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  No, she couldn’t admit the truth to him. But neither did she want to lie. The relationship she desired with him required trust. Deceiving him now, no matter how innocently, would only undermine what she strove to build. So where did that leave her?

  “Etta?” Dan’s voice cut into her thoughts and stirred her back to action.

  She swept the final shards into the dustpan he held then leaned on the broom handle and waited for him to stand. Her gaze followed him as he rose, her head tilting back as he regained his full height. Those pesky grasshoppers invaded her stomach again, as much from his nearness as from her own nerves.

  Suddenly, his face darkened and his sky-blue eyes glowed with a feral light that would have made her take a step back if she hadn’t known him better.

  “Did something happen in Richland?” he demanded, his voice hard. “Did someone frighten you? Just tell me who it was, and I’ll make sure he never—”

  She interrupted him with a shake of her head, though she was ashamed of how long it had taken her to react. For a moment, the temptation to let him believe the story he’d so generously provided had nearly overwhelmed her good intentions. “No, Daniel. Nothing happened in Richland.”

  His posture relaxed a bit, but his eyes continued probing hers. Taking the offensive, she tossed the broom handle back against the porch railing and crossed her arms over her chest. “My reasons for returning to the ranch are my own, Daniel Barrett. I’ll not be sharing them with you. But you can rest assured that, yes, I do consider them important enough to risk my reputation over. Though there’s not really much risk. No one besides Aunt Ada even knows I’m here.”

  “Don’t forget Clarence,” Daniel grumbled, his frown dark enough to scare birds from their trees.

  Was he . . . ? No. Surely not. Dead-Eye Dan couldn’t possibly be jealous of a pup like Clarence Stillwater. Could he? For pity’s sake, the boy still had acne on his chin. But Daniel didn’t know that. For all he knew, Clarence Stillwater could be the most sought-after bachelor in Navarro County. Her pulse gave a little kick.

  Daniel glared down at her. “He could tell someone, Etta. If his tongue starts waggin’, the story of your being alone with me at the Double H will be all over Richland by sundown.”

  Oh. Of course. Marietta struggled not to let her shoulders sag. It wasn’t jealousy blazing in Daniel’s eyes. He was back to being angry with her. Worse, thinking her foolish. Well, maybe she was foolish, but she was also determined. Dead-Eye Dan might be the best shot west of the Mississippi, but she had a few arrows of her own notched and ready to fly. Straight at his heart.

  “Clarence Stillwater is not the type to tell tales,” she huffed. If Dan wanted to get all bent out of shape, fine. But she was not backing down. “He’s a godly, churchgoing man Aunt Ada has known since he was in short pants. You’ve no right to assume the worst about him.”

  “I have to assume the worst about him.” Daniel stepped closer, no doubt so he could tower over her and intimidate her into submission. As if such tactics worked on her. “It’s the only way I can ensure your protection. Plan for the worst, and you’ll stay alive whether it happens or not. Expect the best, and the vultures will be picking the eyeballs from your carcass before you realize you were wrong.”

  Marietta glared right back up at him. “My carcass? Really, Daniel? Don’t you think you’re blowing this a mite out of proportion? We’re not dealing with hardened outlaws here. We’re talking about my aunt and a young man who’s never been anything but kind to me. I’m sure your pessimistic philosophy served you well in your bounty-hunting days, but those days have passed. It’s time to start thinking in terms of possibilities, not problems.”

  The possibilities of love and marriage, to be specific.

  “Besides, I never spoke about the ranch to Clarence—or about who was here or not here. He doesn’t have a tale to tell even if he wanted to.”

  Daniel stopped glowering and towering, but his features remained cool. “I still don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to like it,” Marietta snapped. “This is my home, and I have just as much right to be here as you do. More, in fact. If you want to look for eye-plucking vultures behind every cloud, go ahead. I’m looking for rainbows.”

  Without giving him a chance to respond, or even truly comprehend that final statement—good heavens, had she really just announced herself a rainbow hunter?—Marietta spun away from Daniel and retreated into the safety of the kitchen to regroup.

