Lacey opened her eyes the next morning and found herself buried beneath a layer of thick quilts, instead of the one cool sheet she was used to. She stared groggily at the far window, at the light just beginning to glow through the lace curtains, and tried to remember which hotel she'd checked into the night before. Whichever one it was, they needed to have a serious look at their air conditioning system—the room was freezing.

Her attention landed on the kerosene lantern resting on the night table beside her bed and the previous day came back to her in a rush: the angel, the Martins, the marshal. She groaned and pressed her face down into her feather pillow. Why couldn't it have all been just a nightmare?

It was barely dawn and the house seemed quiet. She frowned, wondering what had woken her up. Determined to drift back to sleep, she burrowed deeper into the soft mattress beneath her.

Her eyes popped open. She suddenly had a sense that someone was in the room. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Heart pounding in her ears, she slowly rolled to her left and found herself staring up into the one face she didn’t want to see first thing in the morning.

"Time to get up, Miss Guarder."

She propped herself up on her elbows and glared at the marshal. "How long have you been standing there?”

"Long enough to know you snore."

"Get out."

"The rooster crowed fifteen minutes ago."

"Screw the rooster." She dropped back down onto the bed and closed her eyes. She'd get up when she felt like it and not a moment sooner.

Suddenly her heavy blankets were torn back, exposing her to the frigid air in the room. She let out a cry of shock and bolted upright. “What are you doing?! Give me those!"

He stood at the foot of her bed with her blankets clutched in his hand. "It's time to get up.”

“What am I, ten? I don’t want to get up yet!” She scrambled to her knees, tucking her feet beneath her nightgown to keep them warm. "I want to sleep until noon! I want to lounge around in this bed—the only luxury left to me in this backwards century—until I'm damn good and ready to face reality! Now, give them back!"

"It's nice to see your lungs made it through the night," he remarked. "Too bad your hair didn't fare so well."

She glared at him and fought an annoying urge to smooth down the fiery locks that were no doubt sticking up in knots all over her head. She wanted to slug him, she wanted to kick him, she wanted to kill him for being her "mission" in this godforsaken place!

With a cool smile, she reached behind her for a pillow. "I'm going to ask you one more time to give me back my blankets and get out of my room."

"And I'm gonna tell you one more time to get your lazy backside outta that bed."

With a cry of outrage, Lacey brought her arm around and flung her pillow at him. It hit him full in the face with a loud whop! and she smiled in satisfaction.

He glared at her. “That was a mistake.”

She let out a cry of alarm as he lunged for her. But she scrambled from his reach and grabbed the other pillow. She jumped to her feet in the bed, and when he reached for her again, she walloped him on the side of the head.

"You stay away from me!" she shouted, dancing in the center of the mattress.

"You hit me with that thing one more time, lady, and God Himself won't be able to protect you!"

"Haven't you heard? God's a she, and on the day she created rodents men just sort of snuck into the mix!"

He pointed a finger at her. "You're pushin’ your luck.”

She sneered at him and knocked his hand aside with her pillow.

"That's it." He reached down and picked up the pillow she'd thrown at him. "You want a fight. You got one." He swung out with his pillow and clipped her on the side of the head with it.

Lacey gasped. She pushed her hair out of her face. "Prepare to die, law-boy."

She jumped down from the bed and pillows began to collide…with arms, with backs, with heads. Lacey finally gave up trying to see where her hits landed and concentrated on putting every ounce of strength she had behind her swings. The marshal was getting in quite a few good hits himself, but she refused to let a slight jarring of the head stop her from beating the tar out of him.

Feathers were soon flying all over the room.

The marshal’s pillow once again connected with her head. “Had enough?" he taunted.

She landed a good hit against his stomach. “Not unless you’re dead.”

"You're actin’ like a child.” He swung his weapon.

"And you're not?" She swung back.

This went on for a while, until they were standing nose to nose, breathing hard.

"Get out of my room!" she threw into his face.

"Been here one day and already it belongs to you?"

"You have no right to come in here and wake me up like this!"

“You’re right. I should’ve used a bucket of cold water!”

She clenched her jaw, glaring menacingly into his eyes. And then the strangest thing happened: his stare dropped to her lips, and Lacey's heart actually skipped a beat.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

“I thought I made that pretty clear,” he replied. But his attention was still latched firmly on her mouth.

She couldn't have something stuck in her teeth, she hadn't eaten anything yet that morning. Then what was he staring at?

His lips parted slightly, and she finally recognized the expression on his face; to some strange passerby the marshal might have actually looked as if he were about to kiss her.

