Chapter 2

"Blasted moose of a dog," Lacey muttered as she pushed herself off Oliver.

She plopped onto the cracked leather seat. Determined to occupy her mind with something other than the cowboy, who was probably still enjoying a languid smoke, Lacey snatched the embroidery frame from her satchel.

Insolent man, she fumed, and stabbed the fabric with the pin. Her hands trembled so badly, she hardly managed two stitches. She inched forward on the seat to take a quick peek out the window. The cowboy was having a more unsettling effect on her than the two scoundrels he'd sent running.

What on earth was she about? Lacey wondered. The man hadn't even a splinter of warmth in those ice-cold eyes, even when he laughed. His hair was too long and far too shaggy, and it looked as though he hadn't shaved in days. And the scar. The way the highwaymen had run she'd expected him to be hideously disfigured. Hardly that. The scar was a pale, shallow crescent, starting dangerously close to the corner of his eye. The other tapering end touched the tail of his brow.

Lacey found herself entranced as she watched him move. The jingle of his spurs and the rubbing of his leather chaps seemed, for the moment, to be the only sounds. He had a rangy, swaggering stride.

The cowboy rubbed his stubbled jaw as he contemplated the dirt at his feet, before bending down to pick something up.

Opening the door, he handed her back the hatpin. She gave it only a cursory glance, before tossing it out the window. "I believe you crushed it under your heel during the ruckus. Besides, the pin, unlike my brooch, truly is paste. But I suspect you knew that."

"Are you on your way to a funeral?"

It took her a moment to understand why he'd asked the question. She smoothed her black skirt with her black-gloved hands. "In a manner of speaking," she said. The outfit hadn't been a conscious choice, but when she'd seen herself in the looking glass, it had seemed quite appropriate.

"Where are you headed?"

"Colorado."

There it was again. That lazy smile.

"Kind of figured that much. Any particular place in Colorado?"

She may not have the sense God gave a flea, as her father was so fond of saying, but she did know danger when she was looking at it. "A ranch."

Her sarcastic reply produced an unexpected reaction. His dark lashes swept down for a second. A hesitation, like a man unsure. Certainly, she was imagining it. The man was merely insulted. By the looks of him, he was accustomed to women giving him information and everything else he asked for. Yet, when his eyes lifted, there was something unguarded in the way he looked at her.

The driver came up behind the cowboy and clapped him loudly on the back. "Son, you're wasting your time. She took that ugly hat off in town, and they were worming out of the woodwork. I felt like I was leading a damn parade. There wasn't a fella among them she paid any notice to."

"Can't blame a man for trying." He shut the door with unjustified force but continued to stare at her through the window.

Nervously, she nibbled her lip, which brought his eyes to her mouth again in that bold way that made her heart beat wildly. The look was completely carnal. The vulnerable look she'd spied seconds before, only a puzzling hint of what lay beneath. Lacey yanked the veil down, concealing her features. She was thankful that she would soon be far from his unnerving, ice-blue stare.

* * * *

Lacey slowly stirred the muddy, black coffee, a little reluctant to drink it, as she watched her future mother-in-law bustle around the kitchen. How would she ever fit in here? An acute feeling of homesickness knifed through her. She swallowed back the self-pity, along with the tears. Lacey had no one but herself to blame. She'd earned this exile from England with her reckless behavior.

She glanced over at her fiancé's younger brother, Tait, and caught him staring at her. He nervously dropped his eyes, turning his attention to the biscuit on his plate. After slathering it heavily with marmalade, he topped it off with a squiggle of treacle. He tore the biscuit in half and crammed it in his mouth. His nose, with the impish spray of freckles, crinkled slightly as he chewed. He reminded her of a young Grady. Tait was not as handsome as his half-brother, but there was definitely something sweeter about his face. His dark brown hair, the exact color of Grady's, was long and straggly, the choppy ends grazing his shoulders. She wondered if he cut it himself—with some very dull scissors.

His hair reminded her of the cowboy's, which reminded her of everything else about him. Annoyingly, she experienced, again, that odd flutter low in her stomach. To jolt herself out of her reverie, Lacey took a bracing sip of the bitter coffee. She must stop thinking about her reluctant rescuer.

Dora flashed her a warm smile, and Lacey thought that maybe five months in Colorado wasn't such a long time. A thought that instantly vaporized when the backdoor opened, and what had seemed a vast kitchen was now filled with men. And not just any men, but rough, sweaty, dust-covered ones.