  She needed a new plan. Daniel had been right, though she’d never admit it aloud to him. Expecting the best had left her unprepared. She’d thought to begin her campaign with gentility and grace. Instead, she’d gawked at the man, shattered a lemonade pitcher, and argued like a shrew. But that didn’t mean she was ready to forfeit her brown eyes to the buzzards just yet. Today was only the first skirmish, and since she was still here and not being packed off to Richland, she’d count it a successful one, despite the mishaps.

  There’d be rainbows tomorrow. She’d see to it.

  Chapter Four

  Dead-Eye Dan widened his search circle a final time, but in his gut, he knew he wouldn’t find anything. The blood trail had gone cold. The wounded man must have bandaged his side when they stopped for the night.

  The steep, rocky terrain left few clues. Since running across the outlaws’ abandoned camp a couple hours ago, he’d found a handful of hoofprints, some disturbed vegetation, and even a scrap of purple fabric where Mary Ellen’s dress had snagged on a thorn bush, but nothing new in the last thirty minutes. He was walking blind.

  Time for a new strategy.

  Dan strode back to his faithful mount and grabbed a coil of rope along with his Remington. Once both were slung across his back, he turned toward the sheer rock face that had been offering him shade the last few miles.

  Looked to be about fifty feet. Practically vertical. It wouldn’t be easy. But then, he hadn’t signed up for easy.

  Setting his chin, Dan reached for the first handhold and began to climb.

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

  Dan eyed the gray clouds from the small porch of his cabin the following evening as he sipped a cup of his own stiff brew. Etta had invited him up to the big house for dessert, coffee, and a game of dominoes, but he’d bowed out. Again. Just as he’d turned down her flapjacks for breakfast and her beef stew for supper. Thank heaven he’d been working at his new place for the noonin’ or she would have no doubt tried to feed him then, too.

  His stomach gurgled up a belch he made no effort to hold back. Obviously his body was protesting his sustenance choices. Over-boiled, too-strong coffee and crisped salt pork with beans didn’t exactly settle into a man’s innards with the same grace as slow-cooked beef, thick broth, carrots, onions, and potatoes. Not to mention the dried apple pie that would have filled in any leftover cracks and crevices.

  He groaned at the thought of what he’d missed, then caught sight of Etta’s shapely silhouette passing by the window in the front parlor. Ugh! The woman was torturing him. Looking so pretty. Showin’ up every time he turned around. Offerin’ him food, askin’ if he had any tasks she could help with, lookin’ at him with those doe eyes of hers that always turned his insides to mush. How was a man supposed to resist that kind of temptation day after day? If he hadn’t escaped to the new spread for a few hours, he had no doubt he would have lost his mind by now. Or his temper. And the last thing he wanted to do was yell at her again. It wasn’t her fault that all he could think about was kissin’ whenever she came near.

  He’d taken as many precautions as he could: giving the big house a wide berth, busying himself with his mules or some other convenient ranch chore whenever he saw her coming, grunting one-word answers whenever she tried to start a conversation. But the woman was relentless, dogging him with a tenacity that rivaled the most seasoned bounty hunter. Even after he’d told her straight up to leave him be.

  That had hurt her.

 
; Dan slammed his fist into the porch post hard enough to bruise his knuckles, but it wasn’t enough. So he hurled his half-full cup of sludge as far as he could, as if flinging away his guilt. Coffee spewed in a long arc, and the tin cup bounced off the hard-packed earth with a hollow thunk that promised an overlarge dent. Dan scowled. It should be his head getting that dent. He could still see her shoulders slumping and the wobble in her smile when he’d turned down her offer of dessert and dominoes. Her disappointment and confusion had been palpable. He’d turned his back on her then, resumed brushing Ranger’s coat, and coldly dismissed her. Then he’d come back to his cabin to find a giant slice of apple pie waiting for him on the front stoop.

  It was still there. Where she’d left it. After the way he’d treated her, he didn’t deserve to taste such sweetness. That was why he’d gone in and poured himself the atrocious coffee. As punishment. And a reminder that he couldn’t let his guard down. Not if he was going to survive the next week and a half.