"You lay so much as a lip on me, buddy, and you'll find it rolling around in the dust at your feet."

His eyes shot back up to hers. "Kissin’ you is the furthest thing from my mind,” he sneered.

He stepped back from her, but Lacey wasn't buying it. Something told her that kissing her had been exactly his intent—why, she couldn't even begin to fathom. They could never in a million years be attracted to one another—not when they hated each other so much.

"Oh, my stars!"

Lacey looked past the marshal’s shoulder toward the doorway and found Hazel standing there staring at the feathers scattered all over the room. "What in tarnation happened in here?"

"A standoff,” Lacey said. "I'll…I’ll clean it up."

Hazel frowned at her. "You look flushed, honey. Didn't you sleep well?"

"I slept fine, thank you."

"Well,” she added looking around the room, “maybe you and Matthew should eat a little somethin’ before commencin’ with round two?” She headed off down the hallway. “George and I’ll be in the barn,” she called back. “Help yourself to coffee.”

Lacey settled a glare back on the marshal and started scooping up feathers and packing them back into the pillow case. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“Get dressed," the marshal said. "We've got work to do outside.”

"I'm not going out in that frigid air to push around some snow that'll probably start falling from the sky again the minute we're finished. I plan to spend my morning by the fire, drinking tankards of hot coffee and wishing I was somewhere else.

“And where would that be?”

She gave him a knowing smirk. “Wherever you aren’t.”

The muscle ticked at the back of his jaw. “In five minutes I’m coming in here and dragging you outside, as is.”

A heated retort danced on the tip of Lacey's tongue, but she hesitated. This man was very capable of carrying out his threat, and the humiliation—not to mention the agony—of being carted outside and dumped in the snow was enough to make her hold back in lieu of a more sensible argument. "I don't have any clothes to wear out in the cold,” she told him, "so I'm afraid you're going to have to shovel the snow by yourself."

He strode over to the dresser and started yanking open drawers. Lacey watched, holding her breath, but he hit pay-dirt in the bottom drawer. She groaned as he began tossing clothes out at her: a dingy white set of long underwear, some canvas pants, a green flannel shirt. A pair of scratchy wool socks hit her in the face, and she caught them and threw them back at him.

"Put them on," he said. He headed out of the room, but paused and turned just outside the door. "I expect you out of this room in five minutes."

"You try carting me outside, you swaggering jackass, and you'll get a snow shovel crammed down your throat.”

“Four minutes.”

Lacey strode forward and slammed the door in his face.

“Three,” she heard him call through the wood.

Lacey picked up the long underwear from the floor. "These aren't going to be warm enough!" she shouted for the marshal's benefit. "I'm gonna need an insulated space suit to survive out there in that cold for more than two seconds!” She knew he wouldn't understand half of that sentence, and congratulated herself all the more for thinking of it.

Knowing she had no choice, she yanked off her nightgown and pulled on the stiff clothes. She rolled the cuffs of the shirt up to her elbows, leaving just the sleeves of the long underwear to cover her forearms, and then rolled up the bottom of the canvas pants about six times before she could finally see her feet. Everything was about three sizes too big; without a belt, she had to tie the tails of the shirt through the side belt loops of the pants to keep them up around her hips. When she was finished dressing, she looked down at herself and didn't need a mirror to know she looked completely ridiculous.

She pulled on the thick, itchy socks, damning Marshal Matthew Brady with a steady stream of curses—and then she caught sight of her twenty-first century pumps peeking out from under the bed. Lacey’s responding smile could have put the sun to shame. The marshal would probably come up with a coat for her to wear, but shoes? She may be able to manage with Hazel's old clothes, but Hazel Martin was a big woman, and probably wore a size twelve double wide shoe. Praise the lord, she was saved!

She left her bedroom for the foyer. The marshal was waiting for her at the front door, wearing a heavy fleece-lined coat and his trusty hat. He stopped in front of her with his hands behind his back to give her a once over, and she could see a little smile playing on his lips. He thought this was funny, did he? Well, she'd be getting the last laugh.

"You're going to have to shovel that snow by yourself," she told him.

"I thought we’d settled this."

Lacey lifted her pant-legs, revealing her stockinged feet, and gave him a triumphant smile. "I don't have any shoes to wear."

He matched her smile, and then produced a pair of scuffed-up leather boots from behind his back. "I stuffed rags in the toes."

