After three hours of chasing through the numbing cold, Matthew Brady was calling off the search. The idea didn't sit well with him, but a winter storm was headed their way, and he wouldn’t risk the lives of his men—or himself—trying to track down quarry that had clearly gotten away. He'd failed, and it stuck tight in his craw; he hadn't become marshal only to fail four short months into the job.

He nudged his horse forward and tried one more time to spot the female bandit’s tracks through the fresh-falling snow. He should have guessed, when the trail he and his men had been following split into two, that Ned and Henry had given the money to their sister and sent her off in a different direction. It was a perfect plan, considering the average lawman would never believe they'd hand over that much cash into a woman's safekeeping. But Matthew Brady wasn't supposed to be an average man. He'd ridden with, gambled with, fought with some of the schemingest men to ever walk the earth, and he’d been hired to stay one step ahead of the criminals in Tranquility, not four crawls behind.

Fat fluffy snowflakes drifted down from the steely gray sky, covering everything in a sparkling blanket of crystal white. Matthew could just make out Larry Dover’s silhouette as the deputy maneuvered his horse through a distant copse of trees. The man was searching for clues. To the posse's credit, they'd eventually caught up with Ned and Henry, but the Rawlins brothers had only laughed and informed Matthew and his deputies that they no longer had the stolen money. Lucky for Ned and Henry Rawlins, two of Matthew’s men had volunteered to take the outlaws into town and lock them up in jail. If Matthew had escorted the outlaws, he would have been hard-pressed not to string up both brothers before even reaching the Tranquility city limits.

Matthew’s horse grunted beneath him, tossing his head at the cold blowing snow, and he gave the animal a reassuring pat on the neck. It was time to head back. Lorraine Rawlins wouldn’t get far in this weather, but that was little comfort. If the weather didn’t let up soon, all he’d have to show for his efforts was a pair of useless brothers taking up space in an eight by ten cell. The town council wasn’t going to like that one bit. If he wanted to keep his job, he had to find that money. Fast.

Something caught his eye, and, with a soft "Whoa" and a gentle tug on the reins, he brought his horse to a stop beside a fresh set of well-defined footprints in the snow. He leaned over his pommel for a better look. The tracks were deep, close together; whoever’d made them was moving slow and unsteady.

It had to be Lorraine Rawlins.

Hope warmed Matthew’s soul. Then he realized the direction the tracks were headed and an icy fist closed around his heart. The woman was making a beeline toward Sutter's Ridge—straight to the front door of George and Hazel Martin.

Matthew looked behind him, hoping to gauge where the tracks had come from, and frowned in confusion. He craned his neck, squinted hard, and tried to do the math. But no matter which way he looked, there seemed to be no matching tracks leading up to the ones he'd found—as if whoever’d made them had fallen clean outta the sky.

"Did you find sumpin’, boss?"

Matthew straightened as Larry rode up. "Take a look at these." He indicated the tracks below him.

Larry placed his hand on the crown of his hat and bent forward to stare down at the footprints. Then he grinned up at Matthew. “Looks like we're back in business."

“Why is she on foot?" Matthew asked.

Larry shrugged. “Maybe her horse went lame."

"And now she's headed for the nearest shelter."

Larry stared off in the direction the tracks led and his eyes rounded. "Holy mother,” he muttered. “That girl is rumored to be twice as mean as her older brothers, Marshal. God only knows what she might do to two unsuspectin’ folks like George and Hazel Martin."

Matthew adjusted his Stetson to keep the blowing snow out of his eyes and squinted into the wind. His horse snorted and sidestepped, sensing that neither he nor his rider were quite finished for the day. “Let’s pray they didn't let her in."

"She-oot,” Larry countered. “The Martins’d take in the devil hisself if’n he looked pitiful enough."

"Then we better hope this is the devil, Larry. ‘Cause George and Hazel would be a whole lot better off with him.” He turned his horse toward Sutter’s Ridge. “Ride back toward Tranquility and round up Gene and Bill. Meet me at the Martin ranch."

"Are you sure you wanna be headin’ out there by yerself?" Larry called after him. "If it is Lorraine Rawlins, you’re gonna need more than just that six-shooter.”

