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.”