Despite the rocking of the train, sleep eluded Rowena. The reclining seats in the parlor car allowed her to rest in comfort, and the three shawls kept her warm while she dozed and watched the world roll by. Night fell outside. Stars appeared in the sky. The plume of steam from the engine fluttered like a bridal veil in the darkness.
She stole a glance at Marshal Hunter stretched out on an identical seat next to her. He lay still, eyes closed, his head slightly turned toward her. She studied his features. The lean, almost gaunt cheeks were covered with dark stubble, except for the puckered red-and-white line that formed the lower curve of his scar. Even in repose, the grim set of his features hinted at some inner turmoil. She leaned closer, listened to the sound of his breathing. Was he asleep? She thought not, and the instant the assumption formed in her head, the marshal opened his eyes.
He didn’t move, didn’t fidget. He showed no sign of transition from slumber to full wakefulness. He merely contemplated her with those green eyes, the most alert eyes she had ever seen. After a moment of silence when time seemed suspended, he asked, “Can’t you sleep?”
She shook her head in reply.
“Me neither.” In one smooth motion, he rose from the reclining seat. “I’ll see if I can rustle up a cup of coffee. Would you like me to bring you one?”
She shook her head again. “Coffee keeps you awake.”
“I know.” Although one corner of his mouth kicked up in a crooked smile, the look in his eyes was bleak. He wants to stay awake. He dislikes sleep. Even fears sleep. The knowledge came to Rowena in a flash of certainty.
Puzzled, she watched the man who was now her husband walk away in the dull illumination of the gas lamps mounted in brackets along the wall. Broad-shouldered, lean at the hip, he moved with grace, and yet she could hear that strange, determined cadence of his footsteps, even though he was treading softly in order not to disturb their fellow passengers.
After he’d vanished through the glass-paneled door into the gangway in search of the restaurant car, her thoughts returned to the topic, which she had introduced with such unaccustomed boldness at the railroad station—their wedding night.
When she’d been engaged to Freddy, she had looked forward to it, the way one might look forward to a summer picnic—the expectation of calm, carefree pleasures. Thinking of Marshal Hunter in the same way filled her with an edgy tension, the way one might look forward to cantering on a horse at breakneck speed, or sneaking out of the schoolhouse for a secret outing after curfew hours. Surely, Marshal Hunter would be eager to enjoy the physical aspects of marriage. And yet, something was making him reluctant. As if, contrary to what he had claimed earlier, he hesitated to make the marriage binding.
What if...? What if...?
She almost bolted up on the seat as Freddy’s scowling, angry features formed in her mind. What if Marshal Hunter would feel the same as Freddy had when he discovered that she was no great heiress? Marshal Hunter was marrying her for her father’s land, after all. What if, once they reached Twin Springs, they found a worthless ruin? Would Marshal Hunter be like Freddy, and cast her aside in anger and disgust? If he did, she couldn’t bear it. She simply couldn’t bear the thought of another humiliation, couldn’t bear the thought of being alone again, deemed worthless as a woman simply because she was lacking in wealth.
The sound of those familiar footsteps alerted her before the door at the end of the car swung open. Reining in her panic, Rowena looked up. The marshal sauntered through, coffee cup in one hand. She followed him with her eyes as he walked up to her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Helpless, bound by the hurtful memory, she merely shook her head, unwilling to trust her voice. With a flash of wry humor she told herself she was turning into a marionette on strings, only able to gesture, and not to speak.
“Are you cold?” her husband asked.
She nodded. Marshal Hunter settled into his seat, not spilling a drop while he stretched out his long legs and leaned back. He held the coffee cup with his right hand and extended his left arm toward her in invitation. Without thinking, without hesitation, Rowena scooted closer, leaning over the gap between the seats. She curled up against his side, and he wrapped his arm around her, anchoring her in place.
“Go to sleep,” he said. “I’ll watch over you.”
