They alighted in Cheyenne as the sun reached its zenith in the sky, but despite the bright spring day the air still held a winter chill. Here and there, Rowena could see soot-stained heaps of snow, and the chimneys belched out thick columns of smoke.
“Are you up to walking?” Marshal Hunter asked. “It’s not far.”
Color flared to her cheeks. It had been like that all morning, since they’d woken up and untangled their entwined bodies. Every glance, every word, made her acutely aware of him. But even though she looked forward to her wedding night, she could not ignore the warnings that rattled inside her head.
After consummating their marriage there would be no turning back. They would be bound to each other, whether they were satisfied with their bargain or not.
“Is something wrong?”
The question cut through her troubled thoughts, and Rowena realized they were standing at the station platform while the crowd around them was dispersing with joyful reunions and polite greetings. She fumbled, attempted to gather her wits.
“It’s just... It’s just that it’s all so big...”
He gave her a puzzled look. “But you’ve spent time in Boston. You’re used to much bigger cities. Cheyenne has five thousand people. Boston has nearly half a million.”
“I know... I know...” She inhaled a deep breath. “It’s just that I don’t remember this Cheyenne. When I left for school I boarded the train in Rawlins and went straight through. And when I came back I was too much in a hurry to get home because my father had written about the troubles...”
The marshal spoke in a low voice. “What do you say, today we forget everything about our troubles. About anyone’s troubles. Today the world is perfect. Just for this one day. No child goes hungry, no country is at war, no one gets sick, the homeless find shelter, the lonely find a friend, the unhappy find a reason to smile...”
“We pretend?”
“We believe. Believe the world could be like that.”
From the marshal’s bitter tone Rowena could tell he’d seen too much misery and cruelty to ever truly believe such a thing, but the idea appealed to her. “All right,” she said. “The world is perfect. Just for tonight.”
“Tonight,” the marshal replied, and they set off walking.
As they made their way along the grand streets, the mood grew strangely light between them. The marshal was carrying both their bags, and he pointed out the sights. The Opera House. The Millionaires Row with more than two dozen mansions, built by the cattle barons and the mining magnates. A site where they would soon start building a State Capitol, in anticipation of statehood for Wyoming. The fine boutiques and dress shops, attesting to the wealth that in recent years had made Cheyenne the richest city in the world.
Instead of admiring the buildings and inspecting the store windows, Rowena found her attention drawn to Marshal Hunter. He hadn’t shaved in the morning, and the stubble on his jaw emphasized the starkness of his lean features. She’d gotten used to the crescent-shaped scar on his cheek and barely noticed it anymore, but now she looked at him through the eyes of a stranger, through the eyes of a woman. The hint of violence, combined with his good looks and casual elegance, sent a frisson of attraction through her, and it occurred to her that other women might feel the same. The prospect stirred an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of her belly.
The marshal came to a halt outside a whitewashed stone mansion. “I thought this place might suit.” He gestured at the front steps leading up to a canopied entrance.
“But...” Rowena stared at the turreted building. “Can we afford it?”
“Remember?” He smiled at her, carefree and easy. “Tonight the world is perfect.” His lips curled into a wry grin. “And from the way you keep pulling your shawls tighter around your shoulders and mincing your steps I gather you’re freezing all the way down to your toes.”
“Oh? Oh...? Of course...” She remembered the odd, hesitant rhythm of his walk and stole a glance at his booted feet.
He must have noticed, for he shook his head and spoke quietly. “I am able to walk as far as any man. Farther than most. I have scars on my legs and I step in a certain way to keep the boot leather from chafing against my skin, but my strength and stamina are unimpaired.” His voice fell lower still. “But we agreed that tonight everything will be perfect. I hope you’ll extend the benefit of such thinking to me.”
Quickly, not pausing to observe her reaction to his comment, the marshal set off again and carried their bags up the hotel steps, leaving Rowena to follow.
