With This Ring? Read online

  No, starving wasn’t his problem. Finding things to occupy his mind that didn’t resemble Miss Marietta Hawkins while he was alone in this place was his problem. Everywhere he turned, he recalled a time he’d seen her, spoken to her, touched her. Giving her a leg up when she was ready to ride. Hearing her laugh at the stable boy’s horrid jokes. Seeing her pink and breathless as she danced around the parlor with a bunch of kids as she had last spring when he and Stone Hammond had returned from rescuing Lily Dorchester.

  Heavens, but she’d been beautiful then. All rosy and glowing, her smile of relief at his safe return impacting his chest like a shotgun blast. That moment had clarified the danger she presented. Dan had never broken a vow in all his days. A man’s word was sacred. A point of honor. But when Etta had looked at him as if he mattered to her—truly mattered—more than any other person on earth, he’d nearly thrown his vow out the nearest window, scooped her into his arms, and kissed her senseless.

  It had been a close thing. And a reminder to keep her at arm’s length. Ever since she’d come home from school three years ago, she’d been burrowing under his skin, itching like a host of chigger bites. He kept telling himself not to scratch, but invariably he did anyway, fool that he was.

  And here he was scratching again, thinking about her when he should be focused on the work at hand.

  He still needed to put Stormy through his paces with the pack this afternoon. Might even try the wagon harness again. Get him used to carrying a load not only on his back but also pulling one from behind.

  Reining in Ranger, Dan dismounted and walked his horse over to the trough near the barn. The overcast sky added a heaviness to the air today, the humidity leaving him sticky with sweat even after his cooling ride. Dan patted the side of Ranger’s neck as the horse bent to drink. Then Dan strode over to the pump to grab a swallow himself.

  He shoved his sleeves up past his elbows then worked the pump handle with one hand while positioning the bucket beneath the spout with the other. Once the bucket was half-full, he paused to dip out a ladleful. The cool liquid felt like heaven on his dust-coated throat. He dipped out a second scoop and chugged it down as fast as he could swallow.

  For the past few hours, he’d been working at his new place, fixing fence posts, oiling hinges, cleaning cobwebs out of barn rafters. He wouldn’t move his mules there until the place was pristine. He had high standards for his stock, and those standards extended to their accommodations. Treat an animal well, and he’d perform well. Treat him like a shabby ne’er-do-well, and he’d either rebel or start believing in his worthlessness. Neither outcome was profitable.

  A portion of the water from the dipper dribbled down Dan’s chest. It felt so good that Dan tossed his hat onto a corral post and dumped the remainder of the bucket’s contents over his head. Oh yeah. Much better. But sweat and grime still clung to him. He needed a good scrub. And why shouldn’t he have one? No one was around. Ranger wouldn’t care. Shoot, the horse would probably enjoy being doused and rubbed down, as well.

  Dan ducked into the barn to fetch the cake of soap the men kept for washing hands and arms before meals then strode back out to the pump, stripping out of the black leather vest he wore. He draped it over the corral slat next to the post that held his hat. Then he peeled off his shirt and started working the pump handle again.

  When water flowed freely, he bent at the waist and dunked his head beneath the heavy stream. Water ran down his face and neck in thick rivulets. Closing his eyes against the dirt and soap, Dan worked up a healthy lather and rubbed his hands all over his face and into his hair. He scooped handfuls of water to rinse with then dunked his head a second time, scrubbing at the grime with his nails. When the flow of water petered out, he set to work on his chest, rubbing the cake of soap from neck to waist until he felt clean. He pumped the handle a final time, using the bucket to rinse the soap from his skin. Shaking his head like a wet dog, he flung droplets over the ground in a circular pattern around him. He had just collected his shirt and started rubbing the cleanest section he could find over his neck and chest to dry himself when a loud crash echoed behind him.

  In a flash, he dropped the shirt, pulled his pistol from his holster, and whirled around in a crouch to confront the threat.

  Only the threat wasn’t one he could use a bullet on.

