Branded (3 page)

This was one daring female, traveling without an escort through the backwoods of Colorado. It was her wild edge tempered by innocence that held his interest. She’d sparked protective instincts in him he hadn’t even realized he had. But she, sure as hell, hadn’t appreciated his help. He guessed she wanted rid of him, near as badly as she’d wanted the thieves gone.

She pretended to ignore him as she spoke to the driver. He could tell by the stiff set of her shoulders that she was well aware of his interest. And, sure enough, her gaze drifted to him. Her eyes locked with his for one heart-thundering moment. Bonner had been wrong. Not only did he have a heart, but it was threatening to leap from his chest. He rubbed his fingers together, reliving the sensation of her soft skin, and felt a need so intense, it stopped his breath. For the first time in forever the lone wolf thing lacked appeal.

To steady himself, he removed his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. He’d never had a reaction like that to a woman. He slammed his hat on his head, propped his back against the tree, and pulled his papers and a sack of Bull Durham from his pocket. He set to building a smoke as he watched her try to coax her dog into the coach. When cajoling didn't work, she made a futile attempt at shoving the animal from behind, her own tantalizing bottom twitching in the air. Ever aware of his gaze on her, she turned a spiteful look on him before fetching something from the baggage strapped to the rear of the wagon. She tossed what looked like jerky into the coach. The dog scrambled aboard, causing the wheels to creak.

Ascending the steps, she gave him one more haughty glance over her shoulder, before tripping on her overgrown pet and falling headlong into the carriage.

# # #

"Blasted moose of a dog," Lacey muttered as she pushed herself off Oliver.

She plopped onto the cracked leather seat. Determined to occupy her mind with something other than the cowboy, who was probably still enjoying a languid smoke, she snatched her embroidery frame from her satchel.

Insolent man, she fumed, and stabbed the fabric with the pin. Her hands trembled so badly, she hardly managed two stitches. She inched forward on the seat to take a quick peek out the window. The cowboy was having a more unsettling effect on her than the two scoundrels he’d sent running.

What on earth was she about? Lacey wondered. The man hadn't even a splinter of warmth in those ice-cold eyes, even when he laughed. His hair was too long and far too shaggy, and it looked as though he hadn't shaved in days. And the scar. The way the highwaymen had run she'd expected him to be hideously disfigured. Hardly that. The scar was a pale, shallow crescent, starting dangerously close to the corner of his eye. The other tapering end touched the tail of his brow.

Lacey found herself entranced as she watched him move. The jingle of his spurs and the rubbing of his leather chaps seemed, for the moment, to be the only sounds. He had a rangy, swaggering stride.

He rubbed his stubbled jaw as he contemplated the dirt at his feet, before bending down to pick something up.

Opening the door, he handed her back the hatpin. She gave it only a cursory glance, before tossing it out the window. "I believe you crushed it under your heel during the ruckus. Besides, the pin, unlike my brooch, truly is paste. But I suspect you knew that."

"Are you on your way to a funeral?"

It took her a moment to understand why he'd asked the question. She smoothed her black skirt with her black-gloved hands. "In a manner of speaking," she said. The outfit hadn't been a conscious choice, but when she'd seen herself in the looking glass, it had seemed quite appropriate.

"Where are you headed?"

"Colorado."

There it was again. That lazy smile.

"Kind of figured that much. Any particular place in Colorado?"

She may not have the sense God gave a flea, as her father was so fond of saying, but she did know danger when she was looking at it. "A ranch."

Her sarcastic reply produced an unexpected reaction. His dark lashes swept down for a second. A hesitation, like a man unsure. Certainly, she was imagining it. The man was merely insulted. By the looks of him, he was accustomed to women giving him information and everything else he asked for. Yet, when his eyes lifted, there was something unguarded in the way he looked at her.

The driver came up behind him and clapped him loudly on the back. "Son, you're wasting your time. She took that ugly hat off in town, and they were worming out of the woodwork. I felt like I was leading a damn parade. There wasn't a fella among them she paid any notice to."

"Can't blame a man for trying." He shut the door with unjustified force but continued to stare at her through the window.

