Preston stood in front of the plot of land that would one day hold his hotel and restaurant, beaming with pride. Today the construction would start on the building, and he was as excited as a child at Christmas. Well, not that Christmas had ever been anything special for him growing up, but he figured it would be a pretty exciting day for the average kid.

Which was another reason why he wanted respectability. His children would always look forward to Christmas. They would have new clothes for church, presents under the Christmas tree, and a hearty meal with all the dishes and special treats that went with a Christmas dinner. They would sing Christmas carols and drink hot cider while he and Miranda watched the little ones open their gifts.

On the other hand, if he didn’t persuade his wife to join him in bed, there wouldn’t be any children to take care of. Now that they were settled in the house, he would begin his campaign in earnest. Living with Miranda, and the way he desired her, would be impossible if he couldn’t get her to change her mind about a marriage of convenience.

Yesterday all the furniture had been delivered and set into place. He didn’t want to push Miranda on their first night together since their wedding night, so once he saw her fatigue, he suggested she retire early. He, however, spent more than a couple of hours wandering around the downstairs, touching the furniture, hanging pictures, and just enjoying the idea of having his own house. Despite the chilly night air, he sat on the front porch step, studying all the tidy houses on the street, reminding himself to buy a couple of rocking chairs.

Tonight, he planned a little bit of convincing. He’d worked his charm on plenty of other women, now it was time to use all that skill and practice on his wife.

Miranda had turned out to be quite an excellent bookkeeper and had shown him all the places where he was making mistakes and even came up with some new ideas on how to save money without cutting any services.

He was also pleasantly surprised when they’d gone to the mercantile to load up on groceries. Miranda quickly rattled off requests for coffee beans, tea, oatmeal, flour, sugar, various spices, most of which he’d never heard of, along with eggs, milk, butter, potatoes, canned fruits and vegetables, as well as rice, dried beans, and syrup.

They also bought a smoked ham and a plump chicken. When he’d requested a block of cheese, she pulled him aside and whispered that it was quite expensive. He laughed and told her they could afford it, and to add it to the pile of groceries on the counter.

When she wasn’t looking, he slipped in a bar of scented soap and bottle of hand lotion to their order.

It seemed within minutes after they returned home she had whipped up scrambled eggs, slices of ham, biscuits, gravy, coffee, and even some sort of pudding for dessert. Yes, Miranda was the perfect wife in many ways. Now, to just get her to be his wife in truth, and life would be quite satisfying.

“Mr. Stone. I know you approved these drawings, but I want to show you something that needs to be looked at.” Mr. Bally, the foreman on the construction job, broke into his musings as he approached him with a rolled-up set of drawings under his arm.

Preston laid his meanderings on his wife aside as they put their heads together to examine what Bally wanted to address.

Satisfied that everything was going the way it should after their short conference, Preston left the construction site and returned to his saloon. As usual, his employees had everything running smoothly. Now that Miranda had taken over the books for him, he had more time to spend on the floor, which he soon discovered his people didn’t appreciate.

“Don’t you have a wife to go home to?” Crystal sashayed up to him, dressed in her usual satin, low-cut gown. A painstakingly painted face to hide her years, long dangling earrings, and a feather in her hair completed her outfit.

Preston checked his timepiece. “It’s only five o’clock.”

“Yes. And we are all ready for tonight’s customers so there’s no need for you to stick around.”

Three of the young girls who served drinks walked out from the back room where they had their breaks, all dressed for work. Preston swung his attention to the bar where Pat stacked clean glasses, the bar spotless. His manager, David Links, checked the card tables, replacing cards that were worn.

Yes, indeed, they were ready for the night’s business. With his added duties due to the building of the restaurant and hotel, he was thankful he could count on his employees. He took one more glance around the room and, happy with all he saw, he gave Crystal a salute. “In that case, I believe I will go on home.”

“Have fun.” Crystal winked at him.

He knew what she meant, and he certainly hoped her words were true. He snapped his fingers and turned on his heel and walked to the bar. “Pat, give me a couple bottles of our best wine.”

He ignored Crystal’s snort, grabbed the bottles, and left the building.

* * *

Woody slammed open the jailhouse door and strode up to the marshal’s desk. The man sat on a chair with his feet propped up on the desk.

“Go back and close that door before I put you in jail,” the marshal growled.

“Put me in jail for what?”

“Annoying me.”

He turned and closed the door and came back, leaning over the marshal’s desk, his hands fisted on the stack of wanted posters. “Did you send Miranda to Santa Fe?”

Either the man was ready for the question or he truly had not done that. “Why do you ask that?”

“Don’t piss me off, Jones. I heard you had a few gals in this here jail about a month and a half ago and sent them all to Santa Fe to marry up with some loser men there. I want to know if my stepsister was one of them.”

“Now, why would you think that?”

Woody thumped the desk. “Because she killed my Pp. You knew about it so you must have arrested her. I ain’t seen nor heard of her since I came back. You won’t tell me why her ass is not sitting in jail right now.” He pointed his finger at the marshal. “I think you sent her out of town to keep me from giving the bitch what she deserves for what she’s done.”

“Get your finger out of my face.”

Woody stood up straight, a smile on his face. “Well, it looks to me like I’m gonna have to take a trip down to New Mexico territory and see for myself if my stepsister is there.”

Jones stood and came nose to nose with him. “You stay away from Santa Fe.”

“So, she is there.”

“I said no such thing. I don’t want you going down there and starting trouble. I know the sheriff in Santa Fe, and I’ll send him a wire to lock you up the minute you set foot in the town.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I’ll kill someone and then the good sheriff can send me out of town to find me a wife. Ain’t that how things work here, Jones? Might be the same there.” With those words, he turned and left the building, slamming the door once more.