The tracks were slowly filling in with fresh snow. Tranquility was in for one of the worst storms they’d seen in years. If the tracks did belong to Lorraine Rawlins, then Matthew wasn't about to wait around and risk the chance of losing her again. "Just round ‘em up, Larry," he called back. “I can take care of myself.”

Matthew rode off toward the Martins' homestead, following the tracks until they finally disappeared beneath the accumulating snow. But he didn’t need to see them to know where their owner was going.

The wind began to pick up. He felt it clear to his bones. His horse stumbled a few times and he was relieved when he finally spotted the faint yellow glow of light coming from the Martins' windows. The weather was quickly changing from a heavy snowfall to an all-out blizzard; he could barely see four feet in front of him as he walked his horse to the barn.

Once he had the animal settled into a clean, warm stall. He knocked the snow from his hat and tugged off his gloves, stuffing them into the back pocket of his jeans. He rubbed his hands together to work the circulation back into his fingers, and then slipped his gun out of the leather holster at his hip to check the cylinder. Satisfied it was fully loaded, he tucked the colt into the front pocket of his fleece-lined coat and moved to the door of the barn. Matthew had never shot a woman before. He hoped Lorraine Rawlins wasn’t about to volunteer to be his first.

He peered out across the yard, at the outline of the house. He could just make out the steady plume of dark smoke rising up from the chimney. The place looked quiet enough; the only sound was the howling wind. He considered waiting for his deputies, but the Martins could be trussed up and stuffed in the root cellar for all he knew. It might be hours before his men could make it out to the ranch in this wintery mess.

Making his decision, Matthew steeled himself against the biting wind and dashed from the barn. He immediately found himself assaulted by cold, slashing snow that stole his breath and blurred his vision. He pulled his coat tight at the collar, trying to keep his body heat in, and pushed his way across the yard through the bracing blizzard. By the time he reached the porch his exposed face had gone numb.

He forced his sluggish legs to climb to the porch. He had to circumvent a large pile of snow that had fallen from the roof to get to the front door. He took his gun from his pocket, pulled open the screen door, and gave the solid door a few good whacks with the butt. Then he waited. And waited some more.

Matthew was about to barge into the house, gun blazing, when Hazel Martin finally opened the door. A stark look of surprise crossed her face when she saw him standing there on her porch with his gun drawn. "Matthew?"

“E-evening, H-Hazel,” he stammered in the cold. He would have tugged the brim of his hat at her if he hadn’t thought his cold fingers might snap off with the effort.

Not one to mince words—or actions—Hazel Martin took him by the front of his jacket, and yanked him inside her house. She closed the door tight behind him. The heat pressed up against Matthew’s face and shot pinpricks through his cold hands.

"We've got company, George!" Hazel called out. She began stripping off Matthew's heavy coat. Matthew was grateful for the help, but he was more interested in knowing that she and George were all right.

"Who is it this—“ George Martin stopped short in the archway leading in from the drawing room. "Matthew? What in God's name are you doing out in this storm?"

"L-looking f-for Lorraine Rawlins," Matthew’s body was reacting violently to his exposure to the cold; he couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

"In this weather?" Hazel demanded. “The girl’s bound to freeze to death before you catch her—if you don't freeze to death first, mister fresh-off-the-boat-from-California."

Hazel tried to lead Matthew toward the drawing room, where he could hear the popping and snapping of a roaring fire, but he planted his feet and resisted her tug on his arm. The Martins were either alone in the house, or blissfully unaware of what was happening around them, and the last thing he needed was to walk into a situation unprepared.

Hazel scowled at him. “What’s the matter with you? You got frostbite in your toes?"

George, on the other hand, sensed something was up. “What's going' on, son?"

The muscles in Matthew's body were pulled as tight as a banjo string, but adrenaline was slowly beginning to warm him up. "Is she here?" he demanded in a harsh whisper.

Hazel blinked in confusion. "Is who here?" she whispered. "And why are we whisperin'?"

George's eyes narrowed. "There is a young lady here. I take it you think you've got some business with her?" George was a member of the city council. He’d attended the emergency meeting held that morning after the bank robbery. He knew exactly what Matthew was getting at.