Tait leaned in toward her. "Don't let those brutes scare you. They're as tame as lambs," he said. But, when she looked into his eyes, she had the uneasy feeling he was also unsettled by their presence.

Dora merely laughed and punched the biggest one in the arm. "Dix, you big fool. I knew he'd talk you into comin' back."

Dix removed his hat and winged it through the opening to the adjoining room. It landed neatly atop the trestle table, situated in the center of what looked to be a deserted dining hall.

Dix smoothed back his thick blond hair. "That boy could talk a starving coyote out of his last scrap of food."

The door hinges creaked again, and another pair of heels resounded on the bare wooden planks. This one was so tall he had to duck his head under the kitchen portal. Lacey held her breath as she watched him straighten. She could actually hear Tait swallow. If she'd thought him dangerous looking before, it was nothing compared to the picture he presented now. She spied beneath the flaps of his dusty brown jacket, a double holstered gun belt studded with cartridges.

She set her cup down with a loud clatter.

Turning, his ice-blue gaze lit on Lacey and held. "Well, I'll be damned." He chuckled.

Dora had to stand on tiptoes to snatch the hat from his head. "Slade Michael Dalton, where are your manners?"

Lacey clasped her hands together and interlaced her fingers, hoping to stop them from trembling. She had pulled many foolish stunts in her life, but this one surely was the topper. Here she was, set to marry a man she hardly knew and live in a place that was completely foreign to her. And now this. The man that made her heart quicken was to be her brother-in-law.

Grady had warned her about Slade. "Makes his living hunting," he'd said disdainfully.

"What type of animal?" she'd asked innocently.

"The two-legged kind."

When she'd gasped, he had added almost reluctantly, "Outlaws. With his penchant for drawing his gun on the least provocation, it's a perfect occupation. Ice runs through his veins." He'd assured her she was in no danger of meeting him. Slade Dalton was supposed to be miles from the Lazy Heart.

Lacey shifted uncomfortably as he pushed past the three men now clustered together near the table, staring at her.

"Lacey Sarah Jarrell," he drawled her name familiarly. Obviously, he'd taken note of the hand-tooled gilt stenciling on her luggage. Slade was hovering near the table, his shoulders impossibly broad. The lantern light seemed to glance off his big white teeth. Lacey had a nearly irresistible impulse to throw her hot coffee in his face.

"You've met?" Dora thrust a steaming mug into his hand.

"On the road to town," Lacey offered. "I found myself in a bit of a predicament, and Mr. Dalton was kind enough to help me out." She gave him her most insincere smile.

Slade set his coffee down and shrugged out of his coat, revealing yet another weapon; a long knife encased in a leather shoulder scabbard. He unbuckled his heavy gun belt and hung it, and the knife holster, beside his coat on a hook in the wall.

"That's an awful lot of jewelry, Slade. Expectin' some trouble?"

Choosing not to comment on Dix's question, Slade swung his leg over the back of the chair to sit across from Lacey. She could make out the contour of the miniature gun in his vest pocket. Chances were, the man didn't bathe without a weapon at hand, Lacey thought, and felt a pink flush rising in her cheeks as she pictured that.

With his foot, Slade kicked another chair away from the table. "Dix, Thorpe, have a seat. Beck, you help Dora serve." He turned his gaze from Lacey to peer up at his companions. They had yet to move. "Hell's fire. You're actin' as though you never saw a female before."

"There are females, Dalton, and then there are females," pronounced the lanky, black-haired one as he doffed his hat. The line of dust on his face stopped at the brim-line. "No offense, Miss Dora," he mumbled.

"Thorpe, ever the flatterer," Dora said with a wry smile.

Slade repeated her name, "Lacey Jarrell." His deep voice lingered on each syllable. "It suits you."

The way he said it certainly couldn't be construed as a compliment. "And how's that, Mr. Dalton?" He leaned in further, and she noticed that unlike the other men, he had taken the trouble to wash the dirt from his face.

"Lacey conjures up images of a delicate, frilly sort of woman. Doesn't it, Dix? Now Tait, here, has a fascination for that sort." His lips kicked up into a wicked half-smile.

"Slade, behave yourself!" Dora reprimanded. "Lacey is here for your brother."

Instantly, Tait was assaulted by a loud chorus of congratulations and ribald ribbing from the men. Except for Slade. He shifted his big frame, getting as close to her as the table allowed.

"What have you to do with Grady?" he asked gruffly.

