Chapter 5

The bone chill of the icy spring morning melted away as Slade walked his horse back to the barn. He looked down in disgust at the bloody carcass of the calf draped over the horse's withers. He would have to burn the carcass or the buzzards would be swarming. Between the wolves and the Banyons, his herd would soon be down to nothing.

On particularly disappointing days like this, he toyed with the idea of abandoning it all to take up bounty hunting again. An occupation, he'd been far more suited for. He was starting to consider it seriously, now. Slade didn't hold much hope of getting back his cattle from the Banyons. Earning some bounties might be the only way to save the ranch.

Heading back to the farmhouse, he noticed the steam on the kitchen window, and his mouth watered at the prospect of Dora's cooking. He needed something to take the taste of dust out of his mouth. The spicy cinnamon smell of apple pie drifted to him as he opened the back door, but it was the sound of Lacey's laughter that sent a shudder of longing through him. It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed not to have kissed her properly last night when she'd arrived home with Banyon's men. The angry words Lacey and he had exchanged had torn at him all night.

Lacey leaned over the flour-coated table struggling to roll out a stubborn piece of pie dough. A lock of hair fell into her flour-smudged face, and he longed to wipe his thumb across her cheek and clean away the white powder. But he knew he would not be able to stop at her cheek.

The sight of her in his home was starting to feel too right. He didn't know what it would do to him when Grady came to take her away.

Lacey moved the hair out of her eyes with her forearm, depositing more flour on her face. Her sweet lips tipped up into a weak smile that gave him some hope. Perhaps, she'd forgiven him for his high-handed manner.

"Hope you're hungry for pie."

"I'm always hungry for pie." He looked at the half-dozen pies cooling on the table beneath the kitchen window, steam still rising from the bubbly filling. Four of them had perfectly browned crisscrossed crusts. The other two looked more like burnt pancakes, and he realized he was glad to be back home standing in the warmth of his kitchen with her.

He looked at Lacey's beaming face and knew without a doubt, which pies he'd be eating tonight.

"Let me do that for you," she offered as he went to pour himself some coffee.

"Thanks, Duchess."

Her eyes widened as she handed him the cup, and he realized she was staring at his shirt. He'd forgotten it was splattered with calf's blood.

"A wolf got another baby."

She looked truly saddened.

"Don't know how much more of this I can bear." He didn't know why he was telling her this. He'd only just admitted it to himself. It was something in the way she looked at him.

"You've been working so hard. And you want this so much. It would be a shame for you to give up now." She teared up.

"Don't take it seriously, Lacey. Only a typical rancher, griping about his bad luck. Don't forget to save me one of those pies of yours."

Looking puzzled, she pointed at her sunken pies. "You do realize that those particular pies are mine?"

"Yup," he said and tugged the brim of his hat down. Slade walked out with a smile. Just a little conversation with Lacey, and he was feeling a helluva lot better.

* * * *

The sun had hovered low in the sky all day. Slade could feel his shirt clinging with sweat to his skin. He stabled his horse, then paused for a moment to watch Thorpe leading out the ranch's newest acquisition, a prideful, obstinate mare. On paper, the horse's pedigree was impeccable and Slade, bidding against other eager buyers, had purchased the mare sight unseen. The hostler who had delivered her had done so on foot, sweet-talking the mare the entire time. The man's telltale cooing hadn't prevented Slade from completing the purchase. He'd long ago given up on expecting an easy glide through life. He simply took the mare's skittishness in stride.

Thorpe was hardly a tenderfoot, but you couldn't tell that by the clumsy way he hurled himself into the saddle.

The instant Thorpe's backside hit the leather, the horse tried to dislodge him. The wiry ranch hand was spending more time in the air than in the saddle. Slade ticked off the seconds in his head. On seven, Thorpe went flying straight up, landing with a solid thunk on the packed earth. The triumphant horse was springing around the corral. Its back arched like an angry cat's. Slade winced as he heard the man's ragged intake of breath.

"Move, boy, 'less you want puddin' for brains," someone shouted.

With a pitiful groan, Thorpe rolled in the dirt, the horse's hooves missing his head by little more than a hair's breadth. The spectators draped along the fence roared with laughter.

"Whooee, Thorpe! That mare popped you like she had a belly full of springs," Dix hollered as Thorpe slowly picked himself up and slapped the dust from his chaps.

"That damn horse makes me feel like a newly-minted virgin," Thorpe said as he scrambled over the fence.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, boy. There ain't no one in all of Colorado that can stay on that buzzard for more than a blink."

