Marrying Miss Marshal (2 page)

“Mister? Can you reach the rope?”

She didn't expect a reply, so she wasn't too surprised when none came. Keeping one hand on the rope, she scrambled down the steep incline as best she could. She slipped twice, and rocks bit into her palms as she fought to keep from joining the tenderfoot in a tumble. She wouldn't do him any good if she injured herself, too.

When she reached him, Danna knelt at his head and studied the man.

His hat had slipped to one side, and his sweat-matted hair was dark next to his fair skin. “Mister, you've sure got a way of getting into some pretty good scrapes,” she muttered. She probed his scalp and neck gently with her fingertips, searching for injury. Though obscured by a few days' growth stubble, he had a strong jawline.

He gasped when her palm brushed his right shoulder. Keeping her touch as light as she could, Danna ran her fingers over the arm and shoulder, and he moaned again. “Hurts.”

“I know. Looks like you've knocked it out of place.” She prodded his torso and legs, but found no additional trauma. She did find a gun belt and weapon at his hip, but ignored it for now. “I can reset it for you. But we need to get you up the hill so I can see what I'm doing.”

“I'll try,” he said, and clenched his teeth as he rolled onto his good side.

She helped him to his hands and knees, but he shook
his head and collapsed onto the rocky soil. “I can't…” he wheezed “…make it.”

“All right.” She smoothed a hand over his forehead, as if she was comforting her almost-niece, Ellie. “Tell me your name.”

“Chas.” A breath. “O'Grady.”

She filed the name away. O'Grady sounded Irish. She nodded absently and murmured, “I'm Danna Carpenter,” as she considered the best way to get his shoulder back into the socket. “What brings you to Wyoming?”

“Job.”

“Not cattle.”

One corner of his mouth quirked upward. “How'd you know?”

“Lawyer?”

He snorted a laugh, then grimaced as if the movement pained him.

“Railroad surveyor?” she guessed, and gave a mighty tug.

O'Grady's upper arm and the shoulder slid into place with an audible click. She was impressed when he didn't cry out, just rolled his head and
looked
at her with those blue eyes.

“Thanks. You're a doll.”

Then he passed out.

Danna sat next to his unconscious form in the darkness, willing away the blush that had flamed across her cheeks at his words. Stunned.

Something had happened inside her when he'd looked at her, when she'd heard the endearment he'd spoken.

Something inside her opened, like a flower unfurling. Attraction? Whatever it was, it was decidedly uncomfortable.

C
has sat quietly near the small fire his rescuer had built. With nightfall a chill had fallen, and he was thankful for the warmth the crackling fire generated.

“How's your pain?” His companion asked as she propped herself against a medium-size boulder and removed her hat, loosing a spill of dark hair that had come out of its braid. She stretched her trouser-clad legs out in front of her, eyes on her boots, though her question had sounded curious. Was that a blush on her cheeks? It was hard to tell in the dim, flickering light from the fire.

He rotated the shoulder, wincing a little. “Bearable. Better than before, thanks to you.” He didn't want to think about what would have happened to him if he'd been left on his own in a haze of pain, shoulder dislocated.

He was grateful to Danna for her part in saving his hide—twice—but embarrassment was the primary emotion that registered.

He'd never had this much trouble with a case before, and he hadn't even made it to the town where he was
supposed to scare up a group of cattle rustlers. It didn't matter that his cases usually took him to large cities like Chicago, St. Louis, or Austin; he'd been a private detective long enough that he shouldn't have required help.

And, his shoulder still ached, though not with the piercing pain he'd felt before she'd knocked it back into its socket. The pain was enough that he sat back while Danna Carpenter had spent several minutes scouting for more firewood. His mother would have had a conniption if she'd seen him allowing a lady to perform such a task without offering to do it himself. His mother had subjected him to extensive training during his youth, preparing him for a life as the second son of one of Boston's prominent Irish families. A life he would never live, not after the disaster he'd made of his life.

“Do you live near here?” he asked, because he needed to keep his thoughts away from Boston and everything he'd lost.

“In town.”

“Really? Hmm. How far?”

She grinned softly at his question. “Calvin is a few miles still. North, if you were wondering.”

Her smile did funny things to his insides, left him feeling like he'd fallen off the edge of the cliff a second time.

“What's your business in Calvin? Are you visiting family?” she asked after a moment of quiet not long enough for Chas to gain his composure.

“You're a nosy one, aren't ya?” His irritation with himself made the words sharper than they might normally be.

Her eyebrows pinched and she looked away from
him, one side of her face falling into shadow. “Comes with the territory.”

What did she mean?

Chas didn't have time to consider the meaning behind her cryptic words, for she looked back at him with unabashed curiosity, obviously waiting for his answer.

