The Cowboy's Reluctant Bride. Debra Cowan

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      Realizing he’d quickened his pace, Gideon slowed, waiting for Ivy. She reached him, breathing hard, her cheeks flushed. He had a sudden image of other things that might make her breathe hard against him.

      Inhaling her scent mixed with spring air, his gaze involuntarily went to her mouth. He wanted to know how she tasted and... He bit back a curse.

      He hadn’t had a woman since he’d gotten out of prison. A visit was long overdue.

      He didn’t understand this fascination with Ivy, this infernal awareness. Yes, she was beautiful, but his experience with another one like her had cost him five years of his life. Then, as now, he’d been trying to protect a woman, and it had left marks.

      Deep, soul-scarring marks. He had no intention of getting more.

      He glanced away from the rapid flutter of her pulse in the hollow of her throat. Reminding himself that he was there for her brother, he asked, “Do you own this land?”

      “Yes.”

      Gideon knew Tom Powell had died about a year and a half ago. “What about your late husband?”

      “What about him?” She cut him a sharp look.

      “Smith said he was killed when he was thrown from a wagon.”

      She nodded, lips pressed tightly together. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

      “How do you get along with his family?”

      “Fine, though I rarely see them. Tom’s grandmother is his only living relative. She’s in Chicago. Why?”

      “Just trying to figure out if anyone would want your business.”

      She shook her head. “She has no interest in that or in living here.”

      “I’m also trying to decide if anyone has a grudge against you.”

      “I don’t think so.”

      “What about suitors?”

      She stopped, staring blankly at him for a moment. Then a look of horror crossed her features. “No one is courting me! No one is even interested.”

      Gideon found that hard to believe. “Did your husband leave any debts unsettled?”

      “No.” She shifted her gaze to the pasture.

      Several yards away, Gideon saw a gully, its red mud walls carved out of the pasture’s earth. Overhead, ravens circled with a raucous call.

      Beside him, Ivy muttered something under her breath, wrestling with her blue skirts now damp from the wet grass.

      Gideon slowed. “How does your arrangement with the stage line work?”

      “The mayor of Paladin has a contract with them, and he sublets the farm from me to use as a stage stop. He pays me a monthly stipend for the food I provide the passengers and for the horses I board for the stage line.”

      “Does the stage change teams every time it stops?”

      “Usually, not always.”

      “How many of those horses in your corral belong to them?”

      “Ten. The other three are mine.”

      Her answers were short, brisk. Because she didn’t like that he was asking questions? Or because she could sense how she affected him?

      Beneath the scents of grass and earth, he caught her musky floral fragrance, and it pulled his muscles taut. He put a little space between them. “Do you have any passengers who come through regularly?”

      “A couple.”

      “Have any of them ever made threats? Been unhappy with anything?”

      “No.”

      She lived out here alone. She’d received the poems and drawings. Her dog was gone, some of her chickens had disappeared and she’d found a dead horse, which he had yet to see. All those things had spooked her enough to prompt the wire to her brother.

      They reached the edge of the gully, which looked to be six to seven feet deep. A sour, overwhelming stench reached them, and Gideon pulled his bandanna over his nose, noticing that Ivy pressed a handkerchief over hers.

      The horse lay at the bottom in several inches of muddy water. The animal was stiff, its brownish-red hide chewed from neck to rump. The black tips on its ears, mane and tail identified it as a bay.

      Beside him, Ivy made a soft, distressed noise, but when he glanced over, she was composed, calm, albeit pale.

      “Wait here,” he said. “I want to take a closer look.”

      She nodded, staying where she was as he carefully maneuvered his way down the slippery mud walls. Birds and other varmints had picked away at the horse’s flesh.

      Gideon could see now that the bay was a gelding. There were no broken legs, no broken bones anywhere that he could find. After thoroughly examining the animal, he returned to study its chest. The long gash from the base of the bay’s neck to the top of his chest looked to have been caused by a knife. A large knife.

      He made his way back up the slick slope, struggling to keep his footing a few times. Finally, he stood beside her, the knees of his trousers covered with red mud. He took off his hat and drew his arm across his sweat-dampened forehead.

      Feeling her gaze on him, he glanced over.

      She shifted her attention to the dead horse. “Who could do something like this? And why?”

      “I don’t know.”

      She exhaled heavily, clearly vexed.

      “What will happen when the stage line finds out about their dead animal?” he asked.

      “I don’t know. It’s possible they won’t trust me with other animals or even their business.”

      “There was nothing in the contract about things like this?”

      “My husband signed it, and I’ve never read the whole thing,” she said tiredly. “It’s somewhere in his desk. I’ll look for it when we return to the house.”

      He nodded. “And your missing chickens? Does that significantly affect the meals you offer?”

      “Yes.”

      Staring at the horse, he thumbed his hat back. “Considering the chickens and the bay, this could be directed at your business. It makes you look bad to the stage line and to the mayor who subcontracted you.”

      “What about Tug? And the drawings, the poems? Those seem personal, not business.”

      True. “You say no one has a grudge against you. Maybe you have something they want.”

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