Nervously, she nibbled her lip, which brought his eyes to her mouth again in that bold way that made her heart beat wildly. The look was completely carnal. The vulnerable look she’d spied seconds before, only a puzzling hint of what lay beneath. She yanked the veil down, concealing her features. She was thankful that she would soon be far from his unnerving, ice-blue stare.

Lacey slowly stirred the muddy, black coffee, a little reluctant to drink it, as she watched her future motherin-law bustle around the kitchen. How would she ever fit in here? she wondered. An acute feeling of homesickness knifed through her. She swallowed back the self-pity, along with the tears. She had no one but herself to blame. She’d earned her exile from England with her reckless behavior.

She glanced over at her fiancé's younger brother, Tait, and caught him staring at her. He nervously dropped his eyes, turning his attention to the biscuit on his plate. After slathering it heavily with marmalade, he topped it off with a squiggle of treacle. He tore the biscuit in half and crammed it in his mouth. His nose, with the impish spray of freckles, crinkled slightly as he chewed. He reminded her of a young Grady. Tait was not as handsome as his half-brother, but there was definitely something sweeter about his face. His dark brown hair, the exact color of Grady's, was long and straggly, the choppy ends grazing his shoulders. She wondered if he cut it himself--with some very dull scissors.

His hair reminded her of the cowboy’s, which reminded her of everything else about him. Annoyingly, she experienced, again, that odd flutter low in her stomach. To jolt herself out of her reverie, she took a bracing sip of the bitter coffee. She must stop thinking about her reluctant rescuer.

Dora flashed her a warm smile, and Lacey thought that maybe five months in Colorado wasn't such a long time. A thought that instantly vaporized when the backdoor opened, and what had seemed a vast kitchen was now filled with men. And not just any men, but rough, sweaty, dust-covered ones.

Tait leaned in toward her. "Don't let those brutes scare you. They're as tame as lambs," he said. But, when she looked into his eyes, she had the uneasy feeling he was also unsettled by their presence.

Dora merely laughed and punched the biggest one in the arm. "Dix, you big fool. I knew he'd talk you into comin' back."

Dix removed his hat and winged it through the opening to the adjoining room. It landed neatly atop the trestle table, situated in the center, of what looked to be a deserted dining hall.

Dix smoothed back his thick blond hair. "That boy could talk a starving coyote out of his last scrap of food."

The door hinges creaked again, and another pair of heels resounded on the bare wooden planks. This one was so tall, he had to duck his head under the kitchen portal. Lacey held her breath as she watched him straighten. She could actually hear Tait swallow. If she'd thought him dangerous looking before, it was nothing compared to the picture he presented now. She spied beneath the flaps of his dusty brown jacket, a double holstered gun belt studded with cartridges.

She set her cup down with a loud clatter.

Turning, his ice-blue gaze lit on Lacey and held. "Well, I'll be damned." He chuckled.

Dora had to stand on tiptoes to snatch the hat from his head. "Slade Michael Dalton, where are your manners?"

Lacey clasped her hands together and interlaced her fingers, hoping to stop them from trembling. She had pulled many foolish stunts in her life, but this one surely was the topper. Here she was, set to marry a man she hardly knew, and live in a place that was completely foreign to her. And now this. The man that made her heart quicken was to be her brother-in-law.

Grady had warned her about Slade. "Makes his living hunting," he’d said disdainfully.

"What type of animal?" she'd asked innocently.

"The two-legged kind."

When she’d gasped, he had added almost reluctantly, "Outlaws. With his penchant for drawing his gun on the least provocation, it's a perfect occupation. Ice runs through his veins." He’d assured her she was in no danger of meeting him. Slade Dalton was supposed to be miles from the Lazy Heart.

Lacey shifted uncomfortably as he pushed past the three men now clustered together near the table, staring at her.

"Lacey Sarah Jarrell," he drawled her name familiarly. Obviously, he'd taken note of the hand-tooled gilt stenciling on her luggage. He was hovering near the table, his shoulders impossibly broad. The lantern light seemed to glance off his big white teeth. Lacey had a nearly irresistible impulse to throw her hot coffee in his face.

"You've met?" Dora thrust a steaming mug into his hand.

"On the road to town," Lacey offered. "I found myself in a bit of a predicament, and Mr. Dalton was kind enough to help me out." She gave him her most insincere smile.