“I’ll watch over you.” When had anyone last offered to do that for her? With a sigh of contentment, Rowena relaxed against the man beside her. The heat of his body enveloped her. She could smell the rich aroma from his coffee, and the scents of horse and leather on him. With a small wriggle to get more comfortable where his pistol butted into her side, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
They changed trains in Santa Fe, and again in Denver. Rowena could not have asked for a more attentive husband. He kept her warm, made sure she had enough to eat, and did his best to ensure her comfort. And yet, the easy camaraderie of their afternoons in her jail cell never returned. The fact that she still addressed him as Marshal Hunter summed up the lack of closeness between them.
On the Denver Pacific train that rocked through the cold, clear night, they had first-class seats again, in a parlor car with gas lamps mounted on the wall, between narrow mirrors that reflected the light. The car was nearly empty, the half-dozen passengers sitting with their heads drooping. Behind them, a man snored. The wood-burning stove at the rear of the car filled the air with a smoky scent but did not emit enough heat to keep the chill at bay.
The conductor, a small, dapper man with a neatly trimmed black beard, strode down the aisle and paused next to them. Marshal Hunter looked up, instantly alert. The conductor bent to him and whispered something. Marshal Hunter nodded and pressed a gold coin into the conductor’s palm before the man hurried off again.
What is it? Rowena wanted to ask, but the nervous tension kept her silent.
The marshal turned toward her and spoke in a low voice. “A sleeping compartment has become free. A passenger who had paid all the way to Cheyenne stopped off in Denver. The conductor is making a bit of extra money by letting us take over the compartment for the rest of the journey.”
Rowena felt a jolt, like the sensation she had once experienced when she had touched an electricity making machine in Boston. And, just like then, her heartbeat quickened, with a mix of fear and excitement at the prospect of something unknown but fascinating. Without a word, she rose and followed Marshal Hunter, who had picked up his saddlebags and her leather valise and was leading the way down the corridor.
But the sleeping car was not as she had expected. Instead of a single wide bed, it had two narrow bunks, one above the other. “You take the top one,” her husband said. “I’ll wait outside while you undress and settle down.” And with a soft thud of the door, he left her alone.
Torn by a confusing mix of disappointment and relief, Rowena quickly changed into a nightgown and clambered up to the top bunk. She intended to lie awake and wait for the marshal to return, but as she stretched out beneath the warm blanket on the comfortable mattress, the rocking of the train allowed fatigue to take over, and she went straight to sleep.
A sound woke Rowena. She felt no motion of the train, and she guessed they must be stopped at a station or at a water tower. It came again, that harsh sound, something between a growl and a wail. At first, Rowena thought it might be a wild animal outside, but then she got her bearings and realized the sound had come from within the compartment.
Cautiously, she eased to a sitting position on the bunk, swung her feet over the edge and climbed down. The carpeted floor was soft beneath her toes but she could feel an icy draft that fluttered the hem of her nightgown.
That terrible sound came again. “Arrgghh...”
The gas lamps had been turned off, and Rowena did not wish to fumble about, relighting them. Instead, she swept the curtain at the window aside, as quietly as she could. Through the dusty pane of glass she could see the tall structure of a water tower, the timber skeleton revealed in a stark silhouette by the light of the full moon. As she waited, standing still, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness, she heard a clank and a muffled shout outside, and the train jerked into motion again.
They picked up speed and rounded a curve that lined up the moon with the window, cutting a stronger beam of light into the compartment. On the lower bunk, Rowena could see Marshal Hunter fling his arm in a wide circle. He made that tortured sound again.
Rowena sank to her knees in the narrow space between the bed and the wall. Even in the darkness, she could see how pale Marshal Hunter’s face was. Beads of perspiration glinted on his brow. He twisted about, and the blanket slid aside, revealing his naked chest. Rowena had to bite back a cry. Such scars. She’d caught a peek at them once before, when his collar fell open, but the top end of the scar had been a neat white line. Lower down along his chest the scars grew to a web of jagged, intersecting lines. She could only guess, but they might have been caused by a large hunting knife, the kind with a serrated edge.
And the sound...it was coming almost constantly now, a guttural moan so full of agony that in a theater play it would signify the torment of a lost soul in purgatory. She couldn’t bear to listen to it a second longer. Reaching out with one trembling hand, Rowena gently touched Marshal Hunter’s stubble-shadowed cheek.