The grandeur of the entrance hall made her gasp. Not even in the Boston home of Freddy Livingston’s family had she seen such luxury. Black-veined marble floor, softened by hand-knotted Oriental rugs. Crystal chandeliers with a hundred candles burning, despite the daylight. In a big stone fireplace, a log fire crackled, filling the room with forest scents. To the left, the archway to a dining room gave a glimpse of tables topped with white linen and gleaming silverware, arranged in readiness for guests.
Marshal Hunter strode over to a reception desk discreetly tucked into a corner. Behind the counter, a slender, well-dressed blonde in her forties gave him a bland, impersonal smile.
“We’d like a room for one night,” the marshal said. “Perhaps two nights.”
The woman’s smile remained in place while her pale gray eyes took stock of their appearance. Rowena felt a blush flare up to her cheeks. Despite his handsome features, Marshal Hunter looked disreputable in his long canvas duster and mud-spattered boots, unshaven, with a scar on his face. The twin bulges of concealed firearms, evident at his hips, added to the aura of danger around him.
Aware that she herself presented a no more elegant picture, Rowena adjusted the shawls around her shoulders. With her upsweep nearly collapsed, and one button missing from her scuffed half boots, she must look little better than a tavern slut. She quickly tugged off her gloves to hide the fact that they were worn through at the fingertips, but when she noticed the woman’s gaze home in on her left hand, her blush deepened to crimson. In the eyes of a stranger the lack of a wedding ring might brand her just that—a slut.
“We only have a suite with a private bathing room,” the woman said. Her smile faded and a frosty note entered her tone. “That will be ten dollars a night.”
“A suite?” Marshal Hunter spoke calmly, but Rowena detected an undertone of warning in his quiet voice. “That is most fitting. We’re on our honeymoon.”
The woman frowned. Her ploy of scaring them away with a high price had failed. “Payment in advance,” she added tartly.
“That’s fine,” Marshal Hunter replied.
Rowena had only seen him act in anger once before, when he’d smashed up the chair in her jail cell. However, instinct warned her that he had the capacity for cold fury, the kind that wielded destruction without remorse. Alarmed, she watched as he unbuttoned the front of his long duster. Slowly, dragging out the motion, he pulled apart the edges of the garment to reveal his pair of pistols.
The woman’s attention fell on the tin star within a circle pinned to his chest. “A marshal? A federal marshal?”
Marshal Hunter nodded. “Deputy US Marshal Dale Hunter at your service, ma’am. But I’m not on duty right now. We’re newlyweds, and I’m on my way to inspect my wife’s land holdings in Wyoming. A ranch called Twin Springs—you may have heard of it, if you have any dealings with cattlemen?”
The woman flustered. “We do not cater to such trade here at High Meadows. Our establishment is a peaceful haven in a turbulent world. An oasis of culture, if you like. We mostly attract tourists from the East, and local customers for the dining room. Today, we have a ladies’ luncheon at two o’clock, and a fiftieth birthday party in the evening.”
“Peace and quiet is just what we like.” Marshal Hunter made a show of patting the pockets of his suit coat. “Ten dollars, you mentioned, and I assume you would prefer hard cash. I believe I have a few gold eagles tucked away somewhere.”
The woman smiled with a hint of genuine warmth. She swung the register book around, dipped a pen in the inkwell and handed the pen to Marshal Hunter. “Eight dollars. We give a discount to lawmen. And there is no need to pay in advance.”
When they were climbing up the stairs to their second-floor room, Rowena couldn’t resist craning closer to Marshal Hunter and asking in a hissed whisper, “Did you have the money, or were you bluffing?”
The corners of his mouth tugged into a grin. “Bluffing.”
“But how can we... We can’t stay here without paying!”
“Hush. Don’t spoil our chances.”
Rowena halted her ascent and stared aghast at her husband.