The fine lace of her glove snagged on her ring as she tugged it off, finger by finger. She lifted her hand and turned the ring, willing it to catch the lantern light. But the midnight colored sapphire seemed to absorb the light. Somehow, she knew those cold eyes were watching intently.

"It seems, he has an appreciation for frivolous things," she said through gritted teeth.

"Don't tell me your Grady's wife." His eyes seemed to burn into hers. His beautiful mouth had tightened into an angry line.

"Your brother always did enjoy collectin' fine things," Dix interjected with a suggestive laugh.

Slade did not seem to find his friend's comment amusing in the least. His long brown fingers wrapped around her hand. Narrowing his eyes to slits, he examined the ring as if it were made of fool's gold.

She snatched her hand back from his disconcertingly possessive grasp. "Grady and I are to be married in a few months. He was very insistent that Dora be present at the wedding." Of course, Lacey failed to mention that she had eagerly agreed to the delay. Her own enthusiasm for marrying Grady Dalton had waned in direct proportion to the diminishing threat of having to marry Arthur Widstaff.

In truth, it had been less a betrothal and more an exchange of favors. He'd needed legal papers delivered to a lawyer in Colorado, and she'd needed an escape. The fact, that her father and Grady stood to profit on a real estate partnership, had helped seal the engagement. Yet she couldn't discount that Grady had seemed genuinely taken by her in a remote sort of way.

Slade slapped the table with his open palm, causing the coffee to slosh out of her cup. Lacey glanced from the brown liquid beading on the scarred wooden table to Slade's face. Surprisingly, he was smiling. The type of smile he might favor a man with just before he put a bullet through his chest, Lacey thought with a shiver. "Damnation. Seems congratulations are in order. Where is that lucky bastard?"

"In Europe—setting up offices. His company wants to encourage immigration. They're hoping to sell land along the railway lines." She fiddled with the ring, twisting it on her finger. It seemed suddenly too tight. "He thought it would be best if I stayed at his ranch while he was away."

Dora came up behind Slade and draped her arms over his shoulders. He placed his hand on her forearm. She rested her chin atop his brown head. "Honey, Slade here, owns this ranch and all eight thousand acres."

"But Grady—" Lacey glanced around the table. She had a sudden uneasy feeling that none of these men were friends of Grady's. "I suppose, I'd misheard him."

Had Grady been lying just to impress her? He'd boasted more than once about his big spread in Colorado. Was it possible Slade Dalton had taken control of the ranch? Judging by the lawless looking bunch he'd just strode in with, it didn't seem an unlikely prospect. There were obviously hard feelings between the two brothers. She'd already begun dreading Grady's arrival. Now there loomed the possibility of an all out war between the Dalton brothers once he returned.

Dix snorted. "Damn, Slade. You think eight thousand acres is enough to feed all those cattle? Sounds kinda meager to me."

The table jolted. "Christ. What'd you do that for?" Dix asked, his accusing eyes on Slade. His brow wrinkled in pain as he rubbed his aching shin. "Oww..."

Slade threw him a look that instantly put an end to his whining.

Dora gave Slade a good-natured tap on his head. "What will our guest think?"

Lacey swallowed hard as her eyes drifted around the men crowding the kitchen. With the exception of Tait, they were without a doubt, the roughest group she'd ever seen. It was certainly like no afternoon tea she'd ever attended. She clutched the cup, hoping to stop her hand from trembling. What the devil had she gotten herself into this time?

"Dora, since when did you take up running a lodge?" Slade asked, his hard eyes not leaving Lacey's face.

She couldn't possibly live in the same house with Slade Dalton. It was clear, he quite hated her. And, for reasons she couldn't fathom, it bothered her plenty. "He's right. You don't need me underfoot, Mrs. Dalton. I passed an inn not far from here that would suit me perfectly," she lied.

"Dear, he only looks like he bites," Dora said delivering another affectionate swat to Slade's head. "You're staying with us, and I won't hear another word of it."

"Christ, Dora, you keep hitting him on the head like that, he'll have trouble counting the few cattle he does have." Dix had the good sense to scoot his chair back out of kicking range.

Lacey managed a weak smile and rose from her chair. "You're very kind, but...Tait, do you think you could take me to town?" She felt unwelcome and unwanted. She may as well have been in her father's home.

"Woman," Slade said, "sit down."

Although the words were uttered in a calm, deliberate manner, there was something in their tone that demanded obedience. Lacey sat.

He spoke to her now, as though there was no one else in the room. "I won't allow you to stay alone in town. It isn't safe. You'll stay on here, but this is a working ranch. So don't expect to be waited on."