  Marietta couldn’t move. The shattered glass around her feet didn’t propel her into action. The lemonade spatters soaking into her best Sunday dress had no effect, nor did the silver tray dangling from the numb fingertips of her right hand. Only when the tray finally freed itself and fell to the porch floor with a loud clatter did she even find the wherewithal to blink.

  “What in tarnation are you doing here, Etta?” Daniel shouted the question at her, his eyes blazing with a savagery that finally got her feet moving. Backward.

  Daniel never shouted. Ever. It was all part of his ironclad control. She hadn’t expected him to welcome her home with open arms, but neither had she expected outright hostility. No, not hostility, she corrected. Rage. He looked like he wanted to tan her hide. She’d borne his irritation before, even his frustration, but never had she been on the receiving end of such fierce anger. Marietta blinked again, this time in a desperate attempt to keep a flood of burgeoning tears at bay.

  He holstered his revolver and marched toward her, his body quivering with the force of his fury. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?”

  Marietta ducked her head. She couldn’t look him in the face. Not if she had any hope of warding off the sobs that swelled like a wind-tossed sea inside her. She’d wanted to please him, to bring him some refreshment after his long day of work, to impress him with her wifely attributes and maybe even catch an admiring glance for all the care she’d taken with her appearance. Well, he was glancing at her all right, but the look was decidedly not admiring.

  His boots stomped up the porch steps with the force of a herd of buffalo. She closed her eyes and bit her lip. Waiting. Waiting for the thunder to crack. For the lightning to strike. It didn’t take long.

  The instant the boots ceased their clomping, Daniel’s hand clasped her upper arm so tightly it actually hurt. Then he shook her until she looked up.

  “I could have shot you! Land sakes, woman, I could have killed you.”

  “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Marietta tried to blink away the tears again, but there were too many. They escaped the corners of her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “It was clumsy of me to drop the pitcher.” She shook her head, knowing there was no worthy excuse. She wasn’t supposed to be here. He had every right to be angry. “I just thought to bring you something cool to drink, but when I came outside you were . . . well . . . washing, and . . .” And she was rambling. And blushing. And desperately trying not to look at the magnificent chest that had caused her distraction in the first place.

  At the mention of washing, Daniel jerked back, releasing his hold on her arm. A redness that had nothing to do with the sun upon his skin traveled from his neck up over his face, all the way to his ears. Mumbling something she couldn’t decipher, he spun around and jogged down the porch steps and across the yard. He snatched up his soiled shirt and forced the filthy thing back over his head and did up the buttons. He grabbed his vest for good measure and did up the fastenings on that, as well.

  Not wanting to just stand there and wait for him to continue his rant, Marietta hunkered down and busied herself with righting the tray and collecting pieces of broken glass, plunking them onto the flat, silver surface. She had just reached for the handle section of the pitcher when a pair of dusty, cracked leather boots appeared directly in front of her.

  His approach had been silent this time. Controlled. If only she could claim the same level of restraint. Unfortunately, tears continued trekking down her face, and her hands shook so badly now that he was near, she couldn’t even keep her grip on the rounded pitcher handle. The glass chunk fell from her fingers with a clatter that caused t
he smaller pieces to jump.

  Denim-clad legs bent down beside her, and a hand reached out to cover hers. She jerked away from the tender touch and lurched upward, her only thought being to escape back into the house before he could see her face. Heaven only knew what she looked like. A soggy, red-eyed mess, no doubt. Mercy, she didn’t even have a handkerchief to wipe her nose.

  Drat it all! This was not the impression she had hoped to make. Why had she been so clumsy? It wasn’t hard to hold a serving tray, for pity’s sake. A handle on each end. All one had to do was keep one’s fingers engaged. And what had she done? Taken one look at Daniel Barrett’s bare chest and turned into a nerveless imbecile who couldn’t even keep her grip on a simple tray. Just because the sight had set off flutters in her belly that had robbed her of breath didn’t mean she should have let them rob her of sense, as well.

  She clasped the knob on the back door and wrenched it open, only to have a strong hand slap against the edge and shove it closed again.

  “Not so fast, Etta.” Daniel’s deep voice rumbled directly behind her. “Not before you explain what you’re doing here.”