He gave her a gentle pat on the rear to get her moving again. “Don’t look so scandalized. I’ll go and find a Western Union office. I can collect my expenses, and I’m owed a fee for saving you from the gallows. You can try out that private bathing room while I’ll go out and restore our finances. I’ll order hot water for you before I go.”
It was bliss to be clean, even though she had only been able to air her dress instead of getting it cleaned and pressed. Rowena tucked an escaped strand of hair into her upsweep and watched the uniformed waiter set a plate of roast beef and duchess potatoes in front of her. It was also bliss to be waited upon. Normally, in a restaurant, she’d been the one doing the serving.
She glanced at Marshal Hunter seated across the small, square table. He’d taken his turn to freshen up while she dried her hair. The close shave revealed the vivid crescent of the scar more clearly, but without the guns at his hip and the long duster to hide the good cut of his broadcloth suit, he looked every inch the gentleman she suspected he had once been.
What had he said? “A mother who wishes me to enter a different lifestyle.” With a frisson of unease, Rowena realized how little she knew about her husband’s background. She might have gained a mother-in-law who would dislike her if they ever met, just the way Freddy’s mother had been frank with her disapproval.
It was almost four o’clock, late for lunch. At the long table next to them, the ladies’ social club had progressed to dessert, a huge concoction of meringue and whipped cream and strawberries that must have been grown in a hothouse. Like a flock of chattering magpies, the ladies were going ooh and ahh over the delicacy, while complaining about the havoc it caused with their tightly laced corsets.
“You can go shopping, buy a new dress.”
Startled by the quietly spoken comment, Rowena turned her attention to Marshal Hunter. He made a covert gesture with his chin toward the crowd of women. “I’ve noticed the looks they give you, as if you don’t belong in the same room with them. If it bothers you, I can afford to buy you a silk dress, the fashionable kind they are wearing.”
Rowena clamped down on the flare of shame and anger. Didn’t men understand anything? He thought those looks of disdain were about her clothing. When she spoke, she held her head high, although she avoided meeting the marshal’s eyes. “It is not my threadbare gown they are looking at. They are looking at my left hand.”
“Your hand?”
“The third finger of it, to be precise. What is missing from it.” Finally, she found the courage to look straight at him. “They think I’m your mistress. A fancy piece.”
She saw his eyes flicker to her empty ring finger, then back up to her face. Then to the group of ladies chattering away at the next table. She sensed his anger, sensed his movement even before he pushed up to his feet.
“Don’t,” she pleaded in a whisper. “Please, don’t cause a scene.”
He made a small, stalling gesture at her. She couldn’t tell if it was meant for reassurance, or if it was an order for her to keep out of the way. Her heart pounding with apprehension, Rowena sank deeper into her padded chair and waited for the storm to break.
Marshal Hunter took a step toward the party of women. “Ladies, might I have your attention for a moment?”
The chattering voices petered into silence. The woman seated at the head of the table, formidable in orange satin and frothy lace, diamonds sparkling beneath her double chin, looked up at him through a pair of lorgnette spectacles. “What is it, young man?”
“I was hoping you might offer me some assistance.”
“I very much doubt it.”
A frail, silver-haired lady cut in, “Vera, let the gentleman make his inquiry.”
The matron in orange huffed but yielded to the frail lady’s superior rank.
“I’m a stranger to Cheyenne,” Marshal Hunter said, with a charming hint of a smile. “We got married a few days ago, in a small town where there was no jeweler. I have an engagement ring for my bride in a New York bank vault, a family heirloom—square-cut diamond that once belonged to the Countess of Clairmont—but I need to buy her a wedding ring. I was hoping you ladies could recommend a suitable store.”
Rowena could feel it, the collective easing of tension that flowed over the group of women, like ripples expanding in a pond. Some of the younger ones called out recommendations. A few of them glanced over at her with envy. The frail, silver-haired lady held up her hand. Instantly, the others fell silent, attesting to her elevated status.
“Young man, as far as I know the last Countess of Clairmont came to a sticky end during the French revolution almost a hundred years ago. How did you acquire her ring?”
