Rancher Wants a Wife

He reminded her of a Thoroughbred racehorse, muscled and built for speed. Her pulse tripped over itself in response to his powerful presence. Wavy hair, longer than the men wore in Chicago, touched his collar. A sheen of moisture from the heat of the sun dampened his brow. He was clean-shaven, but already a dark shadow underlined his firm jaw and cast shadows in the dimple of his chin.

“Cassandra,” he repeated in a rich baritone. “Good to see you.” And then her scarf came away from her cheek, exposing the ugly ripple of flesh four inches in diameter, and his studious eyes flickered over it.

The burning heat of embarrassment and shame, and an overriding wish to flee, overtook her. This is what you ordered, she thought. How terribly disappointed you must be.

He fumbled for barely a moment, almost imperceptibly, then glanced back up into her eyes with a smile. “You look lovely.”

She took in a deep breath, touched by his kindness.

Why did the rhythm of her breathing still break when she was around him? Why had it always been like this? She nodded and smiled in a confusion of emotions.

She hadn’t realized how parched her mouth was. “Well, I...Jack...this climate certainly agrees with you.” Clumsily, she reached out to shake his hand at the same instant he held out a bouquet of pink wild roses.

She took the flowers, mumbled a thank-you that got muffled when he leaned forward, planted a large warm hand on her wrist and pulled her forward over the roses in an awkward semihug that two distant relations might share. It was a wonderful display of strain and discomfort, the same awkwardness that had existed between them when she’d been engaged to his cousin, Troy.

Only now she was engaged to Jack, and all the witty and charming things she’d practiced to say on their first meeting flew out of her head.

“Sorry you got delayed,” he said. “The coach is never on time.”

“Thank you for waiting,” she replied, still flustered.

“May I take your bag?” He extended his hand, and before she could stop him, took her woven satchel. Due to the weight of her books and gun, it thudded against his side. “What on earth are you carrying? Cannonballs?”

She smiled at his quip. She hadn’t written to him about her desire to be a detective. She wanted to prepare herself first, to scope out the town and its facilities, and break the news to him gently, in the event he had any objections.

“How was your trip?”

“Long and dusty. But it is exciting to see this part of the country.”

He gave her another one of those sweeping glances that seemed to sum her up. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Because of the massive scar?

He awkwardly tried to make it right. “I mean because you used to be a touch heavier, remember?” Then he groaned. Perhaps that wasn’t quite what he’d meant to vocalize, either.

In her efforts to recall what he might look like, she’d forgotten that she herself had been on the plump side, last time they’d seen each other on the night of their ripping argument.

But if he’d had any decency at all, if he’d truly cared for her as he’d confessed that evening, why had he packed his things and left in the middle of the night?

Not a word goodbye.

He had tried to kiss her, but how on earth could he have expected her to react, when she was engaged to his cousin? What more could any decent man expect but a slap on the face?

Anger flashed through her. She was surprised by it and tried to hide it. She thought she’d feel a hundred different things when she saw him again, but never suspected she still hadn’t gotten over the callous way he’d left. Those buried feelings of betrayal surged up and stung her. She didn’t wish to be resentful. What she’d hoped to be when she arrived, had fantasized being, was a pleasant and optimistic bride.

Perhaps what she was truly indignant about were the circumstances she had found herself in, in Chicago—no way to support herself immediately after the fire, no family to help, relying on the mercy of a man to marry her.

“I guess we’ve both been through a lot of change.” She smiled faintly, trying to overcome her emotions.

The artery at the base of his dark throat pulsed. He seemed to sense her discomfort as he watched her. “And how is Troy?”

Her lashes flicked as she averted her gaze. “Fine, I suppose. In England somewhere, last I heard.”

She hadn’t spoken to that turncoat for five years, either, but how would Jack know that? All she’d told him in her letters, when he’d asked, was that their engagement had been over for quite some time. The truth was, after that huge row with Jack, she’d gone to Troy and had discovered that all the terrible things Jack had said about him—his drinking and his carousing with painted ladies—were true. Cassandra had severed her engagement that very night. Yet when she’d gone to tell Jack that he was right about his cousin, he’d been nowhere to be found.

Over the course of the next few days and weeks, she had realized that she hadn’t really loved either man.

And then out of the blue had come Jack’s response to her ad as a bride.

He frowned, as if trying to read her expression, and any residue of sentiment she might still have for Troy. She pressed her lips together and tried to express nothing.

My, how good she’d become at that game.

The moment stretched and stretched. Then two young ladies walked by, whispering something about him with admiration in their tone. Jack didn’t pay them attention; his dark eyebrows flickered at Cassandra. He rubbed the tense muscles in his jaw and tilted his mouth in an expression of friendliness.

“Welcome to my valley.”

There went her nerves again. She couldn’t get enough of looking at the new Jack. Goodness. Wasn’t he handsome? Perhaps he knew it. Perhaps this new confidence she sensed in him came from being aware of how he was perceived by the women around him. And those women...they had such fine features and beautiful skin.

It hurt to remember that she’d once looked like that. That she’d once turned heads and garnered male attention.

She composed herself and tried to remain positive. Jack hadn’t asked anyone else to marry him; he had asked her. So Cassandra focused on what the future with him might bring, and gave him a cheerful nod. “Nice to be here, finally.”

“Yes, finally,” he said, as if he were thinking about something more.

She swooped down to inhale the perfume of the roses, hoping the color heating up her cheeks didn’t show.

Finally, after all these years, Jack McColton would be taking her virginity.

Chapter Two

“My horse and buggy’s up this way,” Jack said to Cassandra as he found her larger piece of luggage and led her away from the crowd.

He tried to restrain the sorrow he felt when he gazed at her and the injury to her face. God. It had nearly felled him when he’d first seen her.

He took a deep breath, but his muscles were still tense.

The pocked flesh covered her entire right cheek. It wasn’t that her beauty was affected, for he saw the lovely woman she was and always would be. It was that he felt such guilt in seeing the scar. If he had been there in Chicago, he damn well could’ve prevented her injury. He likely would’ve been living nearby, could’ve helped her and her family escape the fire, could’ve removed Cassandra from the burning timbers of her home.

But he hadn’t been there for her, and not only had she lost her family, she had to live with the scar and the turning heads wherever she walked. Even now, men and women caught sight of her and followed her with inquisitive eyes. He tried to ignore them, and the ones shouting their hellos at him to give Cassandra time to adjust. He was ashamed at how much they were staring, and just wanted to get her the hell out of there.

He placed her suitcase and satchel in his shiny buggy and held out his hand to help her onto the seat.

She slid her palm into his. Was he imagining it, or was her touch slightly shaky? She hopped up onto the polished leather and quickly released her grip, before he could tell for sure.

“I thought we’d get married tomorrow evening,” he said, trying to break the strain between them.

“Tomorrow? My, oh my.” Her soft expression flashed with surprise.