Matthew held aside the lace curtains and stared out the front window at the snowflakes flying around like buckets of feathers in a whirlwind. In the two hours since he’d arrive at the Martins’ homestead, tall drifts had formed against the sides of the house and the entire front porch had vanished beneath a blanket of white.

He saw no signs of his deputies. He figured they’d given up on the weather and settled in for a drink at Charlie's. Matthew couldn’t blame them; by the looks of things, he might be staying put himself for the rest of the night.

The tangy smell of roasting meat drifted through the house and his thoughts turned to Amanda. She was expecting him to escort her to Reverend O'Rourke's for dinner that night. He hated to disappoint her—especially with that popinjay Reginald Sterling waiting in the wings to woo her—but there really wasn't much he could do about it all. His job had to come first. Amanda was sweet and sensible; she’d understand.

He let the curtain flutter back over the window and turned to look at Miss Lacey Guarder who was still curled up in the chair in front of the fire. She’d been so quiet for the past hour that he wondered if she’d fallen asleep.

He stared at her profile and couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d met her somewhere before. She wasn't a Rawlins, he was fairly certain of that; she looked nothing like the large, ugly men he’d had locked up in his jail. The Rawlins family were known for their dark-as-sin coloring and wicked emerald eyes, and this copper-haired, tawny-eyed beauty didn't come close to fitting that description. Lacey Guarder was as dainty and ivory skinned as a store-bought porcelain doll, but he wasn’t one to be easily fooled by outward appearances. No, his instincts were telling him that beneath that veer of ethereal beauty the woman was as crooked as a dog’s hind legs.

If she wasn’t a Rawlins, then who was she, and what was she doing in a nowhere little lumber town like Tranquility? Any body who refused to say where they were from was just hiding something.

She looked over at him, pinning him with her shrewd gaze, and he felt the look solidly in his chest. There was something about this woman… “I’ll be sending off a telegram to Seattle," he announced. “Maybe the law in King County can shed some light on who you are.”

At the very least, he hoped she’d blanche at the threat. The last thing he expected was her to find humor in it. “Don’t hold your breath,” she chuckled.

The smokey sound of her laughter played on his nerves. He found himself transfixed by the way the firelight gilded her hair in deep oranges and golds and painted shadows along the soft curves of her delicate face. Of their own accord, his eyes latched onto the bowed shape of her full mouth. Swallowing hard, he looked toward the main hallway, hoping for a distraction. Where had George and Hazel gotten off to?

“Shouldn’t you be heading home soon?”

His attention shot back to the woman in the leather chair.

She gestured toward the snowfall out the front window. “It’s getting pretty deep out there. Wouldn’t want the town to worry about their marshal.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You and I are gonna have issues if you cause any trouble in my town.”

“Don't sweat it, Dirty Harry. I don't plan to be here that long.”

Whether by design or an unhinged mind, the woman was having a hard time getting his name right. “Sounds like you spend a lot of time on the road,” he commented.

“Could be,” she evaded.

“A person’s gotta hang their hat somewhere.”

“I don’t wear hats.”

George Martin stepped into the room. “How are we all doin’ in here?" he asked. "Hazel says I was to come in and be sure blood wasn't gettin' spilt all over the new Montgomery Ward rug." He moved behind Lacey Guarder's chair and gave Matthew a questioning look.

Matthew gave him a subtle shrug. George was clearly looking for reassurance, but Matthew couldn't give him any. The woman may not be Lorraine Rawlins, but he didn’t trust her as far as he could spit.

"The marshal has managed to cool his blood lust for the time being,” Lacey Guarder remarked.

George laughed, a deep, rich laugh that sounded suspiciously like relief, and then walked around the chair to stir the fire in the hearth. "And how are you comin' along, Miss Guarder?" he asked. "You all warmed up yet?"

"Yes, thank you. It was very kind of you and your wife to take me in."