Slade removed his hat and ducked his sweat-soaked head below the pump. He straightened up and, instead of shaking off the icy cold water allowed it to drip down and drench his shirt. "Care to make a wager on that, Dix?"

For the first time, Dix turned in his direction.

"Dalton, thought you were out countin' heads?"

"Yeah, well. There ain't that many to count at the moment." Slade glanced over at the horse. It was standing in the far corner looking insulted, its shanks twitching in irritation. "Well, what do you say?"

"'Bout what, Dalton?"

"The wager, Dix. I swear you've got the attention span of a horsefly. For a bottle of your imported whiskey, I'll stay on that mare for a straight five minutes."

"Dalton, you've been out in the heat too long. I ain't saying you're not a fine horseman—hell you're the best I've ever known. You might even be the best horseman this side of the Mississippi, but this animal's got a screw loose." For emphasis, Dix tapped his temple with his finger.

"Besides, if I give up my whiskey, what'll I use to sweeten my coffee?"

"Well, if that horse is as bad as you say, you won't have to worry about it none, will ya?"

"You're on, Dalton; just don't break your neck."

Slade raked his wet hair back with his fingers and settled his hat on his head.

He felt as though the ranch hands were holding their collective breaths as he entered the corral. With a smooth, efficient movement, he gathered up the horse's dangling reins. A sudden sensation of heat at the back of his neck told him Lacey had joined the onlookers. Now feeling anxious about the whole thing, Slade found himself whispering small pleas to the high-strung animal.

He walked the wary horse to the paddock gate and opened it with nary a sound.

"Where the hell ya takin' her?" Dix asked loudly, causing the horse to rear, wrenching Slade's arm. But he held fast.

"Hush, Dix, you fool. You and your big mouth about lost me my arm," Slade retorted in an angry whisper.

"Well, the bet was to have you ride her for five minutes. Not take a little stroll with her round the gardens," Dix said, making a feeble attempt at a whisper and accidentally spitting out a shred of tobacco, which narrowly missed Slade's shirt.

"There was no mention of where I had to ride her. So keep your spittle to yourself and follow me."

Slade felt a bit ridiculous leading a horse like she was a bottle of nitroglycerin ready to explode at the slightest disturbance. The fact that every hand on his ranch was cautiously tiptoeing behind made the whole scene even more laughable.

Once he reached the smooth slabs of white granite, he gently reached back to be sure the saddle was secure. A river had once flowed here, but now all that remained were layers of slick, weatherworn rocks. Slade hoped they were slick enough.

"Come on, girl. A little cooperation and we both come out of this ahead. I'll even give you a shot of the whiskey." The horse's ears were pinned straight back, her nostrils were flared wide and Slade could see the white of the eye she had trained on him. Never a good sign, Slade thought worriedly.

Once on the tractionless surface, Slade grabbed the horn and put a foot in the stirrup. The horse gave a jump but froze immediately, when she discovered how slippery the ground was beneath her. Slade gave the animal a moment to gather her feet squarely under her before hoisting himself confidently into the saddle. Within seconds, the horse began gingerly walking across the rocks.

"I'll be damned. She moves as dainty as a little kitten," Blue sighed in awe of the whole spectacle.

"Slade, how the hell d'you know that horse would be afraid to buck on them rocks?"

"Well, Dix," Slade looked down from his mount, who was now concentrating on every step she took, "there's three things a horse likes best of all: hay, other horses, and staying up on all fours."

"Heck, my best bottle of liquor." Dix looked down and kicked the ground with the toe of his boot.

"Serves you right, Dix. Anyone with half a brain knows that Slade Dalton never loses a bet," Thorpe said.

Slade glanced over the cluster of dust-covered hats to see if she was still there. Golden eyes met his for a long moment. She flashed him a smile that nearly knocked him out of the saddle, and then she turned back to the house.

After several minutes passed, Slade dismounted and handed the reins to Blue. "Few more times on that riverbed and she'll be ready for some real riding. Oh, and Dix?"

"Yeah, Dalton."

"I don't want any of that coffin varnish you brew yourself, neither."

"Yeah, yeah. Can I get back to work now, Boss?"

"Sure thing."

* * * *

Feeling greatly revived after a lukewarm bath, Lacey collected her embroidery bag and headed out to the creaky old rocker on the front porch, intending to spend the remainder of the evening working on her floral sampler.

She stopped in her tracks. One of the two rockers was already occupied.