Lacey gritted her teeth and snatched them from his hands. "You're going to pay for this, Brady," she muttered. She sat down in the middle of the floor and pulled the boots onto her feet. They were at least two sizes too big. “I’m going to have blisters on top of blisters."

"You'll survive." He reached down to help her to her feet, but she pulled away from him and stood up on her own. "Don't I at least get a cup of coffee before being put to work out in the freezing cold?"

"The porch needs to be cleared before someone breaks their neck."

"And that'll probably be me with these tuna boats on my feet."

"It's a pity you lost your luggage in the storm. You did have luggage, didn't you?"

"Why would I travel without it?" she said evasively.

"Know anyone who could send you some more clothes?"

"Nope."

He gave her a steady look from beneath the brim of his hat. "Then I suggest you buy yourself some as soon as you get into town, Miss Guarder. One strong gust of wind and the ones you're wearin’ are liable to fly right off." He walked over and opened the wooden door. "Let's get to work."

“Whatever,” she grumbled.

He pushed on the screen, but it stuck at the bottom and bounced right back into place. He gave it another strong shove on its metal frame, but it wasn't budging.

Lacey smiled. Luck was on her side after all. "Guess we're stuck inside. Where's that coffee—"

"We'll go out the back door and circle around."

"Well, you're just full of bright ideas this morning, aren't cha?”

He strode off down the hallway, and she clunked after him into the kitchen and out the back door. They walked beneath a wooden lean-to sheltering stacks of cut wood, and out into the dull light of another overcast day. "Hasn't the sun been invented here yet?" she grumbled to herself.

Fighting off a chill, she followed in his footsteps through the calf-deep snow. “If I die out here, I'm holding you personally responsible."

"You'll warm up once we start workin’."

They passed between the house and the barn, and headed toward the long walkway leading up to the porch. It wasn't long before Lacey understood the problem with the screen door; snow and ice had blown up against it during the night and frozen it in place.

The marshal picked up one of two shovels leaning against the porch railing and handed it to her. "I trust this won't come anywhere near my mouth.”

She smirked at him. "Trust is a hard thing to come by."

"So is a meal in my jail."

Understanding the meaning behind his veiled threat, she snatched the shovel from his hands and turned toward the door. She drove the sharp edge against the base of the blockage and didn't even make a dent. "We could be here all day."

"You had something better to do?" He picked up the other shovel and took a turn at the snow pack, only to have the same meager results.

"I could think of a few things more exciting than this, yeah." She struck at it again, and this time broke off a few chunks.

"Got any friends in town?” He took his turn and made some headway.

"Not a one."

“Sounds lonely.”

“More like peaceful.”

They were working in rhythm now, each trying to knock off a bigger chunk than the other, and their efforts were paying off.

"Got a telegraph office in town if you need to contact anyone to let them know you’re safe.”

"That won't be necessary."

"Nobody cares, huh?"

"Only you." She knocked off most of the blockage with her next strike and the screen door shuddered. "Hallelujah," she muttered. She reached for the door handle but so did the marshal—and neither one of them were interested in letting go.

"Stand back and let me try givin’ it a good pull," he told her.

"You stand back and let me try giving it a pull."

They glared at each other, and then they both pulled. They both found out the hard way that the door was no longer blocked: it flew open with no problem at all, knocking them both off balance. They did a little dance on the slippery, compact snow beneath them, blindly grabbing at each other for support, until finally crashing down to the snow-covered porch.

When Lacey opened her eyes she was sprawled over the marshal and he had a firm grip on her bottom. "Get your hands off me!” she hissed.

“I’m not the one layin’ on top of you,” he retorted.

Lacey struggled to rise, but she couldn’t get a register on the icy porch and just kept falling back down on top of him like a deranged jack in the box. She heard the snort of a horse behind her and the marshal's gaze darted past her shoulder. He sighed and closed his eyes.

Lacey craned her neck and saw three mounted men staring down at them, grinning from ear to ear.

"Mornin', boss. Need some help?"

* * *

Matthew had been caught in some suggestive situations before, but this one took the cake. And with Larry, Gene, and Bill as witnesses, it was bound to be spreading through town like a Texas wildfire before either he or Miss Guarder even had a chance to get up on their feet.

"Wipe those stupid grins off your faces and help the lady up," he ordered. There isn’t anything improper going on here, he reminded himself. He'd simply grabbed what was necessary— and that necessary had just happened to be Miss Guarder's shapely backside. It was as plain and as simple as that. He was just having a hard time letting go of it considering it fit so neatly in his hands.