"Oh, taking a body in from the cold ain't nothin' anybody else around here wouldn't a done," George replied.

The woman cast Matthew a sideways glance. “Well, maybe not anybody."

"I tend to reserve my hospitality for people who aren’t adverse to answerin’ a few simple questions,” Matthew replied.

She arched a tawny brow at him. “So then it’s normal for you to interrogate everyone you meet?”

George chuckled. “In Matthew's defense, Miss Guarder, he’s only doin' his job. We had a robbery at the bank this mornin', and Matthew had good reason to believe one of the culprits had headed this way. I'm sure he's feelin' real sorry about mistaken you for one of the outlaws. Aren'cha, Matthew?"

Both of them looked at him, George clearly expecting him to apologize, and Lacey Guarder clearly believing he wouldn't. The lady had it right. Matthew Brady never apologized unless he was wrong. She might not be Lorraine Rawlins, but he’d bet his horse that Miss Lacey Guarder wasn’t as innocent as she claimed.

She leaned closer to George. “I don’t think he’s sorry at all,” she whispered loudly. "I think he still might want to shoot me.”

George gave her a broad smile. “Don’t you worry, none, honey. We don’t allow people to shoot our guests.”

Matthew couldn’t believe what he was seeing. She had the man completely charmed. “George, I hope you and Hazel won’t mind a little more company tonight. I’m afraid the storm’s got me pretty well boxed in.”

Lacey Guarder gave him a shocked look and he smirked at her. That’s right, lady, he thought to himself. I’m not leaving you alone with these fine people for one little second.

“Of course, Matthew,” George replied. “You’re welcome to stay as long as ya like.”

"Come and get it while it's hot!” Hazel shouted from the kitchen at the back of the house. "Last one to the table washes the dishes.”

“Dagnamit,” George blurted. "I forgot to fetch canned peaches from the cellar." He lumbered across the room, all six foot four inches of him. "You two best get in there before the wife takes offense," he called. "Otherwise she's bound to toss the whole mess out into the blowin' snow."

Matthew looked back at Lacey Guarder. She’d stood up in front of him. The woman couldn’t have been more than a few inches over five feet tall: a little stick of dynamite with a very short fuse. She dropped the quilt. She was dressed in a heavy white muslin nightgown.

"Plan to change?" he asked.

"I've heard a woman should never change herself for a man."

She attempted to walk by him and he reached out and took hold of her arm. "I suggest you watch your step—"

Without warning the woman turned into a wildcat. She took hold of his shirtfront, brought up her knee, and stomped her heel down hard onto his foot. The impact went right through the top of his black leather boot. He let out a shout of pain and surprise, but that didn't stop her from finishing the job. She brought back her fist and punched him solidly in the stomach. Not expecting the blow, it doubled him over and drove the air from his lungs.

“Don’t ever touch me!” she gritted out. Then, without so much as a backward glance, she strode right past him and out of the room.

Matthew stared after her in shock. He'd never been attacked by a woman before, and he wasn't quite sure how to respond. He staggered to the sofa, muttering a steady stream of curses that would have made the devil blush, and sat down to check his injured foot. For the first time in his life he was seriously contemplating murder.

"Matthew Brady,” Hazel called, “you get yourself in here. Supper in this house waits for no man.”

Matthew stood and tested his foot. It felt bruised, but not broken—lucky for her. He hobbled down the hallway toward the kitchen.

So, he thought, Miss Lacey Guarder doesn’t like being touched. Well, he planned to do a whole lot worse than that the next time he got his hands on her.

He entered the kitchen, took one look at what Lacey Guarder was doing, and pulled his gun.

* * *

So maybe she'd overreacted a little. Lacey lifted a long carving knife out of the kitchen drawer and turned toward Hazel. She'd hated being touched ever since she was a kid and a caress had been a pinch, a kiss a slap, a hug a toss across the room. Nobody touched her. What business did Marshal Brady have grabbing her like that anyway?