Lacey's voice croaked with anger when she finally had the wits to answer him. "You won't allow?"

He leaned back in his chair, a pleased look on his face. "That's right."

"Enough of this ridiculous discussion. Of course she'll be staying with us. Go fetch her bags off the porch, Tait," Dora said.

"Tait, what are you waiting for? Get your lazy self out there. Those bags must've been sitting in the sun for hours," Slade said.

Tait jumped out of his seat so fast, his chair clattered to the floor. He raced out of the kitchen to do his brother's bidding.

Dora picked the chair up. "Slade, go easy on your brother. Miss Jarrell has only been here a short while."

"Really?" Slade said, eyeing her suspiciously.

She'd traded her brooch for a few extra hours of riding the rough roads, explaining that she wanted to familiarize herself with her new surroundings. Finally, when her mouth had been dry with dust, she'd allowed the weary driver to drop her at the Lazy Heart Ranch.

She responded to Slade's question with a sly, little smile. It was none of his bloody business why she'd taken so long getting here. Lacey wished it would be that easy hiding the truth from herself. The closer she'd gotten to Grady's home, the more apprehensive she'd become. Soon, she'd be marrying a man she didn't love and perhaps would never love. With startling clarity, she realized, that facing her future would have been far easier, if she'd never laid eyes on Slade Dalton.

"Where do you want them?" Tait asked Dora as he deposited a heap of bags on the floor of the kitchen.

Slade took a swallow of his steaming coffee and rose from his seat. "I'll show her to her room. The loft, right?" he asked as he loaded himself down with the valises.

"Miss Jarrell wouldn't be comfortable in that dusty, cramped room. The lavender room," Dora said.

Slade looked perplexed. "And which room would that be?"

Dora gave a frustrated sigh. "Maybe if you visited more often, you'd know your own home. Slade, there are only four bedrooms."

Slade raised an eyebrow. "The lavender room. You're sure?"

"Yes," she responded with a disapproving frown.

Feeling a bit foolish, carrying only her dainty reticule, Lacey followed him into an odd, nearly vacant room. A weak, smoky light drifted through the single, window set high in the log wall. Oliver, having already made himself at home, stretched out on the rough plank floor. He was trying to shake off a wooly collie pup tugging at his ear. Lacey surveyed the dimly lit room, noting the oilcloth coats dangling from hooks and a lethal saber resting on notched pegs in the wall. A huge, jaw-like trap tethered to a hook caught Lacey's eye, and she shuddered to think what size beast that was meant to snare. Her attention riveted to the barbaric implements on display, she failed to notice the gun cabinet directly in her path. She caught her thigh on the edge, setting the cabinet rocking.

"Careful, woman. You'll set one off."

"You keep them loaded?"

"Tait's a mite careless about emptying them. I wonder sometimes, if it isn't on purpose. He's a tad fearful of an Indian raid."

"Indian raid?" Her hand caught at the back of his vest. Slade peered at her over his shoulder, a smug smile on his lips. She had a suspicion that he'd made mention of Indians just to scare her. Instantly, she released her hold on him, but not before her fingers had registered the heat of his body through the wool vest.

The passageway led to the main part of the house. Adjusting the luggage in his hands, he lifted the door latch with his one free thumb and they stepped into a quaint, pretty parlor with a mint green settee and unmatched china cups displayed in a delicate cherry wood cupboard. In the hall, they passed a ladder and Lacey peered up into the dark recess of the ceiling. She scowled at his back. If Dora hadn't overruled him, she would have been relegated to that confining, windowless place.

She followed him into a small room that felt positively tiny with him in it. The man was simply too big. Lacey couldn't help noting how his build differed from Grady's spare frame. Though Slade was narrow through the waist and hips, his shirt seemed stretched to the limit across his broad, muscular back and shoulders. Burdened with luggage, his flexed arms seemed enormous. Unbidden, a picture of her cradled in those rock-hard arms flashed in Lacey's mind. She pulled her eyes away and attempted to focus on the room.

"'Tis lovely," she said.

Slade deposited her cases by the canopied bed. "The lavender room," he muttered under his breath as he gave the room a cursory glance.

Lacey smiled to herself. The only claim the room had to the color was a worn purple coverlet, the quilt squares trimmed with ivory ribbon, and a tall vase of violet sage on the chiffonier.

Removing her second glove, she deposited both atop a small writing desk. He picked one up and rubbed the black lace between his fingers, casting a sideways glance at her. "Do you liken marriage to my brother to a funeral?"