Matthew nodded at the older man. He took his pistol into his left hand and flexed the stiffness out of his gun fingers. "Is she armed?" he asked quietly.

"Armed?!" Hazel echoed.

George arched his brows. “Son, she was barely dressed."

Matthew frowned at that response. "Is she in there?" He gestured toward the drawing room beyond George.

George nodded slowly. "Uh-huh."

"What is goin' on here?" Hazel demanded.

"Matthew thinks our guest is Lorraine Rawlins. She and her brothers robbed the city bank this mornin'."

Hazel's eyes rounded. “Lorraine Rawlins?” She laughed. “Why, that’s ridiculous.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Matthew replied. He took a step toward the drawing room.

Hazel moved in front of him and set her hands on her ample hips. “Now hold on a minute. Why would a desperate outlaw on the run be wanderin' around in a snowstorm without a horse or even a coat, for cryin' out loud?"

Matthew scowled. “She wasn't wearing a coat?"

"She showed up on our doorstep claimin' she was lost and demandin' to know what year it was,” George explained. “She, uh, she was knocked a bit silly when the snow from the eaves dropped on her head."

“What year?” Matthew repeated.

“I told her it was November 10th, 1878, and she went white as a sheet in daylight. I tried gettin’ more out of her, but after that she bottled up so tight a fistful of axle grease couldn't loosen her lips."

"The girl's just shy," Hazel defended. "And embarrassed to be feelin' so confused. Who wouldn't be disoriented after wanderin' around in that storm?” She gave Matthew a pointed look. "And I don't believe for one minute that sweet girl is associated with that low-down Rawlins family.”

"Was she carrying anything with her?" Matthew asked. Dare he hope she had the money with her? “Saddlebags, maybe?”

George shook his head. "Just a small handbag."

Matthew grimaced. Lorraine must have stashed the money somewhere in the storm. He needed to find out where. "You two stay here."

Hazel took hold of his arm. “Now you hold on just one stinkin’ minute, Matthew Brady. I am not convinced that young woman in there is who you claim she is. And until I am, she is a guest in my house. You and your Colt pistol best remember that.”

Matthew looked at George. The man shrugged, acquiescing to his wife.

Not wanting to insult Hazel, Matthew nodded reluctantly, but there was no doubt in his mind that he was about to come face to face with the notorious Lorraine Rawlins.

He strode into the drawing room and found it alight with hurricane lanterns. At first glance the room appeared empty, but then he caught movement in the dark leather chair by the large stone fireplace.

He edged his way past the sofa and around the coffee table, then crossed the tightly woven, circular rug. The fire in the grate raged; he felt the heat on his face as he moved around the side of the chair and stuck his gun in his prisoner’s face.

A startled gasp broke free from a pair of full, tawny lips and Matthew froze. This was not what he’d expected at all. Wide, golden eyes stared back at him in surprise from a face as smooth and flawless as a sculpted piece of porcelain. He nearly dropped his gun. Lorraine Rawlins was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

* * *

Lacey had been ushered into a rustic-looking home, shoved into a bedroom, unceremoniously stripped naked by a woman she didn't know—who'd clucked and chided her for being too pale and too thin—and wrapped in a warm blanket from head to toe. She'd been given a large mug of hot coffee—a tad on the bitter side—and was then plopped down in front of a warm fire.

And now what was this? Some sort of Old West greeting custom that involved a man with a gun shooting the new arrival?

She stared hard at the man in front of her. Her first instinct was to try to intimidate him into lowering his weapon. But then a tiny warm shiver slid over her body and she blinked in confusion. Somehow, some way…she felt like she knew this guy.

But of course she couldn't know him. If the Martins were to be believed, this man had been born over a hundred years before her. She was supposedly sitting smack-dab in the year 1878, and she needed to keep that in mind if she planned to stay one step ahead of this game—whatever this game was.

She quirked an eyebrow at the barrel of the man’s old-fashioned pistol and wondered if the thing even worked. He was standing in a spread-legged stance beside her chair; lean hips, wide chest, shoulders so broad you could roller skate on them. Who ever he was, he was pretty impressive. He was wearing a tan-colored cowboy hat that shadowed his eyes, making it impossible to read his expression, but his rigid posture told her he wasn’t adverse to using the gun he was holding.