"Put the knife down. Slowly."

Lacey looked to the doorway and there he was, pointing his gun at her again, his attention fastened on the gleaming knife in her hand. She rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”

"Matthew Brady!" Hazel said with a gasp. The woman was seated at the kitchen table with a ham the size of a small child resting on a platter in front of her. "If you don't stop waggin' that blasted gun around in my house, I swear I'm gonna take it away from ya and bury it in the backyard where you’ll never find it!”

The marshal didn't move.

Hazel reached out and took the knife from Lacey's hand. “Thank you,” she said to her. She started slicing up the ham.

Lacey smirked at the marshal. He muttered something unintelligible, flipped his gun around in his hand—western gunfighter style—and then slipped it back into its holster.

George came trudging up the steep cellar stairs with a large jar of peaches in his hand.

"Time to renegotiate with Nettie, honey-lamb. We're down to five jars." He closed the trap door behind him and set the jar of fruit on the table. He noticed the tense silence in the room. "What's goin' on up here?"

Hazel pursed her lips. “One of our houseguests seems to be havin’ a hard time keepin’ his gun in his holster.”

"Oh?" George looked at the marshal.

Lacey expected the lawman to tell their hosts that she'd attacked him in the front room as an excuse for his behavior. At which point she would gladly tell them how he'd grabbed her arm in a not so gentlemanly manner, and had deserved everything he’d gotten.

Instead, he pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. “Miss Guarder and I will settle things later.”

It was a threat, plain and simple.

Lacey gave him a cool smile. If he wasn't so suspicious of her there’d be nothing to settle, but she’d be happy to go another round with him if he was up for it.

She sat down across from him, in between George and Hazel, and admired the pretty table. It was covered with a lace cloth and set with polished pieces of white and blue, silver-edged china. Her eyes drifted over lace-edged napkins, fine crystal stemware, and polished silver utensils. She wondered what the spread was worth, and then smiled to herself when she realized she was casing her dinnerware. Everything was tastefully expensive, right down to the silver candlesticks in the center of the table.

George Martin said a quick prayer over the food, and Hazel dished each of them a plate of ham, baked potatoes, sweet corn, and biscuits. Everything smelled wonderful, and Lacey dug right in; she hadn't eaten a decent meal since her arrest the day before.

Hazel Martin broke open a biscuit. “I hope nobody got injured in the robbery this mornin’.”

"It happened before the bank opened."

"And thank heavens for that," George added.

"And you say Lorraine Rawlins has all the money now?" Hazel continued.

The marshal reached for the bowl of potatoes. "Not for long."

"Without that money the entire town'll go bankrupt in a month," George stated.

The marshal’s expression tightened.

Hazel took a bite of ham. “Didn't you say you caught two of the scoundrels this mornin', Matthew?"

"We followed Ned and Henry's trail out of town and caught up with them just outside of Geneva. But by then they'd already given their sister the money and parted ways."

Lacey continued eating, listening to their conversation with more than a passing interest. Five thousand dollars? It was too bad Tranquility didn’t have an adequate security system in their bank to prevent tragedies like that from happening.

The marshal looked at her. “I don't suppose you saw anything while you were out trudging mysteriously around in the snow. Or is this another question you refuse to answer?”

"Matthew Brady!” Hazel exclaimed. "Where on earth did you learn to talk to a woman, perched on the edge of a bar stool? If you expect a polite answer, then ask a polite question, for criminy sakes." She turned her kind smile on Lacey. "Honey? By any chance, while you were out lost in that terrible storm, did you happen to see anyone, or hear anything suspicious?"

"No, Mrs. Martin," Lacey answered properly. "I did not."

Hazel looked back at the marshal. “There. See how easy that was?"