He used the general answer he'd prepared. “No, I don't have family here. I'm a businessman.”

Her eyebrows pinched briefly before her face cleared. “What were you carrying with you? It looked like luggage.”

He groaned. “A pair of saddlebags.” With his letter of introduction for the local lawman inside. Passing his good hand over his face, he huffed a breath. “I don't suppose there's any way we could go back for them…”

Then another thought occurred. “Do you think they could have survived being trampled?” How much more misfortune could befall him?

“I don't know if they'll still be intact. But to be honest, I wasn't too keen on climbing this hill in the dark.” She motioned behind her. “Even after the moon comes up. We can wait until morning and try to find them.”

“Thank you.”

She got up and went to her horse, untied something from behind the saddle and tossed it to him. A dugan—a bedroll, he'd heard them called.

“Sure you don't need this?” he asked as she pulled another object off the horse.

“I'm sure.” She shook out a slicker, a large one that could have belonged to a man, or at least someone taller and broader than Danna. It made Chas wonder if
she
belonged to someone else. Was she married?

Returning to her seat against the taller rock, she swung the coat around her shoulders and tucked it underneath her chin. Her dark eyes met his and he felt a spark sizzle between them before she looked away into the fire.

What was this? He'd never felt this…connection with anyone else, not even with—

He spoke quickly to keep the thought from its finish. “Will your husband be out looking for you? I'd hate to fall asleep and wake with a gun in my back.”

Something flickered across her face, and the smile lingering at the corners of her lips disappeared. “No.”

“A father? Brother? Uncle?”

Now her mouth flattened into a grim line. She tossed the twig she'd been playing with into the fire and dusted her hands together. “No. No husband, no father. Not anymore.”

Her words hinted she might've been married at one point, but her clenched jaw and closed expression told him it would be best not to continue that line of inquiry.

Suddenly, she straightened her shoulders and met his gaze head-on. “Where are you from? Back East?”

“My accent?” he asked with a rueful smile.

She nodded. “You're Irish?”

Intrigued, he leaned forward, resting his elbow on his bent knee. “How did you know?”

“A good guess.” She shrugged, and he followed the motion of her hands as she folded them over one knee. “And I believe your hair is red, as well, although I didn't get a good look because it was dark.”

“It is.”

Another silence fell, this one charged with tension, almost palatable. Chas watched her fidget. Now she fiddled with one of the cuffs of her shirt.

He wanted to keep talking to her, wanted to know why she dressed as she did, why she was alone out here.

But he also wanted to protect himself from this tenuous tie they seemed to share. He who always pried for every piece of information from any person he came into contact with—knowing that every detail helped him do his job better—feigned a yawn and rolled himself in the dugan she'd tossed to him earlier.

“Thank you again, and good night.”

 

“Mister.”

The sound of gunshots rang in his ears, blood covered his hands. Pain speared his right shoulder. Had he been hit?

“Tenderfoot.”

A boot nudged his ankle and drew Chas out of the nightmare. Memory.

He blinked, trying to dispel the images of the woman he'd loved dying under his hands. He rolled off his injured shoulder—that's what caused the throbbing pain—and shook his head to clear it, taking in his surroundings.

Muted gray light threw Danna Carpenter into silhouette as she knelt over the embers of what had been their fire last night. The sight of her calmly going about her business quieted the raging maelstrom of emotion and memories bombarding him.

At least she had her back turned so he could shake off the trembles his nightmare always left behind.

He couldn't help groaning as he pushed himself to his elbow. It took Danna's help to get him sitting upright on the hard, cold earth, the dugan still covering his legs.

“Here, this should help with the stiffness in your shoulder.”

Before he realized what she was doing, she'd opened his coat and unbuttoned the first two buttons on his shirt, exposing his injured shoulder. She hesitated—must've seen his gunshot scar—but then a welcome heat began seeping through his skin. She'd warmed a folded square of wet cloth to make a compress.

Her eyes met and held his as she pressed the hot bundle against his abused muscles. He couldn't decipher her expression in the semidarkness, but a connection sparked between them. She was too close.

As if she'd had the same thought, she backed away. He looked down to hide his confusion and immediately noticed his rumpled state. He was a mess. Needed a bath and a shave, and his clothes were covered in dust.

“Coffee.” She pressed a tin into his hands and retreated again. “I'm not much of a cook. I think I scorched it.”

A sip of the black sludge confirmed her words. He swallowed when what he wanted to do was spit it out. It
did
warm his insides.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rusty.

“Thought your pain might be bad after a night out in the cold. You were moaning in your sleep.”

His back teeth clenched. He often thrashed around because of the nightmare, but he wasn't about to admit to it—she'd probably ask questions, and he couldn't afford the answers. Not when the answer was that he'd been responsible for the deaths of the two people he'd loved most in the world.