“It isn't polite for a man to flash his weapon in public,” she remarked.

He lowered his aim from her face to the center of her chest, and her attention lingered on the sculpted line of his stubble-covered jaw and the fullness of his lips. She wondered who he was, and what she’d done to warrant this particular greeting.

And then he spoke. "You've got two seconds to tell me who you are and what you're doing here."

His voice was smooth, steady, and Lacey narrowed her eyes. She’d never had a lot of patience for pushy, arrogant men. Feeling pretty confident he wouldn’t shoot her in the Martins’ living room, she settled her attention on the hot fire in front of her and went back to trying to solve the problem at hand: finding the little woman who’d brought her there and—

"Don't make me ask you again, lady."

"Listen, Maverick,” she snapped, “you're bullying the wrong person. I've got a lot on my plate right now and I am not interested in playing cowboy with you. So you can take your questions, along with your little hat and your little gun, and go straight to hell.”

She tugged her blanket up tighter beneath her chin and refocused on the fire, hoping this time the man would go away.

He didn't.

“Let’s start with your name."

Lacey clenched her teeth. He could start with the moon for all she cared. She had bigger fish to fry. She certainly hadn’t been serious when she’d agreed to travel back in time to 1878—who could have imagined that bite-sized woman was capable of pulling something like this off? But if her so-called spiritual guide had been able to take her into the past, then the woman was certainly capable of sending her right back home. Lacey would have been standing in the middle of the Martins’ living room demanding exactly that, if not for the little woman’s warning that was, even now, ringing like a death knell through her head: “The charges against you will be waiting right here if you should choose to re-embrace them.”

She heard the hammer on the man’s gun click back, but refused to show any indication she'd noticed.

"Shall I count to ten?" he stated.

“Don’t feel like you have to show off on my account,” she muttered.

He was awfully sure of himself with that cannon clutched in his fist. Her can of pepper spray could have given him a run for his money, but her purse had been left in the bedroom along with all of her clothes.

"You don't look like a Rawlins," he commented.

She angled him a sharp look. “A what?"

"A Rawlins. As in Lorraine Rawlins."

"Maybe that's because I'm not a Rawlins-as-in-Lorraine-Rawlins."

He met her hard stare. “What are you doing here?"

“Warming up and trying to ignore you.”

“I don’t think ignoring me would be all that wise.”

She opened her mouth to tell him that he could measure her concern for what he thought in microgivashits, but before she could open her mouth, Hazel Martin came bustling into the room with a silver serving tray in her hands.

"I brought you both some coffee," the woman said. She caught sight of the gunman. "Matthew Brady,” she chastised. “Get that blasted pistol outta her face.”

Lacey had already downed three cups of the strong brew that Hazel called coffee—one more and she'd probably be awake until the apocalypse—but anything even remotely warm was hard for her to turn down at the moment. She accepted another cup from Hazel.

"Hazel," the man said, "I want you and George to go in your room and lock the door. Stay there until I tell you it’s safe to come out.”

The woman leveled a haughty look at him. "I have supper to cook," she retorted. "And George has lamps to fill. Enjoy your coffee, Miss Guarder," she said to Lacey. "That is your name, isn't it? Miss Guarder?"

“Yes,” Lacey replied. “It is.” For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why everybody seemed to doubt that. If she was going to lie about who she was, she certainly would have come up with a better name than the ridiculous one she’d been given at birth by a mother high on heroine.

Hazel Martin smirked. "Well, Matthew. That's certainly good enough for me. Has our marshal, here, even bothered to introduce himself, Miss Guarder?"

Marshal? Lacey turned furious eyes on the man. He was a cop?! She should have guessed based on his cocksure attitude and the make-my-day set of his stubborn jaw.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, Matthew?" Hazel asked. "Or would it only get in the way of the gunplay?"

"Hazel?” George Martin called from the back of the house. “Get on outta there, hun, and let the man do his job.”

Hazel pursed her lips. "I s’pose I'll be in the kitchen…if somebody decides to come to his senses.” She gave the marshal a pointed look.

