Two days later, Donovan tugged at the string tie Nessa had so painstakingly knotted around his neck. It felt more like a noose. Or was it the fact he was heading into town to get married? Both could choke the life out of a man if not done right.

“Damn it,” he muttered as he flicked the reins across the back of the buggy’s horse. “Let’s get this over with.”

The buggy sped up.

No way could he not show up for the wedding. Carter had stayed true to his word. Every time Donovan had looked up, Carter was blatantly watching.

The midmorning sun beat down. Oregon days had been unseasonably warmer this spring, but the nights were still cold. It would be nice to have a woman warming his bed. He smiled. Yep, even the blackest clouds have silver linings.

Not bothering to slow the horse, he wrangled out of his freshly ironed jacket.

Suddenly, the buggy shook. A second after that, the right wheel wobbled then fell off. The buggy lurched to the side, giving Donovan a bird’s eye view of the wheel-less axle gouging a gash into the hard-packed dirt road.

The horse reared and screamed as the bit cut into the tender flesh of her mouth. Panic laced with pain hurled her into an all-out gallop.

Donovan snatched the reins he’d laid across his knee while wrestling with his jacket. With both boots on the front broad for leverage, he yanked on the leads with all his might. “Whoa! Whoa!”

Finally, the buggy stopped.

Donovan sat motionless, still clutching the reins, his heart racing. How the Hell…

After the horse had calmed, he climbed out of the buggy to inspect the damage. The axle, splintered and cracked, pierced the road where the buggy had stopped. He spotted the wheel in a grove of trees not more than fifty feet down the road. Not that it would do him any good. The axle was too damaged to try to remount the wheel.

Donovan turned and eased his way to the horse, all the while speaking in a soft, comforting tone. “You okay, girl?”

He waited until the horse could see him before touching her head. “That was one wild ride, huh?”

Running his palm against her quivering neck, he continued to console. “Scared the beejeebers out of me too.”

Noticing blood running from the horse’s mouth, he gently held the halter as he examined the injury. Thankfully, it wasn’t too bad.

He glanced up the road as he unharnessed the horse from the buggy. Oh yeah, it could’ve been a lot worse, as in fatally worse.

Not a quarter of a mile ahead lay Reaper’s Ravine. A hundred-foot sheer drop on one side and an unyielding, almost straight up mountainside on the other.

If he was a superstitious man, he could look at the accident two ways: either fate was telling him not to show for his wedding or fate had saved him from Reaper’s Ravine so he could bind himself to a stranger.

Lucky for him, he wasn’t a superstitious man.

Donovan chuckled as he swung his leg over the back of the injured horse and headed to town. He’d have to take it slow and easy or he might worsen the horse’s injuries.

He might or might not be late. And his appearance might be less than pristine. But he was getting married today.

Chained to a beautiful woman for the rest of his life or chained to a cot in an eight-by-eight cell for fifteen to twenty years? Easy choice.

Fate be damned.

Donovan had one more chore to complete to hopefully convince the persistent Pinkerton man to leave town, for good.

* * *

Rachel paced in her bedroom, her wedding dress rustling with every step. She glanced at the mantel clock—again. Twelve fifty-four.

“Sullivan is late,” Becky declared from across the room.

Rachel stopped her pacing. “It would seem so.”

Only Becky could sound both pleased and angry at the same time. But then, Rachel, herself, had been grappling with those same emotions for the last thirty minutes. One moment, she wanted to stomp his face into the ground with her new kit slippers, and the next, she wanted to dance through a sunflower field, singing “Hallelujah!”

“He was supposed to be here by twelve thirty,” Becky continued.

“Correct.”

“The wedding starts at one o’clock.”

Rachel’s temper churned to near boiling. Looked like anger won out. “I’m aware.”

“In my opinion, a groom being late to his wedding is the highest form of disrespect to his bride.” Obviously, Becky wasn’t paying attention, or she’d seen the signs of Rachel’s looming foul temper.

“I know your opinion of Sullivan and our impending marriage,” Rachel snapped. “You never let an opportunity go by that you don’t express your loathing of Sullivan. Or point out the colossal mistake I’m making by marrying the man.”

Becky planted her fists on her hips. “And yet, I’m here.”

Rachel stepped back, shocked. Becky rarely lost her temper—especially not with her. She, on the other hand, had a much shorter fuse on her irritability. But in this instance, Becky seemed angrier than even her, the bride being stood up at her wedding.