Instantly, he became awake, but in the fraction of a second before his vision cleared, Rowena could see a look of grief and terror in his eyes that stunned her. How he must have suffered, to be left with such scars, to be haunted by such nightmares.
She spoke very softly, as if her voice might have the capacity to ease the marshal out of his distressed state. “You had a bad dream.”
He merely nodded, a matter-of-fact gesture that told Rowena nightmares were a frequent visitor in his nights. Now she understood why he preferred to avoid sleep.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.
“Go back to sleep.” Shadows of past torment lingered on his gaunt features. The marshal did not lack emotion, it occurred to Rowena. He was just very good at hiding his feelings. Perhaps also denying them.
“Did I say anything?” he went on. “Perhaps call out a name?”
Rowena shook her head. “You spoke no words. You just made an angry sound, kind of a growl. And you swung your arm in a big circle.”
“Ah.” Marshal Hunter’s lips curled into a wry smile. “That particular one.”
“Are there others?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied quietly. “I have a whole repertoire of nightmares. And before you ask, the answer is no. I don’t want to hash out my troubled dreams. Talking about them will not make them stop. Forget what you saw, and the next time you hear me moan in my sleep, just turn away. Or throw something at me, to make me wake up.”
Despite the effort Marshal Hunter made to hide his pain—or perhaps exactly because it was evident how much effort it took for him to act casual—Rowena could sense the depth of his grief. What tragedies could there be in his past that held him in such a vicious grip? She couldn’t even begin to imagine them, but to witness his suffering stirred her compassion. And, with the deep feminine conviction, misguided or not, that comforting can ease every kind of hurt, she wanted to offer him the balm of that comfort.
She let a shiver ripple over her body and made a sound. “Brrr.”
“Are you cold?” the marshal asked at once, just as she had expected he would.
Always gallant. Always concerned to ensure her welfare and comfort. What harm was a small lie, when told for the right cause?
“I’m freezing,” she replied. “Can I get in with you?”
Dale stared at his wife, unwilling to let his brain accept the words she had just spoken, unable to comprehend the suggestion she had just made. Illuminated only by moonlight, she crouched in the narrow gap between the bed and the wall, her hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes full of compassion, the prim nightgown hiding the contours of her body but clinging here and there in a manner that fired up his imagination.
She had never looked more beautiful. And he had the right. Every right. Right by marriage. Right by agreement. Right by consent. Right by mutual attraction. Right by lust, if you will. Right because life owed him. Owed him something good and unsullied.
And therein lay the problem.
He could not. Could not. Must not. Not now, with his blood burning like molten acid in his veins, with his heart hammering like the grim reaper knocking at the door. He was too keyed up, too frantic after the dark abyss of the nightmare. If he touched her now, he might end up releasing all those demons he kept locked up inside him and take her roughly. And no matter the practical nature of their marriage, he wanted to be gentle with her. She deserved nothing less than the best he could be. And that meant not now.
But there she was, his beautiful wife, not waiting for an invitation, instead simply climbing in between the worn sheets and wriggling to fit herself beside him on the narrow railroad bunk. Dale could feel his control slipping. She was warm and vibrant, with a woman’s allure...a woman’s scent...a woman’s shape...a woman’s softness...
Not now, Dale reminded himself. For God’s sake, not now.
His tone was gruff. “There’s not enough space for two.”
“We’ll manage.” Rowena eased closer to him and gave another wriggle of her hips. Right where it drew the maximum response from him. Dale gritted his teeth. He could feel his entire body quivering with the effort of restraint. He hoped she would mistake his restless tremors for the aftermath of the nightmare she had just witnessed.
“Why don’t you turn around, face the other way?” he suggested. Not allowing Rowena the opportunity to consider his request, he gently rolled her around so that their bodies spooned together, her back to his chest. He wrapped one arm around her waist to hold her still, but not even his firm hold could stop her backside from butting into his groin.
