”

He shifted in the saddle, and in a swift movement slid to the ground, facing her head-on. His jaw set, he fisted his hands against his hips, the better to control the sudden urge for battle her remark had brought to the surface. “Number one, ma’am—” his hesitation was just a bit longer than a heartbeat “—my mother and father were duly married when I was born. I take it as an insult to the lady who changed my drawers to be named illegitimate.”

He caught a glimpse of regret in her eyes, and then it vanished as quickly as it had come to be, and he softened his stance. “As to the other, no, I don’t expect a welcome. But—” this pause was longer, and he included the man beside her in his lingering look “—but I do expect to have full access to every single speck of property I own a half share of. That includes the house, the outbuildings, and every living creature in the barns and out of them.”

She inhaled sharply, and her face was white beneath the freckles now. “I’ll be seeing a lawyer in town as soon as I can make arrangements, Mr. Flannery. If your claim is valid—”

“It is, ma’am. I assure you the transfer of deed was accomplished by a genuine attorney in Silver City, Nevada.”

“Was that where you met my brother?” she asked tightly.

He nodded. “He was in a poker game in Molly’s Saloon, and I sat in on the action. Trust me, lady. If it hadn’t been me, he’d have lost the ranch to someone else. He was headed for disaster when I walked in, and I just sat there and waited for it to happen.”

“I told you the boy couldn’t play poker for crap,” the tall ranch hand said harshly.

“You the head man here?” J.T. asked, and was rewarded by a glare from the woman before him.

“I’m head of the place,” she said. “Hogan’s my foreman.”

J.T. held out his hand, fixing his gaze on the husky rancher. Hogan’s hesitation was brief, and his callused palm gave as good as it got as the two hands clasped with a show of force. “You any good at your job?” J.T. asked quietly, assessing the man with a glance. Well put together, wearing his work clothes like a second skin, he stood tall and straight, his eyes wary as he lent silent support to the woman.

“I like to think so.”

“He’s the best there is,” his employer stated firmly. “I’m Chloe Biddleton,” she said grudgingly. She slid her hands from their moorings and fished the letter from her front pocket. “According to this, your name is Jasper Thomas—”

“J.T.” Firm and harsh, his voice spoke the abbreviated title, and her chin lifted as she nodded.

“J.T. it is, then.”

“You want to come out to the barn and take a look around?” Hogan asked, and J.T. wondered if the man sought to lessen the pressure on Chloe. She looked like a good strong wind would blow her over right now, her faith in her brother in shambles and faced, out of the blue, with a new partner.

“Might as well,” he answered. “My horse could use a rubdown and some feed.” He nodded at Chloe, feeling a twinge of regret. Her head high, her lips compressed, she looked like a woman about to burst into tears, if he was any judge, and he’d just as soon not be in the same vicinity if that happened. A crying woman was about his least favorite thing to deal with, right alongside a cornered rattler or a drunk with a gun in his hand.

The two men led their horses toward the big barn, where a lone cowhand lingered near the doorway. Chloe watched in silence as they ambled across the yard, halting next to the horse trough for the big stallion to drop his muzzle into the water. J. T. Flannery glanced back at her, a quick summary from narrowed eyes, and she felt a flush warm her cheeks. The man was arrogant. Not only that, he was equipped with a tall, rangy body, and an intelligence she could not mistake, gleaming from dark eyes that had viewed her with an appraisal which left her aware of her imperfections.

She knew her limitations as a woman, had looked in her mirror enough times to recognize her lack of beauty. Her fair skin invited freckles, and though her hair was thick and long, she thought sometimes it was more trouble than it was worth. Too short to be impressive, and too well-rounded to be chic, she’d found it handy to have a man she could rely on when it came to running the ranch. Her dependence on Hogan was a trust he’d lived up to.

After Pa died two years ago, she’d taken hold, and in the past year, she’d managed to keep afloat. Until the discovery six months ago that her bank account was bone dry, and Peter had left town with every red cent she’d counted on to buy supplies and coast into the summer. The ability to make the payment on the mortgage was a blessing, but without spare cash, she was faced with the delivery of hay tomorrow and the pride-crushing task of asking for credit from her neighbor.

Thankfully, the general store would keep her on the books until she could round up a few yearling steers and sell them. But at spring weight, it would be for a price less than their worth. She sighed as she climbed the two steps to the porch, then shivered as the wind sought her in the shelter of the back door.

The sadness that overwhelmed her couldn’t be helped. Peter had stolen more than the money Pa had left. He’d made his departure with her youthful optimism in his pocket.

Now, she faced a struggle for survival, and a rusty laugh accompanied the first hot tear that streaked down her cheek. At least she had a partner to share the process.

The choice of sleeping beneath a tree or in the bunkhouse with six men who had no reason to enjoy his presence among them was a toss-up, J.T. decided. If he’d had another alternative such as sleeping in the house, he’d have joyfully embraced it, but somehow he didn’t expect Chloe to offer him a bedroom right off the bat. She’d decided to wait until morning to take the trip to Ripsaw Creek, once Hogan murmured an admonition in an undertone. And then she’d looked up at J.T. with defiance.

“The barn or the bunkhouse, mister. Or beneath a tree in the orchard if you like.”

He left her the remnants of her pride, nodding and sliding his bedroll beneath his arm as he sauntered toward the orchard. The barn was too enclosed, and he was a stranger there. Better to be on the outskirts, with a view of house and bunkhouse. He’d slept in worse situations, and the bedroll was warm. Traveling light meant he only had one more clean shirt, and unless he headed to town on a shopping trip, he’d better beg the use of a scrub board from his partner.

The moon was new, a thin sliver against a cloudless sky. Stars filled the horizon, providing a canopy of silver sequins overhead, visible through branches only beginning to show signs of leafing out. At least it didn’t look like rain, he decided, and leaned against the tree trunk he’d chosen, wrapped in wool, his gun at hand. The house was dark, all but a single window on the second floor. White curtains floated from the open pane, and he thought of the woman who slept with fresh air as her companion.

Chloe couldn’t be more than—what? Twenty-one, maybe a year or so older. Too young to be faced with the burden of running a ranch, especially with a lack of cash, if what he’d overheard at the bank was to be believed. A clerk, in an undertone that carried to J.T.’s hearing, spoke of Peter Biddleton’s perfidy to a townsman, shaking his head as he told the tale. The rascal had walked off with the contents of their joint bank account, leaving Chloe empty-handed and in desperate need of funds.

As J.T. watched, a figure clothed in white passed the window. Probably a nightgown, he decided, his eyes focusing on the movement of curtains and the hand that brushed a filmy panel to one side as its owner looked out upon the yard and toward the barn. Decently covered, she was still a temptation, he decided. A couple of the men sleeping in the bunkhouse might look with greedy eyes upon that slender form. His gaze became thoughtful.