Before any of his deputies could dismount and help her to her feet, Miss Guarder managed to climb off him and stand back. Matthew's first impulse was to jump to his feet and deny any wrongdoing to his men. But a hasty action like that might just imply some sort of guilt on his part, so he lay back in the snow and pretended to be disgruntled by the whole situation.

"We, uh, hurried on out here this mornin' 'cause we thought you might be in some sorta trouble, boss," Larry Dover said. "But you seem to have the situation well in…hand."

The other two deputies broke into chuckles.

"Looked like a handful to me," Gene Peers added, laughing harder.

Bill Booth leaned forward in his saddle and grinned at Miss Guarder. "Mind if I try my hand at it?”

Lacey Guarder crossed her arms and eyed the men's horses. "You know, I've heard a man often compensates for a certain inadequacy by choosing a powerful mode of transportation."

Matthew groaned and closed his eyes, knowing that when the woman got that look in her eye nothing good ever came of it.

There was a tense moment of silence. Then Larry said in a slow, stunned drawl, "I beg your pardon, ma'am?"

"The larger the mode, the smaller the load," she explained with a shrug.

Matthew sat up. His deputies' beard-stubbled faces had turned hot-pepper red. These men had followed him into rattlesnake dens, knife brawls, and gunfights without ever showing a hint of fear, and Miss Lacey Guarder had just laid them all low with one quick lash of her tongue.

"Now, what the hell kinda remark is that?" Larry Dover demanded.

"An honest one?" she replied.

"You can't just go around sayin' things like that to a feller," Gene Peers declared. "Can she, Larry?"

“You certainly had no problem insulting me,” Lacey insisted.

"That was dif'ernt," Bill Booth protested.

"Different why? Because I'm a woman and only men can make lewd remarks?"

"Women ain't s'pose ta… Well, they don't just… Aw, you tell her Larry."

"Women ain't supposed to be coarse, is what Gene here's tryin' to say," Larry explained. "Ain't no man around here gonna want a coarse woman."

"Well, now, that news certainly brightens my morning,” Lacey quipped. “Care to leave and make it perfect?"

His deputies appeared to be at a loss, and Matthew could certainly sympathize. Lacey Guarder was definitely one for the books, and certainly not one to tangle with when it came to a battle of wits—especially not for three dim-witted barrel heads like Larry, Bill, and Gene.

The snow beneath him was starting to melt and seep through his denims, but he felt his men had been sufficiently distracted enough that it was now safe for him to stand. He pulled his hat on tighter, and rose to his feet. "Close your mouths, boys, before your tongues freeze to your teeth."

"Where the hell did you find this she-cat?" Larry demanded. "I've seen shorter claws on a mountain lion."

"And smaller feet on an elephant," Gene remarked. He was staring at the over-sized shoes Matthew had found for her in the cellar.

"He followed his gun," Lacey Guarder answered. She took hold of the sides of her trousers and hiked them back up around her hips. The strange way she'd tied her shirt through the belt loops was managing to keep the damn things on, but, judging by the shape of the sleek little body he'd just handled, he figured the pants had to be five sizes too big.

Larry gave him an odd look. "His gun?"

Not in the mood to explain himself, Matthew ignored the question. "Any news on Lorraine Rawlins?" he asked.

"That's why we're here," Gene replied.

"Got a lead she might be holding' up at an aunt's house in Geneva," Bill added.

Matthew nodded. "Ned and Henry feeling any more talkative after a cold night in jail?"

"Not a bit," Larry answered.

Bill smiled eagerly. "I say we string 'em up from a tree and see if that don't loosen their tongues a little."

"Oh, that's brilliant," Lacey Guarder remarked. "Let's strangle them and see if that'll get them to talk."

Bill gave her a dark scowl. "I suppose you've got a better idea."

"As a matter of fact—"

"She's got no part in this," Matthew interrupted. "You boys get to work clearin’ off this porch while I get my horse. If we're lucky this lead in Geneva will pan out and we'll have that money back by this afternoon."

"Don't count on it," he heard Miss Guarder comment as he walked past her for the barn.

He stopped and stared at her red nose. "I suggest you get a coat on."

"I'm coming with you."

"We're not going to town. I'm sure the Martins will be happy to drive you there later to get some decent clothes."

"I don't intend to shop."

He cast a disparaging look over her baggy attire and couldn't quite help imagining what lay beneath. "Suit yourself.” He headed on his way.

"I intend to help you recover that stolen money."

Matthew froze in his tracks. He could clearly hear the bewildered grumbles of his men a few yards away, but he was certain he’d heard Miss Guarder incorrectly. He turned once to face her. "What was that?"