To distract himself, as much as to focus Rowena’s mind away from his nightmares and any speculation over what might have caused such terrible dreams, he introduced a practical topic.
“This range war that got your father killed—could you tell me everything you know about it? I need to understand the situation, learn as much as possible about the enemies.”
He could feel her body tense and cursed his thoughtlessness. In directing her thoughts away from his troubles he had steered them right into her own. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I know it will trigger painful memories. However, it is a conversation we need to have, and I doubt either one of us is capable of sleep right now.”
Rowena expelled a long sigh and relaxed within the circle of his arm. Dale tightened his hold a fraction, pulling her more snugly against him. It felt good to hold her. In some odd way, having her so near to him made him feel safe from the nightmares. As if her frail woman’s body possessed some magical powers of protection. And perhaps in some indirect way it did, guiding his thoughts to the future instead of the past.
“It’s not exactly a range war,” she explained. “It’s more like a feud.”
“Who was your father feuding against, and why?”
“It was not his feud. He just happened to be caught up in it.”
Rowena fell silent, and Dale waited, allowing her time to arrange her thoughts. All his senses were alert now, attuned to the woman in his arms. Surely, there could be no harm in enjoying her nearness, just a little, right now, tonight. He bent his head a fraction so he could nuzzle her neck. She smelled good. And yet she had benefited from no more opportunities to bathe than he had.
“What’s that smell?” he asked.
She made a sniffing sound. “What smell?”
“You. The way you smell. I like it.”
“Oh.” He felt her body rock with suppressed laughter. “It’s not me. It’s the nightgown. While I was in jail, the women in town did my laundry. Orla Jones, who washed my nightgown and undergarments, said she was going to put a few drops of rose essence into the final rinse but her little boy barged into the room and crashed into her. She dropped the whole bottle into the wash pail. She apologized, saying she didn’t mean my smalls to reek like a whore’s boudoir.”
“A whore’s boudoir, huh?” Dale inhaled another deep breath of the floral fragrance. “You smell much better than any whore I’ve ever known.” As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. Regretted letting his past intrude.
“Have you...known many...such women?” The hesitation in Rowena’s tone made it clear to Dale that the answer mattered to her. It gave him pleasure to be able to be truthful.
“Not many,” he replied. “And none at all in recent years.”
“I’m glad.”
He pressed a fleeting kiss to the back of her neck, where the nightgown had pulled aside, and wondered if she could feel the intimate touch. There wasn’t much he could give her. If she valued his celibate existence, the abstinence had been worth the sacrifice.
He spoke with his lips grazing her skin. “This feud... Who is feuding...and how did your father get caught in it?”
“I like what you’re doing.”
“I like it, too.” He made his kisses bolder, his mouth traveling along her neck, tasting, teasing, nibbling. She squirmed a little, her rear end rubbing against his erection.
“Are you going to answer my question?” he prompted her.
“What question?”
“The feud.”
“Oh, yes.” She sounded breathless now. “The feud...there are three ranches in the valley. My father’s land is a small section at the north end. The rest of the valley belongs to two wealthy men. Mr. Spencer owns the land to the east of the river and Mr. Faraday owns the land to the west. They hate each other. On the day my father was shot their hired hands had a confrontation. My father stepped in, trying to calm the situation. Someone shot him. No one confessed to having fired and no one saw who it was. The killer went unpunished.”
Dale could hear the bitter edge in her words. So, despite her gentle nature Rowena was capable of holding a grudge. He filed the information away in his mind.
“How come your father got the best land if the two other properties are bigger?”
“It wasn’t always like that. My father arrived first, and he claimed the best land. A dozen small ranchers followed. Then, when the War Between the States broke out and beef prices fell, the others went bankrupt or sold out. Mr. Spencer bought one side of the valley. He is an educated man. A Southerner, like you.”
“I’m only part Southerner. The other half of me is New England Yankee.”
Rowena craned around and gave him an impish smile. “You’re a Southerner through and through, at least in how you treat a lady. And you are a Southerner in how you handle a deck of cards.”
“I’m a Yankee in how I do business.”