  His gaze found the pie, the white plate beneath it gleaming in the fading daylight. If only he wasn’t still on Jonah Hawkins’s payroll.

  He’d given the man his word the day he’d accepted the foreman position at Hawk’s Haven that he’d make no advances toward the man’s daughter. It was a vow Jonah required of every man he hired, and the reason more than a few had found themselves unemployed after an ill-advised attempt at flirtation.

  Not that Etta ever encouraged such behavior. She treated the men with kindness and respect, nothing else. But the woman was as beautiful as all get out and as spirited as the finest filly. It was all too easy for a man to forget the rules when she was around.

  As the foreman, he carried the added responsibility of setting an example for his men—and the added temptation of being invited up to the big house on a regular basis to meet with Jonah and, more often than not, his daughter. If Jonah knew how many nights Dan had fallen asleep with the image of Etta’s sweet face in his mind and a longing for her in his heart, the man would have fired him a hundred times over. But he’d kept his feelings hidden and would continue to do so until Jonah returned and released him from his position. He had no choice. He’d given his word.

  He glanced over at the piece of pie again. It looked so forlorn sitting there in the corner. Untouched. Unappreciated.

  Horsefeathers! If Etta came by in the morning and found it still sitting there, her feelings would be hurt. Again. He couldn’t inflict more damage on top of what he’d already done tonight. He was going to have to eat it and return the plate to her. Maybe he’d even leave her a note of thanks . . . and apology . . . along with the dish. He could slip it onto the back porch before dawn. That way, he’d not have to see her in person.

  As he bent down to collect the pie, a strong gust of wind surged in from the north. Dan eyed the wall of charcoal clouds creeping across the sky. A gulley washer was fixin’ to roll in. Good. Maybe it would keep Etta in the house and afford him the chance to get a tighter grip on his control. Storms tended to bring extra work, too, which wouldn’t hurt. Heaven knew he needed a distraction.

  An explosive crack jolted Dan awake from a dead sleep. Gunshot! Instantly alert, Dan jumped out of bed and grabbed his revolver from the gun belt he always hung over his bedpost at night. Another shot echoed. Then a third. Dan plastered his back against the cabin wall to the right of the bedroom window.

  Marietta! He had to get to her. Protect her. But even as he started to move, a barrage opened up and pummeled the cabin. Dan tilted his head. The shots didn’t sound right. And they struck the roof as often as the wall.

  It couldn’t be gunfire. Not that fast and from that high of an angle. It had to be . . .

  A large, white stone shattered the glass of the bedroom window and thumped onto his rug.

  Hail.

  Bigger than a man’s fist. He’d never seen hail so large.

  A roar crested to accompany the pounding of the hail. Dan knew that sound. Rain. A Genesis-7, God-flooding-the-earth, better-get-in-the-ark kind of rain.

  He glanced at the large, round hole in his window. No way to close the shutters without sticking his head out into the storm, and with boulders falling from the sky, that option didn’t strike him as particularly practical. At least the main window in the front room faced the south. Toward the big house. And Marietta’s north-facing room.

  Lord have mercy! If a hailstone came through her window and struck her—

  Dan didn’t spare another thought for his room or the water streaming through the hole in his window. He grabbed last night’s discarded trousers and tugged them on over his drawers, only buttoning them far enough to keep them attached to his hips. He threw a clean shirt over his head, ignoring those buttons altogether, then shoved his feet into his boots and ran to the front room for his overcoat.

  The storm’s clamor grew deafening. His mules would be frantic. But he couldn’t worry about them right now. Lord willing, the barn roof would hold and they’d only suffer a fright and not any serious injuries unless they tried to kick down their stall doors. The wood was sturdy, though. And there was no glass to fret about. Unlike in Etta’s corner room, where windows loomed on both the north and east sides.

  A flash of lightning illuminated the cabin, sealing his determination.

  “I’m coming, Etta.” The whispered vow left his lips at the same instant a boom of thunder rattled the rafters.