  A tiny sob caught in her throat. He deserved an answer. None of this was his fault. But she couldn’t face him. Not yet. Not until she had these cursed emotions under control. She tried to dry her cheeks with the backs of her hands and sniffed several times, though she doubted it made much difference. She was debating with herself about whether or not to throw all polite manners to the wind and use her sleeve, when a handkerchief appeared in her peripheral vision.

  “Here,” his gruff voice said. “It’s a little damp from my . . . ah . . . time at the pump, but it’s clean.”

  She snatched it from his hand and immediately blew her nose—as delicately as possible, of course. The man she wanted to marry was standing right behind her, after all. Unfortunately, the delicate blow was less than effective. Sagging in defeat, she gave her nose a good honk and then folded the handkerchief over and used a clean area to rub the rest of her face dry.

  Daniel heaved a heavy sigh just as she turned to face him. With her head bent, she couldn’t see his face, but his closeness still had its usual effect on her pulse.

  “I’m sorry I shouted at you,” he mumbled. “It’s just . . . thunderation, woman. Finding you on the business end of my gun took ten years off my life. When I think about what could have happened . . .”

  She glanced up in time to see him raise a trembling hand to comb through his hair—hair that stood up at adorable, crazy angles thanks to his vigorous shaking earlier.

  His throat worked up and down as he swallowed. “If I had hurt you . . . I swear, Etta. I never would have forgiven myself.”

  That’s why he had shouted? He’d been afraid? For her? Hope unfurled inside her breast like a dew-drenched rose opening to the sun.

  Perhaps coming back here hadn’t been a mistake after all.

  Chapter Three

  Dead-Eye Dan followed the outlaws’ trail until dark. They’d tried to lose him by heading into the canyons. The rocky ground there was too stubborn to hold a hoofprint. But rocks held bloodstains just fine. And his crumb-dropping outlaw left just enough of the stuff behind for Dan to track. The going was slow, though. Frustratingly slow. The droplets became fewer and farther between, making Dan dismount and search a wider and wider area until he found the next telltale mark. His bleeding outlaw had either managed to stanch the flow while riding or the wound had started clotting.

  Still, Dan pressed on. Eyes sharp. Spirit relentless. He continued through the graying haze of twilight to the darkening of dusk, squinting through the gloom until the shadows became impossible to differentiate from the rocks. Only when the night was full black did he halt.

  He pictured Mary Ellen being dragged from her horse, the outlaws’ rough hands on her arms, her curly brown hair falling about her ears after the long, hard ride. He prayed she didn’t provoke their tempers. Mary Ellen wasn’t one to suffer injustice quietly. Would they strike her? Bind her hand and foot and toss her on a filthy blanket to pass the night? Or use her for their own evil pleasure?

  The image seared his brain, urging him to jump on Ranger’s back, guess a direction, and race at full gallop to save her. But if he guessed wrong . . . Dan clenched his jaw. There were hundreds of caves and crevices in these canyons. He couldn’t take the gamble. Not with Mary Ellen’s life. He’d swallow his impatience and take the sure path.

  “Just survive, Mary Ellen,” he whispered into the wind as he lay on his bedroll and scowled at the stars that gave off too little light to be of use. “I swear I’ll find you. Just survive.”

  —from Dead-Eye Dan and the Outlaws of Devil’s Canyon

  The sight of Marietta’s reddened eyes and tear-clumped lashes when she finally looked him in the face slammed into Dan’s midsection like a mule kick to the gut. Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat. He hadn’t meant to make her cry. What kind of beast raged at a woman just for startling him? He should have had more control, more consideration for her feelings. But what had he done instead? Stampeded her like a rampagin’ bull—grabbing her arms, slamming doors closed, yelling like a lunatic.

  As he scoured his brain for an apology that even hinted at being adequate, the strangest thing happened.

  Etta smiled.

  The expression was so unexpected and so blindingly beautiful with her moist brown eyes shimmering up at him, that all the words swimming around in his brain promptly dissolved into nothingness.