She loved the way his hair curled up on his collar. His long legs were crossed at the ankle and propped up on the porch railing. He poured himself another glass of whiskey. She supposed he hadn't heard the door. Slade seemed completely unaware of her presence. She decided it best to tiptoe back into the house.

"Join me?" He remained staring straight ahead into the graying dusk.

"Are you talking to me?" Lacey asked, startled by the invitation.

He plunked his boots down, leaned forward and looked down the length of porch. "Well, Duchess, I don't see anyone else around. So I must be talking to you." Turning to look at her for the first time, Slade raised the bottle in an offering gesture.

"Your winnings, I presume?" A little nervous, she walked toward the empty rocker.

"Yup, and a damn good wager it was."

"Thorpe told me; any man would be crazy to enter a bet with you. He said you were an expert gambler, called you the winningest son-of-a-gun and the best wrangler he'd ever known."

"Thorpe told you that, did he? Anything else my jaw-flapping ranch hand have to tell you?"

"Well, let me see..."

He refilled his glass and handed it to her. She delicately lifted it to her mouth.

"I should warn you..." Slade stopped mid-speech and watched as she smoothly downed the contents in one swallow.

"Mmm." With her pinky, she dabbed at a tiny drop at the corner of her mouth. "They sure do water the liquor down here in the states."

He mumbled something about melting the horns of a bull with the stuff. "Had a drink or two in your day, have you?"

"Well, let's just say that not all English girls sit around sipping tea and doing petit point."

With a smirk, Slade glanced down at the embroidery frame and skeins of thread in her lap. He poured her another shot. She knocked the drink back as quickly as the first one.

"Well, I confess I've always been rather fond of needlework." Her legs were suddenly feeling heavy while her head seemed quite a bit lighter. Obviously, the liquor was far more potent than its mellow taste led her to believe.

Her tongue started to take on a life of its own. "Thorpe said your gambling reputation was only surpassed by your reputation with women." She giggled lightly. "Judging, though, from the way you kissed me, I suspect he exaggerated a—" She managed to stop herself, but not before saying the worst of it.

Lacey lowered her eyes and watched him through her lashes.

"That disappointing, huh?" he said with a wry smile.

"Though, they did goad you into it." The words slipped out of her mouth mere seconds after the thought formed in her mind. She wondered at her own conceit. It hadn't occurred to her before, that he'd found it a chore to kiss her. Had she completely misinterpreted the long lingering looks he'd given her.

"Yes, a damn trying thing to ask of any man," he said.

Embarrassed by the intimate turn the conversation had taken; she brought up Thorpe's name again.

He leaned over the arm of his chair and pressed his finger against her lips. "I think I've heard enough about your chat with my leaky-mouthed ranch hand. Slade pulled away his finger but not before running it teasingly across her bottom lip. The heat lingered.

"How did Grady get this lucky?"

Sure he was taunting, she frowned slightly and then her newly loquacious tongue was off and running again. "Two words." She was having surprising trouble holding up two fingers. "Two names actually—first and last—Arthur Widstaff." Saying the man's name left a bitter taste in her mouth. "My original intended. My father's pick. Twenty years my senior. I could have lived with that, but he was the most horrid man."

"What did he do?"

Lacey fiddled with the thread, arranging the skeins to form letters. She could not bring herself to look into those intense eyes. She swallowed hard. "He took his horsewhip to my...m-my dog."

"He took a horsewhip to you?" he asked, easily seeing through her fumbling words.

She hesitated, for only a moment, before blurting out, "Yes."

Slade raised a single brow in question. Somehow it was enough to convince her to continue.

"Arthur had come for a visit. As he was leaving, my dog frightened his horse. He leapt out of the saddle, prepared to beat him. I tried to protect Oliver. At first, when I felt the whip at my back, I thought it purely an accident—that he'd meant to strike Oliver. But then he hit me over and over again. I believe he wanted to train me. To show me that he'd only tolerate obedience." Nervously, she twisted a piece of thread around her finger. Slade Dalton was the last man she would have ever expected to tell her most shameful secret to. Yet here she was, confessing the whole ugly incident.

"Actually, I think cruelty gave him much pleasure," she added in a tremulous voice. Lacey recalled the humiliation and the sting of the whip against her back. Out of habit, her finger traced the mark that lay at the nape of her neck. She would have suffered more scars, if she hadn't managed to wrestle the whip from his hands. He'd promised her a worse punishment as she'd fled.

She chanced a glance in Slade's direction. He had a white-knuckled grip on the arm of the rocker. He looked ready to snap it off. "And your father? Where the hell was he?"