  Hesitating only a moment, he swept his gaze quickly over the room. He’d need a shield. Something to protect him from the hail while crossing the yard in the open.

  There! Dan lurched forward, grabbed the upholstered armchair, and turned it sideways to dump the clean pie plate out of the seat. It was about time the sickly green chair got some serious use. The stuffing was too thin and lumpy for him to sit on, so it usually served as either a table or a footrest. Tonight it would be his armor.

  He hefted the chair up by its arms, pleased by the weight of the oak frame. It might be ugly as sin, but it should hold back the hail. Satisfied, Dan wrenched open the front door and dragged the chair onto the stoop. Hailstones bounced around his feet. One or two slammed into his hip and side, but he ignored the resulting ache. He latched the door closed then flipped the armchair upside down and positioned it so the seat and legs guarded his head while the back protected his neck and spine.

  Time to go.

  Ducking beneath the overhang to keep the chair legs from catching on the roof, Dan jogged down the steps and into the torrent. He’d always suspected he could make it from his door to the big house blindfolded, but until now he’d never had reason to test his theory. The rain and hail poured in such thick buckets, though, that he couldn’t see an inch past the end of his nose. Moving on instinct and old habit, he hurried across the yard.

  White stones blanketed the ground like snow, the ice making his footing slick. The constant pummeling urged him forward. His boots offered his calves some measure of protection, but the backs of his thighs were going to be black and blue come morning.

  A well-aimed hailstone slammed into his left hand, nearly causing him to lose his grip on the chair. Gritting his teeth against the stinging pain in his fingers, he reclaimed his grip and increased his pace until he was running.

  All at once, his front foot hit a solid object. He tripped and came down hard, the chair glancing off his skull as his knees collided with a ridged slope.

  Stairs. Thunderation. He’d made it to the big house and hadn’t even seen it coming.

  Dan scrambled on all fours until he gained the porch. The overhang offered scant shelter as the north wind shot the hail at him from an angle. The rain hit from behind, as well, but the house itself blocked it from the front, so Dan was able to see the shadowed outline of the door in the dark. He grasped the handle.

  Locked.

  He raised his booted foot and kicked at the handle. Barely a wiggle. He stomped the mechanism with his heel a second time as sheets of rain doused his back and balls of ice pelted his calves.
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  “Come on!” He hit it a third time. The handle broke off and the doorframe cracked—but not enough to permit entrance. With a roar of frustration, Dan lifted his leg a final time and put the full force of his fear and determination behind the blow.

  The jamb splintered. The door flew back on its hinges and slammed into the wall.

  Triumph surged through him. He leapt into the house and threw the door closed again, taking precious seconds to drag the kitchen worktable in front of it to keep it closed.

  He cupped his hands around his mouth to call out Etta’s name, but a horrible crash echoed above him, stealing the air from his lungs. The piercing scream that followed stopped his heart.

  Dan took off for the stairs at a dead sprint.

  Chapter Five

  Dead-Eye Dan lay on his belly atop the ledge and peered through his rifle scope. Four horses. Five riders. One with an arm wrapped around his side. One wearing a light purple dress with a torn hem.

  Dan reached into his shirt pocket and fingered the ragged piece of fabric he’d collected earlier. She was alive. Thank God.

  “You won’t spend another night with those mongrels, Mary Ellen. I swear it.” Dan made the vow with confidence, for he knew, now, where the outlaws were headed.

  Devil’s Canyon.

  No doubt the thieves thought they’d be safe there. The place crawled with bandits and brigands, after all. Any lawman who rode in was liable to end up scalped, shot, knifed, bullwhipped, and if he was still breathing after running that gauntlet, hanged for his trouble. Not even the Texas Rangers came near the place unless they rode with an entire company.

  Dan rode alone. But that wasn’t gonna stop him. He’d been shot three times, knifed about a dozen, even bullwhipped once. Scalping would be new. He was rather fond of his fiery hair, but he figured he had enough chin whiskers to make up for the loss. So all he really had to avoid was the hangin’. Yet even that would be acceptable as long as Mary Ellen got out.