Hazel left the room and Lacey settled back into the leather chair with her coffee, now even more determined to ignore the marshal. He still hadn’t lowered his gun and she was beginning to take it personally.

"If you're not Lorraine Rawlins, then who are you?"

Lacey sighed. Maybe if she gave him a straight answer he’d go away and leave her in peace? “My name’s Lacey Guarder.”

He let go with a deep, soft laugh. "You expect me to believe your name is Lacey Garter?”

She threw him a hot glare; like in twenty-five years she’d never heard that one before? “That’s Guar-der. G.U.A.R.D.E.R. And I don't give a damn whether you believe me or not.”

"Where, exactly, are you from, Miss Guarder?”

"The twenty-first century.” He wouldn’t believe her, but it was fun to say it just the same.

He gave her a bland stare. “What’s your business in Tranquility?”

“A much needed vacation.”

“From what?”

She smirked. “People like you.”

He was watching her closely, reading her body language and expressions, trying to discern the truth, but she hadn't lied to him—yet. When she did, the truth certainly wouldn't be written all over her face.

His strong chin lifted slightly and she caught a glimpse of thick, brown hair peeking out from beneath his hat. "What happened to your horse?"

Lacey had already gone through this line of questioning with the Martins. Why not make it more interesting the second time around? “I ate him," she replied. She turned her attention to the flames dancing in the hearth.

"You ate your horse.”

She shrugged. "A girl gets hungry in a blizzard.”

“And your coat?”

“What coat?”

“The one the Martins say you weren’t wearing.”

“I didn’t bring a coat.”

“Why would you go out in a snow storm without a coat?”

She smiled. “Because it wasn’t snowing when I left.”

She heard him sigh and looked over to see him holstering his gun. He took off his hat, revealing thick, walnut-brown hair that was puckered on top and plastered down on the sides with sweat. He tossed the Stetson to the sofa, and pushed his hand through the rumpled mess on his head. Their eyes met. His were green, a deep shade of jade, and that feeling came back again in spades—that same unmistakable sense that she'd met him somewhere before.

"What were you doing wandering around in a snowstorm?" he asked.

"Freezing to death." He was tragically good looking—tragic for her—tousled hair and all. She felt drawn to every line and angle of his face.

“Without a horse and a coat,” he stated.

His lips were full and expressive. Watching them form words was downright mesmerizing. He arched a dark brow at her and she realized she was staring. She cleared her throat and looked back at the fire. “That’s right,” she answered.

"The Martins mentioned something about you being confused as to what year it was?"

In her daze, Lacey had asked the Martins about the date. The Richter scale couldn't have measured her shock when George Martin had answered, “November 10th, 1878.”

"I'm afraid they're the ones confused," she responded. "I asked what time it was, not what date." Her first lie to him, but certainly not her last. Thankfully neither of the Martins were in the room to dispute it.

“Did you have somewhere you needed to be?"

Lacey had been interrogated too many times to fall for such a leading question. “Did I say that?” she replied.

"You haven't really said anything."

“Maybe there’s nothing to tell.”

He folded his arms. “I highly doubt that. You here alone?”

Does a tiny angel count? “That’s none of your business.”

“How long do you plan to stay?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Know anybody in town?”

“Nope.”

“Got any family?”

“Either charge me with something or leave me alone.”

His lips twisted into a slow smile. "Spoken like someone who's seen the inside of a few jail cells.”

Lacey could have kicked herself for letting that vital piece of information out. The mention of family had always been a trigger for her. She recovered quickly, though, and gave him a wide-eyed stare. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He turned and sat down next to his hat on the forest-green sofa. "You don't look like a Rawlins.”

“Could that be because I am not a Rawlins?”

He nodded and studied her carefully. “So you say. But I think I’ll stick around and make sure for myself.” He sank back into the cushions and propped his ankle on his knee.

Lacey gritted her teeth. She was tired, hungry, and fresh out of witty retorts. The lawman looked lousy with confidence, and she had to turn back to the fire or completely lose her cool. She'd been dumped in the middle of a blizzard, left to her own devices in a completely different century, only to have another cop breathing down her neck.