“I’ll reserve judgment until I see evidence.”
“You’ll see it soon enough.” He rose up on one elbow, balancing against the rocking of the train, so he could study her expression in the moonlight through the window. “What about this other man, Faraday?”
Rowena frowned. “He bought the other side of the valley, and he is as uncouth as Mr. Spencer is refined. His great ambition is to rise in social standing and breed a family of gentlemen. That desire stands at the heart of the feud.”
Her tone grew serious, foreshadowing a tragedy. “Mr. Spencer is liberal minded. In defiance to public opinion, he married a full-blooded Native woman. They had one child. A girl, Lucille. Her mother died when she was small, and Lucille was educated in a convent in New Orleans. I was perhaps ten years old when she returned home. I can still remember how awestruck I was by her. She was a vision. Willow slim, with long coal-black hair and dark eyes that seemed to hold a million secrets.”
Dale shook his head, a rueful gesture that mocked the ways of the world. “Let me guess. Did Mr. Faraday have a son?”
“Three of them, in fact. The youngest, Edward, fell in love with Lucille, and she with him. They wanted to marry, but Mr. Faraday put a stop to any such plans. He wanted to breed a dynasty of gentlemen, and a part-Indian daughter-in-law did not fit in.”
Dale could see a shadow of anguish on Rowena’s face as she went on with her story. “So, the lovers decided to elope. On one moonlit night, Edward drove over in the fancy buggy his father had bought for him, and Lucille snuck out of her father’s house to join him. Only Mr. Spencer spotted them and set off in chase. Not because he had anything against the marriage, but because he didn’t trust Edward to marry Lucille. He wanted to protect his daughter.”
“Did he catch the eloping couple?”
“In a way.” Rowena spoke quietly. “When Edward realized they were being chased, he whipped his horse into speed. They hit a gully and the buggy overturned. They were both killed instantly. That’s how the feud started. Mr. Spencer and Mr. Faraday blame each other for killing their child. Mr. Spencer thinks Mr. Faraday is at fault because he did not allow his son to marry Lucille. Mr. Faraday thinks Mr. Spencer is to blame because he chased the eloping couple and brought about the accident. Neither can forget their loss. Neither can forgive. Their burning goal in life has become to destroy each other. That’s how my father became involved. Whoever owns Twin Springs controls the water. If one of the feuding pair can take over my father’s land, they can dam the stream and ruin the other.”
Rowena wriggled around again, this time to face him. Dale could see the sheen of tears in her eyes, could hear the anguish in her voice. “They didn’t bury them together. Edward and Lucille. They are each buried alone, on their father’s land. Can you believe the cruelty of it? Not even in death did they allow them to be together.”
Not making any comment, Dale wrapped his arms around Rowena and cradled her to his chest. So, his wife was a romantic at heart. Why would a woman who so clearly believed in love agree to a marriage of convenience?
He had given her little in the way of courtship, and he might never be able to give her the devotion she deserved, but he could give her a small taste of romance, a tiny bit of the kind of cherishing every bride had the right to expect at the start of their marriage.
“Listen,” he said, talking in haste before the impulse faded. “What do you say, when we get to Cheyenne, we find a nice hotel and stop there for a night or two? Have ourselves a little honeymoon?”
“But I thought...” She tipped her head back, and her eyes darted about his face, searching his expression. “...I thought we... Don’t you want to...?” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Don’t you want me?”
Dale had noticed it before, that strange uncertainty, as if Rowena needed confirmation of her feminine appeal. It puzzled him. She had to know that she was beautiful, and she did not suffer from an excess of vanity. The way she appeared not to mind her plain, threadbare dresses attested to that.
“Of course I want you,” he told her quietly. “But not here. Not now, while we’re traveling. I don’t want to have to worry about a conductor barging in, or some other interruption. And I don’t want us to be tossed about on the narrow bunk as the train slows down and speeds up again. You deserve better on your wedding night. You deserve comfort and privacy. A soft bed and a lock on the door and enough time for us not to have to hurry. A hotel in Cheyenne will offer those, and more, if we find the right kind of place.”