  “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we, Daniel?” She laughed softly and shook her head. “Why don’t you see to Ranger while I clean up this mess? I’ll make a new batch of lemonade, and we can start over.”

  She’d gotten the door open again and had crossed the threshold before he found his wits. Shaking off the lingering effects of her smile, he followed her into the kitchen. This was exactly why she wasn’t supposed to be here. Without her father and the rest of the hands around, he was too vulnerable.

  He only had to last two more weeks. Surely after three years, he could handle two weeks.

  But not if he was alone with her on the ranch.

  “What are you doing here, Etta? You’re supposed to be in Richland. With your aunt.” Not here alone with me.

  She shrugged as she retrieved a broom and dustpan from the utility closet in the small bathing chamber near the back door. “I had a nice visit with Aunt Ada yesterday, but for heaven’s sake, I’m twenty-one years old and no longer in need of a guardian to watch over me every time my father leaves the ranch.” Marietta brushed past him on her way back out to the porch, her gaze not quite meeting his. “I told my aunt I had several projects to attend to at home, projects that would be much easier to accomplish without all the hustle and bustle of ranch life creating constant distractions. Being a sensible woman, Aunt Ada agreed that I should be allowed to stay in my own home if I so chose and arranged for a young man she knew from church to drive me home. I would’ve introduced you to Clarence, but you weren’t here when we arrived, and he had to set out right after lunch in order to make it back in time for supper.”

  Clarence? Dan’s jaw clenched at the familiar way she said the scoundrel’s name. Did she know this young man from her past visits? Had they stepped out together of an evening? The thought shot jagged ice tearing through his veins. Dan bit back a growl. No smooth-talking, barely-shaving stripling was going to charm her away. She needed a mature man, one with the skills and experience to protect her, provide for her.

  Hands balled into fists, Dan inhaled through his nose in an effort to stem the rising tide of jealousy that nearly had him shouting at her again. Maybe he shouldn’t be in such a hurry to send her back to Richland. Where younger men named Clarence waited in the wings. Maybe he should encourage her to stay and work on those projects of hers. Anything important enough to bring her to the ranch when it was practically deserted had to be important enough to keep her occupied and therefore out of his way. They could manage it. He’d sleep in his cabin next
to the bunkhouse. She’d sleep in the house. Nothing improper about the arrangement.

  Still, there was something suspicious about the way she refused to look him in the eye when she breezed through her explanations. He’d listened to enough half-truths and outright lies from the outlaws he’d collected bounties on not to notice the slight hesitations in her speech or the exaggerated casualness of her posture. The woman was up to something.

  Heeding his instincts, Dan relaxed his stance and moved back through the doorway. He’d ferret out her secrets. And if there was the slightest chance her plans could lead her into trouble, he’d pack her up and send her back to Richland, Clarence or no Clarence.

  Dan crouched down to collect the dustpan from the porch floor, took it by the handle, and aimed its mouth at the collection of broken glass and ranch dust Marietta had swept into a pile. She smiled her thanks and started pushing the debris toward him with her broom, the glass shards tinkling against the metal pan as they slid onto its surface.

  “So,” he ventured, keeping his tone carefully nonchalant as he glanced up to gauge her reaction, “what projects do you have that are so urgent you’d risk your reputation to complete them?”

  Marietta stopped the broom mid-sweep and bit the side of her tongue. Drat! She’d been hoping he wouldn’t ask. What reason could she give him? Aunt Ada, bless her bloomer-wearing, suffrage-loving hide, hadn’t bothered asking questions about why Marietta had needed to leave, just praised her for her independent mindset and sent her off with a stack of Susan B. Anthony pamphlets and a basket of fried chicken.

  Daniel Barrett wouldn’t be sidestepped so easily. Should she use the quilt she was making for the church auction as her excuse? Make up some tale about wanting to give the house a thorough spring cleaning before her father returned? She couldn’t tell him the truth—that she was here to wrangle a proposal out of him. How desperate would that make her look? Besides, no man wanted to think he was being manipulated into marriage. He wanted to be the pursuer, the one in control. She was simply creating opportunities in which that pursuit might occur.