"I want to help."

"Go back in the house and have your cup of coffee, Miss Guarder. Me and my men don't need your help."

She snorted derisively. “You had your gun planted in my face last night thinking I was Lorraine Rawlins. I’d say you need all the help you can get.”

“You did?” Larry Dover questioned.

"But, boss," Gene Peers added, “she don't even have black hair."

"I am aware of that, Gene,” Matthew replied, his patience thinning.

"One would think,” Miss Guarder continued, “considering how important this money is to the town, that you'd welcome any help you could get in finding it."

He crossed his arms over his chest, wondering what game she was playing now. "And just how do you intend to help?"

She gave him a proud smirk. "I'll bet you a new coat that I can get Ned and Henry to talk."

He smirked at her. “Thanks, but those kinds of visits aren't allowed in my jail."

Her smile faded, but the determined glint in her golden eyes only intensified. “That’s not what I had in mind."

"The answer's still no."

"Afraid I might succeed and show you up?"

Fear didn't exactly cover it. It was more like doubt. There was something about this woman, something he was finding hard to resist, and he wanted away from her—far away.

"Ya know, Marshal," Larry spoke up, "a man does tend to be susceptible to a purty gal. Maybe we should—"

"No," Matthew repeated firmly. He gave Lacey Guarder an unflinching stare. "Absolutely not." Then he turned and headed for the barn.

He'd been telling himself all morning that once he left the house, once he was out of her company, he'd be fine. He'd almost kissed her after their pillow fight. He still couldn't believe it. One minute he'd been angry as hell, trying to keep from reaching for her neck, and the very next he'd been seized by an almost overwhelming desire to lay his hands on her in a entirely different way. Thank God Hazel had walked in when she did.

"Mornin', Matthew," George Martin called as Matthew entered the barn. He was sitting on a three-legged stool, milking their cow.

Matthew headed for his saddled horse. "Mornin’, George."

"You and Miss Guarder get that porch taken care of all right?"

"I've got my deputies workin’ on it now."

George chuckled. "I always knew them boys were good for somethin'."

And then Lacey Guarder stormed into the barn. “Listen here, pal, just who the hell do you think you are?"

George looked up in surprise, but Matthew wasn't surprised at all. Of course she'd followed him; she hadn't had the last word yet.

"I happen to be the marshal," he replied. He steadied his horse and tightened the cinch on his saddle. “You know, the law around here? I think it's about time you came to terms with that.”

“Is that supposed to intimidate me?"

He gave her a hard look. "It should."

“Okay, listen, sweet cakes. This tough guy image you're working here, it doesn't impress me. We both have a problem. You need to find that money, and I need to help you do it. I can get those two men to talk—"

"How?”

"By getting them to think I'm on their side. Place a man in the company of an attractive woman who commiserates, and he'll open up like the cargo doors on a B-52."

He narrowed his eyes. “A what?" Sometimes she said the damndest things….

"I can get them to talk," she insisted.

"I don't suppose it would do me any good to ask you why you're so interested in helpin’ find this money?"

She pressed her lips together and looked down at her feet. More secrets. He wasn’t surprised.

"I didn't think so,” he remarked. “Look, it's an interestin’ idea, but in order for it to work you'd have to be left alone with the Rawlins brothers, and I'm not cruel enough to subject any woman to that—not even you. So do us all a favor and stay out of it." He turned to his horse and swung up into his saddle. "Thanks for the hospitality, George," he called.

"Don't mention it, Matthew," George replied. "See ya Saturday night. Hazel and I are lookin' forward to dinner with you and Mizz Simmons."

Amanda. Sweet, gentle Amanda.

Matthew looked down at the firebrand standing beside his horse and found himself comparing the two women. Amanda Simmons was the kind of woman men made plans with. Lacey Guarder was the kind of woman who took a man's best laid plans and ground them into dust beneath her heel. The smartest thing he could do was ride out of that barn and never give the woman another thought.

He tugged his hat brim down low over his forehead, more to hide his thoughts than to block the daylight. "It's been interesting," he said to her.

“This isn’t over yet, Marshal.”

"Yes, Miss Guarder, it is."

He clicked to his horse and rode out of the barn. His men had already finished clearing the porch, and all three fell into line behind him. He had six days to recover that money or he was out of a job.

But he wasn't thinking about his job or that stolen money as he headed off down the road to Geneva. He was thinking about a copper-haired hellion with flashing eyes.