Slade set his coffee down and shrugged out of his coat, revealing yet another weapon; a long knife encased in a leather shoulder scabbard. He unbuckled his heavy belt and hung it, and the knife holster, beside his coat on a hook on the wall.

"That's an awful lot of jewelry, Slade. Expectin' some trouble?"

Choosing not to comment on Dix's question, Slade swung his leg over the back of the chair to sit across from Lacey. She could make out the contour of the miniature gun in his vest pocket. Chances were, the man didn't bathe without a weapon at hand, Lacey thought, and felt a pink flush rising in her cheeks as she pictured that.

With his foot, Slade kicked another chair away from the table. "Dix, Thorpe, have a seat. Beck, you help Dora serve." He turned his gaze from Lacey to peer up at his companions. They had yet to move. "Hell's fire. You're actin' as though you never saw a female before."

"There are females, Dalton, and then there are females," pronounced the lanky, black-haired one as he doffed his hat. The line of dust on his face stopped at the brim-line. "No offense, Miss Dora," he mumbled.

"Thorpe, ever the flatterer," Dora said with a wry smile.

Slade repeated her name, "Lacey Jarrell." His deep voice lingered on each syllable. "It suits you."

The way he said it certainly couldn't be construed as a compliment. "And how's that, Mr. Dalton?" He leaned in further, and she noticed that unlike the other men, he had taken the trouble to wash the dirt from his face.

"Lacey conjures up images of a delicate, frilly sort of woman. Doesn't it, Dix? Now Tait, here, has a fascination for that sort." His lips kicked up into a wicked half-smile.

"Slade, behave yourself!" Dora reprimanded. "Lacey is here for your brother."

Instantly, Tait was assaulted by a loud chorus of congratulations and ribald ribbing from the men. Except for Slade. He shifted his big frame, getting as close to her as the table allowed.

"What have you to do with Grady?" he asked gruffly.

The fine lace of her glove snagged on her ring as she tugged it off, finger by finger. She lifted her hand and turned the ring, willing it to catch the lantern light. But the midnight colored sapphire seemed to absorb the light. Somehow, she knew those cold eyes were watching intently.

"It seems, he has an appreciation for frivolous things," she said through gritted teeth.

"Don't tell me your Grady's wife." His eyes seemed to burn into hers. His beautiful mouth had tightened into an angry line.

"Your brother always did enjoy collectin' fine things," Dix interjected with a suggestive laugh.

Slade did not seem to find his friend's comment amusing in the least. His long brown fingers wrapped around her hand. Narrowing his eyes to slits, he examined the ring as if it were made of fool's gold.

She snatched her hand back from his disconcertingly possessive grasp. "Grady and I are to be married in a few months. He was very insistent that Dora be present at the wedding." Of course, Lacey failed to mention that she had eagerly agreed to the delay. Her own enthusiasm for marrying Grady Dalton had waned in direct proportion to the diminishing threat of having to marry Arthur Widstaff.

In truth, it had been less a betrothal and more an exchange of favors. He’d needed legal papers delivered to a lawyer in Colorado, and she’d needed an escape. The fact, that her father and Grady stood to profit on a real estate partnership, had helped seal the engagement. Yet she couldn't discount that Grady had seemed genuinely taken by her in a remote sort of way.

Slade slapped the table with his open palm, causing the coffee to slosh out of her cup. Lacey glanced from the brown liquid beading on the scarred wooden table to Slade's face. Surprisingly, he was smiling. The type of smile he might favor a man with just before he put a bullet through his chest, Lacey thought with a shiver. "Damnation. Seems congratulations are in order. Where is that lucky bastard?"

"In Europe--setting up offices. His company wants to encourage immigration. They're hoping to sell land along the railway lines." She fiddled with the ring, twisting it on her finger. It seemed suddenly too tight. "He thought it would be best if I stayed at his ranch while he was away."

Dora came up behind Slade and draped her arms over his shoulders. He placed his hand on her forearm. She rested her chin atop his brown head. "Honey, Slade here, owns this ranch and all eight thousand acres."

"But Grady--" Lacey glanced around the table. She had a sudden uneasy feeling that none of these men were friends of Grady's. "I suppose, I'd misheard him."