“Thanks,” he muttered again, forcing himself out of the bedroll and into the bracing morning air. Taking a moment to stretch the kinks out, Chas absently rubbed
a particularly twinge-worthy knot in his lower back while he watched his unusual companion as she used her boot to kick dirt over the graying embers of the campfire.

She looked up at him, this time with her hat pulled low over her brow. He couldn't read her eyes.

“If we find your things quickly, we can make it back to Calvin by breakfast.”

His rumbling stomach thought that that was a good idea.

“Your shoulder might act up a bit when we're jostling around on the horse's back, so you'll just have to tell me if you need to stop for a while.”

He was ready to have some distance from this confusing woman and the draw he felt toward her.

“I'm sure I'll be fine. Let's go.”

 

Nearly two hours after the tenderfoot's declaration, Danna wasn't so sure his wounded arm was holding up.

She'd kept her mount to a plodding pace—both she and the animal wanted to
move
—but felt Chas O'Grady's body grow progressively stiffer as the morning wore on. She imagined his pain must be getting worse, but he'd yet to say anything.

The morning sun finally peeked over the canyon's rim, but finding anything in the torn-up ground left by the stampeding cattle was proving impossible.

The tenderfoot shifted in the saddle, a soft gasp making her turn her head for a glimpse of his face. A muscle ticked in his jaw. With her late husband, that had been a sure sign he was either mad or hurt.

“You want to stop for a while?” she asked.

“No. I'm sure you need to get home.” She did, but she kept quiet. “But my saddlebags had some important
documents in them. If they somehow survived, I'll need them.”

“Fine.”

She knew he was hurting, but if the man wouldn't admit it, what could she do?

Danna kept her eyes on the chewed-up ground. Just looking at how the sandy canyon floor had been marked by the thousands of hooves, she was starting to doubt there would be anything left to find. However, she understood his need to keep looking. She knew what it was like to lose something important and never get it back.

And what were those cattle doing in the canyon anyway? She'd mulled it over all night, awake in the dark, while she'd tried to keep her gaze and her thoughts from straying to the man who'd slept just across the campfire.

She'd spent far too long staring at his broad shoulders—the only thing she could see, as the rest of him had been wrapped in the blanket—trying to pinpoint what it was about him that unsettled her.

For now, she chose to ignore that unruly flash of emotion last night. She simply couldn't be drawn to the near stranger. He made her uncomfortable. That was all.

It wasn't the same feeling she got when in danger. That was a prickling at the back of her neck, beneath her hairline. No, this was more of an intensity. She'd been aware of his every movement, even after his breathing had settled, signifying he'd dozed off.

She almost thought those prickles of sensation were…attraction. But that couldn't be right. She'd never felt anything like this with Fred. Maybe she had been too young when she married Fred, or maybe she
had felt something similar at the beginning of their acquaintance and she'd forgotten. She'd been married to Fred for eight years, after all…

The tenderfoot groaned, stifled it and shifted again. “Maybe I should walk for a while. I might have a better chance at spotting my saddlebags that way.”

She doubted it, but guessed he must be hurting something fierce by now, so she shrugged and reined in her mount. She'd have a better view from her horse's back, but if he wanted to walk, he could walk. The tenderfoot huffed softly when his shiny boots hit the ground.

“You sure you don't want to stop for a while?”

His only answer was a silent frown. The tenderfoot wore the same closed expression that Fred had worn when she'd asked too many questions. Fine. She wouldn't ask about his arm again, even if it fell off.

She forced her thoughts back to the cattle and what they were doing in this canyon last night. The roundups and cattle drives should have already been completed in this area. The ground above the canyon was dry, not terribly good for grazing. So what were that many animals doing here?

It was a mystery.

“Did you happen to see any brands on those cattle last night?”

“What?” The tenderfoot glanced up at her, focusing those intense blue eyes on her momentarily. “Oh. No, I didn't get a good look at any of their markings. Why? Did you recognize them?”

“No.” Danna scanned the landscape, aware that his eyes remained on her, uncomfortable with his scrutiny.

“Why do you want to know?”

“It's a bit unusual for the cattle to be in this area this
late in the year,” she said. And she thought she'd heard gunshots immediately before the cattle had stampeded. But in the confusion she couldn't be sure. “Usually, they've been driven to Cheyenne for market. The vegetation starts to get scarce.”

“Hmm.”

He didn't sound terribly interested, but she supposed he wouldn't be. She guessed he was a professional cardsharp, a gambler. He'd told her last night he was a businessman. Only, who would come to the tiny town of Calvin, Wyoming, to do business? And his fancy city clothes would make him out of place, as well. It was a good thing she wasn't interested in him. A gambler.