“It’s a topic the family avoids, but since you asked, when they dragged my great-great-great-aunt to the guillotine, they left the ring on her finger. Her young nephew—my great-great-grandfather—found a way to retrieve it.”
Some of the younger ladies looked decidedly pale. One retched and slapped a hand over her mouth. With a frantic glance around her, she jumped up to her feet and hurried off in the direction of the convenience. The flicker of satisfaction across Marshal Hunter’s face was over so quickly, Rowena doubted anyone else had noticed it.
In a hurry to make it to the jeweler before the store closed, Dale chose to decline the meringue dessert. It saved no time, though, for Rowena nibbled through her portion, taking forever over each bite. When she’d finally scraped her plate clean, Dale bundled her into her shawls and steered her out of the building.
Breathless, she sauntered after him, trying to keep up with his long strides. “That thing you said...about a ring...and a countess who lost her head on the guillotine...you were just jesting...surely?”
He gave her a smirk and a wink. “The fewer questions you ask, the fewer lies you’ll be told.”
In the store, while they waited for the small, balding jeweler to bring out the trays of wedding rings, Dale noticed the longing looks Rowena cast over the display of earrings. He leaned down to her and spoke quietly. “Would you like to choose something? A wedding gift?”
She shook her head, a wistful smile playing around her mouth. “I have jewelry from my mother and grandmother. For all I know, the pieces could still be in Twin Springs, safe at the bottom of my traveling trunk where I left them when I returned from Boston.”
“I hope you’re not telling me that you have some other man’s ring tucked away somewhere?”
Instead of laughing, Rowena flustered. So, there might have been a man she’d loved once, had wished to marry. Perhaps there had even been a lover. Dale tried to push aside the thought. It had no bearing on their bargain.
When Rowena had made her choice, the jeweler, speaking in his thick Eastern European accent, asked if they would also like a man’s ring. Dale contemplated his bride, brows lifted in question. “Would you like me to wear one?”
Awkward, as if struggling between pride and admitting to what she wanted, Rowena replied, “Yes. I would like you to wear a wedding ring.”
“Remember,” Dale told her. “If you ever want me to do something, you only need to ask.” And without further comment, he examined the display of rings and picked out a plain, narrow band that matched the one she’d selected.
On their way back to the hotel, Dale brought his wife to a halt outside the milliner’s shop. “Would you like to wait here while I go to the telegraph office next door and check for replies?”
“Oh, yes.” She waved him away, already engrossed in the pastel-colored capes and frilly bonnets that heralded the arrival of spring.
Dale went into the telegraph office, filled in a form and double-checked the message addressed to his mother in New York.
Got married. You’d approve. Send Clairmont ring. Wells Fargo office Cheyenne.
Regret churned within him; regret and guilt. It was his mother who had brokered his pardon. A close friend to the late wife of President Arthur, in office at the time, she had used her influence in Washington. Dale wished he could have done more to reward his mother for her efforts on his behalf, but the past stood between them.
He told himself it was the scars, the nightmares, the legacy of his lawless life, but during the darkest hours of the night he admitted to himself it was more. He could not face his mother, for unresolved guilt and blame lay between them. Guilt and blame, because he had let Laurel die.
Restless now, unable to deal with the surge of emotions, Dale paid the fee to have the message sent and took his leave from the uniformed telegraph operator. At least now he had done one thing right in his mother’s eyes—acquired a wife.
He pushed the door open, his thoughts now on Rowena. Tonight, they would consummate the marriage. It would bind them together for the rest of their lives, but his bride had no idea of the true nature of the man she was marrying—a killer, a former outlaw, a man with so much darkness inside him it could blot out even the brightest summer sun.
Surely, he ought to tell her.
Reveal his violent, criminal past.
Let her make an informed decision.
