A Marriage By Chance. Carolyn Davidson

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      “You want to come out to the barn and take a look around?” Hogan asked, and J.T. wondered if the man sought to lessen the pressure on Chloe. She looked like a good strong wind would blow her over right now, her faith in her brother in shambles and faced, out of the blue, with a new partner.

      “Might as well,” he answered. “My horse could use a rubdown and some feed.” He nodded at Chloe, feeling a twinge of regret. Her head high, her lips compressed, she looked like a woman about to burst into tears, if he was any judge, and he’d just as soon not be in the same vicinity if that happened. A crying woman was about his least favorite thing to deal with, right alongside a cornered rattler or a drunk with a gun in his hand.

      The two men led their horses toward the big barn, where a lone cowhand lingered near the doorway. Chloe watched in silence as they ambled across the yard, halting next to the horse trough for the big stallion to drop his muzzle into the water. J. T. Flannery glanced back at her, a quick summary from narrowed eyes, and she felt a flush warm her cheeks. The man was arrogant. Not only that, he was equipped with a tall, rangy body, and an intelligence she could not mistake, gleaming from dark eyes that had viewed her with an appraisal which left her aware of her imperfections.

      She knew her limitations as a woman, had looked in her mirror enough times to recognize her lack of beauty. Her fair skin invited freckles, and though her hair was thick and long, she thought sometimes it was more trouble than it was worth. Too short to be impressive, and too well-rounded to be chic, she’d found it handy to have a man she could rely on when it came to running the ranch. Her dependence on Hogan was a trust he’d lived up to.

      After Pa died two years ago, she’d taken hold, and in the past year, she’d managed to keep afloat. Until the discovery six months ago that her bank account was bone dry, and Peter had left town with every red cent she’d counted on to buy supplies and coast into the summer. The ability to make the payment on the mortgage was a blessing, but without spare cash, she was faced with the delivery of hay tomorrow and the pride-crushing task of asking for credit from her neighbor.

      Thankfully, the general store would keep her on the books until she could round up a few yearling steers and sell them. But at spring weight, it would be for a price less than their worth. She sighed as she climbed the two steps to the porch, then shivered as the wind sought her in the shelter of the back door.

      The sadness that overwhelmed her couldn’t be helped. Peter had stolen more than the money Pa had left. He’d made his departure with her youthful optimism in his pocket.

      Now, she faced a struggle for survival, and a rusty laugh accompanied the first hot tear that streaked down her cheek. At least she had a partner to share the process.

      The choice of sleeping beneath a tree or in the bunkhouse with six men who had no reason to enjoy his presence among them was a toss-up, J.T. decided. If he’d had another alternative such as sleeping in the house, he’d have joyfully embraced it, but somehow he didn’t expect Chloe to offer him a bedroom right off the bat. She’d decided to wait until morning to take the trip to Ripsaw Creek, once Hogan murmured an admonition in an undertone. And then she’d looked up at J.T. with defiance.

      “The barn or the bunkhouse, mister. Or beneath a tree in the orchard if you like.”

      He left her the remnants of her pride, nodding and sliding his bedroll beneath his arm as he sauntered toward the orchard. The barn was too enclosed, and he was a stranger there. Better to be on the outskirts, with a view of house and bunkhouse. He’d slept in worse situations, and the bedroll was warm. Traveling light meant he only had one more clean shirt, and unless he headed to town on a shopping trip, he’d better beg the use of a scrub board from his partner.

      The moon was new, a thin sliver against a cloudless sky. Stars filled the horizon, providing a canopy of silver sequins overhead, visible through branches only beginning to show signs of leafing out. At least it didn’t look like rain, he decided, and leaned against the tree trunk he’d chosen, wrapped in wool, his gun at hand. The house was dark, all but a single window on the second floor. White curtains floated from the open pane, and he thought of the woman who slept with fresh air as her companion.

      Chloe couldn’t be more than—what? Twenty-one, maybe a year or so older. Too young to be faced with the burden of running a ranch, especially with a lack of cash, if what he’d overheard at the bank was to be believed. A clerk, in an undertone that carried to J.T.’s hearing, spoke of Peter Biddleton’s perfidy to a townsman, shaking his head as he told the tale. The rascal had walked off with the contents of their joint bank account, leaving Chloe empty-handed and in desperate need of funds.

      As J.T. watched, a figure clothed in white passed the window. Probably a nightgown, he decided, his eyes focusing on the movement of curtains and the hand that brushed a filmy panel to one side as its owner looked out upon the yard and toward the barn. Decently covered, she was still a temptation, he decided. A couple of the men sleeping in the bunkhouse might look with greedy eyes upon that slender form. His gaze became thoughtful.

      If she were his, he’d—But she wasn’t, he reminded himself. And stood no chance of belonging to him. Nevertheless, she was his partner, unwilling or not. He owed her his protection. His mother had taught him a few things before the fire that cost him the lives of both his parents. One was the sanctity of womanhood. It seemed that he’d taken on the task of keeping Chloe Biddleton safe, along with the responsibility of keeping the ranch afloat.

      Breakfast was a simple affair. Tea and toasted bread usually. Today was doomed to be different. Chloe watched as her new partner approached the porch, his bedroll once more tucked beneath his arm, his hat pulled low, hiding his expression from view.

      “I don’t suppose you’ve got coffee in there,” he began from the other side of the screened door. His voice was early-morning husky, and she rued, for just a moment, the urge that had sent him to the orchard to sleep. It wouldn’t have been any trouble to toss a set of sheets on Peter’s bed or offer him the parlor sofa to sleep on.

      And so her tones were moderate as she waved him into the kitchen. “I have tea made. Does that suit you?”

      His nose twitched and a glum expression turned his mouth down. “I can just about stomach it. Coffee’s better.” He cast a look at the stove. “I know how to make it, if you have the fixings.”

      “In the pantry,” she answered, and then her upbringing had her on her feet. “I’ll get it. Sit down.” In moments, she’d rinsed the pot, filled it halfway and added coffee. The stove was freshly stoked, and she placed the blue-speckled pot on the hottest area. “It won’t take long. Would you like some bread? It got neglected yesterday when I had an emergency to tend to.”

      He eyed the scorched loaves she’d rescued from the oven and nodded. “I’ll cut off the worst of it, if you’ll tell me where the knives are.”

      Chloe waved at the shelf over the stove and he reached for the longest utensil, then busied himself with sawing off the darkest parts from the loaf she’d already cut into. “I heard from Hogan that you sewed up a man’s arm. That your emergency?” he asked, opening the oven door to place two thick slices of bread on the rack.

      “Yes. It wasn’t pretty, but I managed to do the job. Eight stitches.”

      “You’ve got a strong stomach,” he said, turning his head, his eyes fastening on her hands as she tore a piece of toasted bread into small bits.

      “It comes with the job,” she said. Her appetite was gone, what little there’d been to start with. The ride to town was a necessity, СКАЧАТЬ