She wasn’t angry with Becky. Her friend was just the nearest substitute for the real target of her rage.

Before Rachel could apologize, her father knocked on the bedroom door. He entered without waiting for permission. “Sullivan is here. He’s a little disheveled, said he’d explain later. He needs a few minutes to get presentable if you don’t mind waiting.”

Rachel’s temper flared to life again, liking to kerosene being tossed on a fire. But she bit back her acidic retort. She wouldn’t make the same mistake with her father as she had with Becky. “Tell him he has five minutes. If he is one second late, I’m leaving out the back door and he can make the explanations to our guests.”

She had a few choice words for Mr. Sullivan Langley, but they could wait until a more private time. Like their wedding night.

Disrespect didn’t have to be a public flogging to be poignant.

* * *

Donovan watched as Rachel stepped off the last tread of the Hale’s staircase. Her wedding dress was simple, yet elegant. The bodice, just low enough to showcase her soft, plush breasts without being objectionable to the sensibilities of their guests or the impending ceremony. Small satin bows pinned her hair away from her face, letting her luxurious locks tumble down her back. The white lace veil framing her face accented her delicate features.

She was a vision in white.

And she was pissssed!

Funny how, even though he’d spent less than eight hours with her since they met, he could so easily read her moods. Her blue eyes sparked with anger, not the dewy-eyed, tender expression of a woman marrying the man she loved. Her cheeks were flushed crimson with fury instead of the bashful pink of a blushing bride. He could almost hear the gritting of her teeth behind the fake smile she’d plastered across her lips.

But her biggest tell was the way she practically stomped down the aisle toward him.

Oh yeah, she was pissed—and he wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Sam Carter smirked as he moved his gaze from Rachel to Donovan then crossed his arms over his chest to not-so-casually slip his hand inside his jacket. Donovan would bet a dollar to a donut hole the Pinkerton man wore a shoulder holster under his coat. Etiquette might mandate no side arms at a wedding, but Carter wouldn’t have come unarmed.

But then neither had he.

With two small caliber revolvers strapped to his calves, his Colt hidden in the shrubbery beside the back door, a rifle tucked under the seat of the buggy he’d hired from the livery and the horse he’d ridden into town tucked just out of sight in the tree line, he figured he was prepared for almost anything.

Except a fire-breathing woman hell-bent on screwing up his future. Even if she wasn’t aware of the consequences of her actions.

Hopefully he could calm her with a soothing tone and gentle touch, much like he’d used on the horse earlier.

When Sheriff Hale and his daughter reached him, Donovan held out his hand to Rachel. She glared at him and his extended hand for a too-long heartbeat.

Her father patted her hand, leaned toward her and whispered just loud enough so Donovan could hear his assurances too, “You’ll be fine, I promise.”

Donovan glanced at her father. He glared back, his gaze hard and menacing. The man’s silent expression practically screamed “hurt her and I’ll kill you.”

Or was there more behind the man’s antics than the standard father-of-the-bride intimidation? Hale’s forewarning seemed a little over the top.

Donovan nodded his acknowledgement then looked to Rachel waiting for her to take his hand. Finally, she laid her fingers over his, lifting a weight off his chest.

There for a moment, he wasn’t sure she’d go through with the ceremony.

Hale stepped to his seat. Carter, seated a row behind the sheriff, was obviously ready to pounce into action if he saw fit.

The pastor cleared his throat to begin. Donovan, still holding Rachel’s fingers, stopped him before he could speak. “Just a second, sir.”

Turning to Rachel, he squeezed her hand gently and murmured, “I know you’re upset with me. Do you want to talk now or later?”

The already hushed onlookers seem to catch their breaths in unison.

Why in the hell had he given her an out? Why hadn’t he just let the preacher say the words that would bind them together forever? Well, at least as long as he lived his brother’s life.

Because he didn’t want her to regret today. He wanted her to be happy.

Unbeknownst to her, she was the final piece of his charade: Sullivan Langley-successful rancher, husband, and family man. A contented man living a quiet, peace-filled life.

Rachel turned to look at her father. After a moment that seemed to stretch past the point of comfort, she nodded toward Donovan. “You can explain yourself on our way home.”

He raised her fingers to his lips then softly kissed her knuckles. “Thank you.”

He didn’t know, and didn’t care, if his kiss followed the rules of etiquette. He was a handful of “I dos” away from the tranquil life he craved so much.