Outside, a young man was standing next to Rowena, talking in the loud voice of a troublemaker with too many shots of whiskey inside him. The electric streetlights had come on, and a sphere of yellow light fell over the couple. Short, with curly brown hair, the young man was dressed like a cattle baron, in hand-tooled Montana boots and an expensive sheepskin coat. Fawning over Rowena, he leaned forward with such eagerness that a small shove on his backside would have sent him toppling onto the cobblestones.
As Dale strode over to the couple, the cowboy whirled about, clenched his hands into fists and took on a combative pose. “Get lost, mister. I saw her first.”
“You may have seen her first in the last five minutes, but a few days ago I stood beside her in front of a judge and we both said ‘I do’.”
“What...what...?” Struggling to unravel the comment, the cowboy swayed on his feet.
Rowena laid a hand on the young man’s arm. “What my husband means is that he is grateful because you kept me company while he was in the telegraph office.”
Spellbound, the cowboy stared at the slender, ungloved hand resting on his sleeve. His eyes widened, the triumph of discovery evident on his face. After glancing up at Rowena’s worried expression, the young man turned his attention to Dale. A cunning smile spread over his features, revealing a row of even white teeth. “Don’t see no wedding ring on her finger.”
Dale gestured toward the jeweler’s premises down the street. “That’s because it is still in the shop, being engraved. Engraved with my name on it.”
Frowning with concentration, the young man tried to come up with a reply, but his addled brain failed him. Appearing to give up the effort of thinking, he flapped his hand in the air, as if to usher Dale away, and turned back to Rowena. “Sweetheart, I could show you a good time. A real good time.”
Rowena stiffened her spine, took a step back. “You have already done plenty, protecting me while I was waiting for my husband to return. I am grateful, and I would like to bid you a proper farewell, but I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, mister...?”
Uncertain, the cowboy stared at her. Then, with a shrug and a sheepish grin, he relaxed and gave up his claim. “Yates. It’s Pearly Yates, ma’am. Not for me teeth, but I had me a pearl-handled pistol before I lost it in a poker game.”
Rowena beamed at the cowboy. “Better luck next time, Mr. Yates. I’d love to talk with you a moment longer, but my toes are frozen. My husband and I need to return to our lodgings. Goodbye, Mr. Yates.” Smoothly, she edged past the cowboy. Seizing Dale by the elbow, she steered him down the street.
“That was a neat maneuver,” Dale remarked as he let himself be dragged away.
“You said it yourself once. It takes more courage to avoid a fight than to lose one.”
“I wouldn’t have lost,” Dale muttered.
“I know, I know.” Rowena slanted him an impish glance. “But I would have gained no pleasure from seeing Mr. Yates lose some of those pearly white teeth.”
Despite her lighthearted reaction, Dale felt another stirring of guilt. Rowena was a gentle soul, a peacemaker. She’d run away from her father’s ranch to avoid being caught up in a battle, and two years in a Quaker town must have added to her dislike of violence. He had just witnessed how eager she was to avoid a confrontation. He owed it to her to be open and honest about his past.
The front steps of High Meadows loomed in front of them. Dale stopped walking, tugged Rowena to a halt. He waited to speak until she stood facing him. “Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry about the scene with that puppy dog of a cattle baron. Without your intervention, I would have bashed his teeth in, make no mistake about that. I’m—”
Shaking her head to silence him, Rowena reached up and traced one fingertip along the scar on his cheek. Her touch was so gentle, so featherlight, it made Dale hold his breath. “Don’t apologize,” she told him. “It doesn’t matter. Remember what we agreed? Tonight everything is perfect, and that means the incident is already forgotten.”
Tonight everything is perfect.
Dale could not stop the faint trembling that seized his body. Every part of him screamed with need—need for her softness, need for her comfort, need for her warmth. Need for forgetfulness in her arms. Need for respite from the nightmares. He already knew it would be perfect between them tonight. He would make it so. What he didn’t want to think about was what it would be like when his wife learned the truth about him.