Chapter Two

Dead-Eye Dan gauged the wind velocity and sighted his target. He had to take the shot before the outlaws reached the top of the hill. 800 yards. 900 yards. Willing his heartbeat to slow, Dan exhaled. 1,000 yards. Moving target. He felt the horses’ pace like a song inside his head. Could hear where the next downbeat would fall. That’s where he aimed.

The leader crested the hill. Dan squeezed the trigger. His shoulder jerked backward with the force of the shot. The percussion filled his ears. One rider disappeared over the rise. The second followed. The third—the one holding Mary Ellen captive—crested the hill at the same moment Dan’s shot slammed into the fourth rider.

A flash of pale skin caught the late-afternoon sun as Mary Ellen turned to look back. There was too much distance between them to make out any details, but he imagined her scanning the landscape for him. She’d know now. Know he was coming for her. That he’d not stop until she was back in his arms where she belonged.

The outlaw he’d hit slumped forward but remained in the saddle. Some folks might consider that a miss for Dead-Eye Dan. Some folks would be wrong. Now Dan had a blood trail to follow.

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

Dan rode Ranger at an easy canter beneath the arched entrance to Hawk’s Haven. The place felt deserted with all the men and half the stock gone. Jonah Hawkins, Ramirez, and the rest of the hands had ridden out early yesterday morning. Etta the day before. She’d left with the cook, whose son came down every year to collect her before the trail drive so she could visit with her grandchildren while her employer was away. Whichever hand stayed behind knew he’d either have to traipse to town to eat at the café or fix his own grub. Dan had spent more years on the trail cooking beans and bacon over a campfire than he cared to remember, so he wouldn’t bother with the town café. His vittles might not win any blue ribbons at the fair, but they’d keep him from starving.

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 the 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.