Lacey swallowed hard, remembering her father's furious reaction when she merely suggested that Arthur might not be the right match for her. She'd known that even if she'd told him of Arthur's viciousness, it wouldn't have mattered. He was too eager to be rid of her. "I never mentioned the incident to my father. He was at his wit's end with me. I didn't want to cause him any more trouble."

"How did Grady get into the picture?"

"I attended some assemblies and flirted with a few single men. London businessmen with good reputations. Men who appeared harmless. Your brother was amongst them. In fact, my father and he had had some business dealings. Surprisingly, considering how artless my flirting was, they offered for me." Her admission made her wince. "I'm making myself quite ill. You must think your brother is engaged to a conniving witch. It sounds horribly calculating on my part, but I could think of no other way out."

"You did what you had to," he said matter-of-factly. He offered her another drink, which she waved away. "Tell me the rest."

For a moment, she lifted her gaze to his. His jaw was set in a hard line. Lacey forced a weak smile that he didn't return. "Widstaff suddenly held less appeal to my father when Grady showed up as a willing suitor. He presented a ring and a tidy little real estate offer. I think my father rather liked the idea that his unmanageable daughter would be on another continent." She blinked hard, refusing to cry. To her father, she was just another business deal. "It didn't matter to me where I lived, as long as I was out of Arthur Widstaff's reach."

"Perhaps you ought to reconsider this betrothal based as it is on such a flimsy connection."

Clearly, Slade Dalton still wished her gone. He probably hated her even more now, knowing that she'd tricked his brother into the betrothal. But she couldn't blame him. At the time, her deceitfulness had shocked even her. Lacey had felt so guilty she'd offered Grady a way out. "I'd given him the opportunity to call off the engagement," she said in her defense.

"Hell, there isn't a right-minded man who would call it off." Before Lacey had a chance to interpret Slade's curious response, he spoke again. "So you're marrying a man you don't care a lick for."

"Why you've got that part all wrong, Mr. Dalton. He's become everything to me." She wasn't really lying. Grady was her only hope for a future. And she was determined to make him a good wife. "He's hardworking, handsome, upstanding—" she searched her mind for another of Grady's virtues "—handsome—"

"You've mentioned that already," Slade commented dryly.

"I assume he took care of Widstaff?"

She gave her head a violent shake. "I never told him about Widstaff. I was too ashamed."

"You're telling me."

Lacey worked up the nerve to really look at him. She knew in that instant why she'd chosen to confide in Slade alone. This hardened cowboy inspired trust in her. "True, but you're—"

"Not anything to you." He completed the sentence for her and punctuated it with a surly smile.

Of course, he'd gotten it all wrong. She'd meant to say—you're different than any man I've ever met.

"There really was no point in telling your brother," she said, skipping back to his question about Grady. "I mean, what could he have done?"

"Killed the son-of-a-bitch."

He meant every word he said, she thought, as she looked at his ice-blue eyes devoid, it seemed, of everything but cold, hard anger.

Slade flicked a gnat that had gotten stuck on the moist rim of the glass and poured himself another. He lifted his glass in a toast. "To my future sister-in-law."

Clearly, the whiskey was taking its toll on her reason, because she imagined he said the words through gritted teeth. As though they were as hard for him to say as they were for her to hear. She warned herself not to think it significant that he hadn't followed up the toast with a drink.

He settled back in his chair, pulled out a cigarette and cupped his hand around the match as he lit it. Lacey picked up her work and made some clumsy stabs at the canvas, knowing she was making a mess of it and that tomorrow she'd be pulling the stitches out. The silence was suddenly so thick between them; even the cheerful cricket sounds were jarring.

"I had the notion this would be the perfect place to do my stitching, but I'm finding the rocking too distracting."

Slade quirked his brow. "Sweetheart, your chair's not even moving."

She gathered up her bag and rose unsteadily to her feet. "It was very kind of you to share your prize," she said quite formally.

"Anytime."

Lacey stopped with her hand on the door latch. He was looking exactly as he had when she had exited the house; facing forward with his boots stacked atop the railing.

"Mr. Dalton, when I first came onto the porch. How did you guess it was me?"

"Hell, Duchess, I'd have to be dead not to sense you were nearby," he replied.

Alone again on the porch, Slade poured himself another shot. He planned on getting good and drunk tonight. She'd managed to penetrate all his usual defenses and go straight for his heart.

Despite having been both a soldier and a bounty hunter, Slade never really considered himself a violent man. But if he had the opportunity to face the man who had put that kind of fear in Lacey's eyes, he would choke the life out of him.