Marshal Jones ran his fingers through his hair. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone told Woody where Miranda was. He could send a wire to the sheriff there, but he didn’t trust the man to look out for Miranda.

He sat back down and considered what he’d been thinking about for quite a while. He was sick of Dodge City. Tired of breaking up fights, hauling drunk cowboys into jail to turn them loose to come back and do the same thing again. Hell, he was getting too old to keep doing this. Just like Miss Nellie said she was too old to start up again after the fire took her business.

Nellie.

Damn, but he missed that woman. Once she’d given up whorin’ herself and only allowed her customers to use the services of her girls, he found himself thinking more and more about how it would be to have her all to himself. Permanently.

With that bastard Woody heading down to Santa Fe and his years as a lawman losing its appeal, it might be time to turn in his badge and see what the fine town of Santa Fe had to offer. He’d saved plenty of money over the years so maybe it was time to retire. His lips parted in a wide smile.

And see what Miss Nellie was up to.

* * *

Preston unlocked the front door, and his stomach growled as he took in a whiff of something delicious. “Miranda?”

She came through the doorway from the kitchen, and his hunger—for food—disappeared. A simple blue-and-white striped cotton dress covered her body, outlining every delicious curve. A long apron protecting her clothing ran from her lovely breasts to her ankles, but what had him almost swallowing his tongue was her flushed cheeks surrounded by a mass of curls that had fallen from her hairdo and were plastered against her damp face.

She held a cooking spoon and grinned as her pink tongue came out to lick the spoon. “Um, tastes good.”

He groaned, wanting to grab her, cover her lips with his, and hustle her to the closest bedroom. Hell, he wouldn’t even need to do that. The sofa would work just fine. Trying his best to slow his heartbeat down lest he scare her to death, he walked slowly toward her. He placed the two bottles of wine on the closest table and covered her hand with his.

He licked where she had and smiled. “Yes. Tastes very good. What is it?”

“Chicken gravy.” Her darkened eyes never left his for an instant as she ran her pink tongue around her lips.

Again.

He’d had enough. Gathering her into his arms, he held her snugly and moved his mouth over hers, devouring its softness. Her body slumped, and she gave a slight moan. He tightened the arm wrapped around her waist and tugged her closer until he could feel her soft warm breasts pressed up against his chest.

Her mouth was his playground. He licked, sucked, nibbled, and soothed, all the time holding her head in a position to give him the greatest access. After a few minutes, he pulled away, gasping for breath. She dropped her head on his chest with a sigh of pleasure as her trembling limbs clung to him.

He murmured against her lips. “What do you say we skip dinner and test out that bed upstairs?”

She shook her head and backed up, not leaving his embrace, but putting definite space between them. “No. I have dinner all ready.” Her face was even more flushed, and her deep breaths drew his eyes to her delectable breasts.

There was no need to rush her since they had all night, plus the bottle of wine he would open with dinner. He had her warmed up and was pretty sure they would end up with tangled limbs and sweaty sheets before they fell asleep.

He took a deep breath and dropped his arms and tapped her on the nose. “I must say, dinner smells wonderful.”

Hand in hand, they strolled to the kitchen. Steam rose from pot boiling on the stove and a lovely, golden chicken sat on the table, ready to be carved.

“I can cut up the chicken.” He’d never done it before, but how difficult could it be? He rattled around in the drawer until he located a knife.

“No. Not that one.” She pulled the knife from his fist and handed him another one, a smirk on her face. “Have you ever carved a chicken before?”

“Ah, not exactly.”

She covered her mouth and laughed. “Well, go ahead and try. I’ll get the rest of dinner on the table.”

He hacked, sawed, cut, tore, and pulled, all the while Miranda glancing at him from time to time as she bustled around the kitchen. Finally, the chicken looked ravaged, but there were slices and pieces of meat on the platter. If he was going to be a respectable businessman, husband, and father, he had to learn these things. He proudly picked up the meat and set it in the middle of the table along with the glazed carrots, mashed potatoes, creamy gravy, and biscuits. “Darlin’ I’m going to be unable to fit into my clothes in another few weeks.”

She placed her hand on his shoulder and looked at the feast. “I think I did go a little overboard. Frankie and Woody had ferocious appetites.” She immediately looked as if she was sorry she’d made that last statement.

He pulled her chair out, and after she sat he took the seat across from her and reached for the dish of potatoes. “Tell me a little bit about your stepfather. I believe you said your mother re-married after your father passed away.”

Her face flushed once again, but not from passion or the heat from the kitchen. It was obvious she was uncomfortable with the subject. He was certain from the start that she was hiding secrets. Maybe she trusted him enough now to tell him.

“Yes. She married Frankie Smith a little over a year after Papa died.”

“How did your mother and stepfather die?” He knew so little of this wife of his. He’d only learned she was sent down to Santa Fe with other ladies by the marshal of Dodge City when she told the story to the town council. At the time he was so overjoyed at having been given the permit, he forgot until now to ask her about that.

Her breathing picked up, and she placed the bowl of carrots back on the table with shaky hands.

“What’s wrong, Miranda?”

She tried to smile, but she didn’t quite make it. “Nothing. I guess I’m just a bit tired.” She hopped up. “I forgot the coffee. Turn your cup over.”

Preston watched her as she made her escape, which was the only word that fit her exit from the dining room. She took more than a few minutes to return, holding the coffeepot with a towel. Whatever had rattled her was no longer evident. Her face was no longer flushed, and her breathing had returned to normal. For the sake of a calm meal and what he planned for after dinner, he decided to drop the subject of her parents. But one day, he needed to delve into that subject.

Was that the secret she was hiding?