"Don't be absurd," she said with vehemence.

"Right," he said with a short harsh laugh. "I'll leave you to settle in." He proceeded to open a rather low, narrow door located on the side wall that Lacey hadn't noticed. Stooping, he exited through the doorway.

Lacey peeked her head in after him. "And what's this?" she asked, only able to make out the outline of clutter in the near-dark room.

"Dora's sewing room. Only, she doesn't have a talent for stitching, so it's become a place to store old furniture. Dora doesn't take to throwing things away."

Lacey watched him leave through an identically narrow door on the opposite wall. Then she shut her door to the sewing room and turned her attention to unpacking.

Dora may not be a seamstress, but she was an impeccable housekeeper. There was not a speck of dust to be seen. The only indication that the room had not been used recently was the way the window stuck. She was able to force it open only a few inches.

She pulled the pins from her hair, and it tumbled soft and black to her waist. She threw herself back on the bed and ran her hands over the soft quilt, wishing it were night already, so she could crawl under its warmth. It had been a jarring, exhausting journey.

She smoothed her hand over the quilt. It was so meticulously sewn, she guessed Dora hadn't had a hand in making it. Lacey traced a square of ribbon and was reminded of her mother's fine needlework. Her chest tightened as she remembered how frail her mother had looked that final month in her sickbed. As ill as she'd been, she'd managed to help finish their last shared embroidery piece. Lacey doubted she would be in this miserable situation if her mother had lived.

Rolling her head to the side, she eyed the peculiar, little door. She assumed the other door to the sewing room led outside, since Mr. Dalton had exited through it. Even with the window opened, she couldn't seem to take a deep breath. Lacey tried to convince herself to stop panicking, but she felt almost as though she were suffocating in this new place. She decided a dose of fresh air would help.

Feeling her way through the windowless sewing room, she barked her shin on something very solid. "Blasted," she muttered as she rubbed her aching leg.

Closing her fingers on the latch to the second door, it clicked open. Her eyes took a moment to adjust from the dark to the light. When they did, she found herself blinking up at Slade Dalton. His shirttail pulled from his pants, he was in the process of undressing. His shirt gaped, revealing a smooth well-muscled chest. Clamped between his teeth was a cigarette. Half his mouth tilted into a far too sinister smile for her liking. Squinting, his pale eyes took her measure through a cloud of smoke.

Making no attempt to fix his attire, he removed the cigarette from his mouth. "Settled already?"

Her eyes scanned the room, picking out the masculine elements; a worn leather coat hanging from the bedpost, a shaving brush and razor, a utilitarian wooden comb, and in the corner, an unexpected pile of well-thumbed books.

Lacey focused again on him. "Th-This is your room?" she managed to stutter out the obvious.

He'd shifted closer and now stood only inches from her. "Well, yeah." For the second time that day he touched her hair. He lifted a tress and brushed the ends against the ball of his thumb. Her scalp tingled with the sensation. "I like it down," he said.

"Do you think I bloody care what you like?" She yanked her hair from his grasp. "You'll have to move to another room."

"Not a chance, Duchess." He moved to the open window and flicked the ash from his cigarette. "Don't worry," he said with a sneer, "Grady and I have never shared anything in our lives." His gaze slid insolently over her.

His insult brought the sting of tears to her eyes. "Your brother warned me about you. I thought he'd exaggerated your shortcomings, but clearly, he did not." The tears beading up on her lashes were starting to spill onto her cheeks, but she made no effort to wipe them away.

He heaved a sigh and crossed the room to her. He reached out to her face.

Ducking to avoid his hand, she swiveled on her heels and yanked open the door, hoping it would smack him in the face. "You, bloody well, better keep your distance from me."

* * * *

The door slammed in Slade's face. His hair ruffled from the force. He bit down hard on the cigarette, the muscles in his jaw jumping. Keep his distance? How the devil was he supposed to do that? She should have asked him to stop breathing. It would have been a helluva lot easier.

Just seeing her in his kitchen had set his blood on fire. She was the most delectable handful he'd ever encountered. Hell, he even appreciated the wild streak that seemed to run a mile wide in her. Slade wondered if he purposefully provoked her, just to see that obstinate thrust of her chin. She sassed him so fearlessly, the tears took him by surprise.

Damn Grady for sending her to Colorado and stirring things up.

Slade rubbed his hand over his face trying to get a hold of himself. He had a ranch to resurrect. He didn't have time for such a sweet distraction. And, he reminded himself, he didn't deserve one either.