A muscle at the back of the marshal's jaw twitched, and Lacey gave him her best innocent look. She could tell he wanted to strangle her, but he wouldn't do a thing as long as she was in the company of George and Hazel Martin, and she planned to be long gone before he ever got the opportunity to catch her alone. She'd been eluding cops her whole life, and this hat wearin’, gun totin' Clint Eastwood wannabe didn't stand a chance.

"Well, son, you can't be too far behind the money if you've got the Rawlins brothers in your jail," George said as he reached for his crystal water glass. "I'm sure you'll take care of everything just fine."

"Of course he will,” Hazel put in confidently. “He'll be able to wheedle Lorraine's whereabouts out of the two brothers. That's why the city hired him. We have all the confidence in the world in Matthew’s abilities."

Confidence or not, Lacey thought, chances were the marshal wouldn’t get anywhere with those two men. If their sister was their one and only connection to that stolen money, they weren’t going to give her up without a fight.

She reached for her water glass. "You know, there's a reason why they gave their sister the money and went in separate directions.”

The marshal glanced up from his plate. "Do tell,” he said blandly.

"I bet you didn't think twice about going after the two men.” When he didn't respond, she continued. "They knew you'd underestimate her, which meant she had a better chance of getting away with the money."

Hazel nodded. “That certainly makes sense.”

“She's their sister," Lacey added. “They can trust her to give them their share when the time comes." She shrugged and forked up a bite of potatoes. "Sounds like the perfect setup to me."

"Is that a round of applause I hear from your side of the table, Miss Guarder?" the marshal replied.

"Just admiring their strategy. It obviously worked on you.”

He gave her a tight smile. "Seems that way, doesn't it."

George and Hazel Martin changed the subject to a restaurant they owned in town. They were having a problem keeping up with the crowds they'd been experiencing lately, due to an influx of people heading north to pan for gold, and they were hoping the next day would be a slow one due to the storm. They laughed about an incident they’d had with a drunk customer.

Lacey enjoyed watching them. Their knowing looks, and frequent touches illustrated their strong commitment and love for one another. It almost made her wish she had somebody special to share her life with, but Lacey Guarder and family didn’t go together. Whenever she allowed herself to get attached to somebody, it ended badly.

After dinner, Hazel sent the marshal out back for buckets of snow to melt over the stove for water, while she and George remained in the kitchen to clean up. Lacey was dispatched to the front room to stoke the dwindling fire. She didn't mind having to do her share of work, but she'd never stoked a fire in her life. That fact was obvious to the marshal when he came striding into the room fifteen minutes later with an armful of firewood.

"That oughta burn down the whole house," he remarked. He set the wood down in the rack by the hearth. “At least turn the logs so they fit on the grate."

Lacey used the long wrought-iron poker to shove one oversized log into a new position. The log rolled backwards capping the others, diminishing the flames to nothing more than a few streams of black smoke.

"That's a unique variety of skills you've got there, Miss Guarder. You can suss out the strategy of bank robbers but can't build up a fire."

Lacey stood and shook the soot from her large nightgown. "The wood must be bad or something," she grumbled.

The marshal crouched in front of the grate. A few pokes, a few jabs, one log one way and another the other, and, voila, he had the fire back to its raging hot self.

He gave her a cool stare. “Guess I fixed the bad wood.”

"Well, congratulations, Trog, you've discovered fire." She turned for the big leather chair facing the hearth. "Maybe tomorrow you can get to work on the wheel."

"Damnation, woman!"

The marshal's attack came so suddenly, and with such minor provocation, that it took Lacey completely by surprise. He was on her in a second, jumping her from behind, dragging her down to the hardwood floor as if she were nothing more than a sickly wildebeest to be cut from the herd.

She landed hard on her stomach. Pain and shock numbed her for a moment but, when the marshal started ripping at the back of her nightgown, she quickly regained her senses.

She kicked at him, called him every filthy name in the book, and fought with everything she had to get away. He was twice her size and three times as strong, but if he thought for one minute she was going to lie there quietly while he attacked her, he was in for one hell of a violent shock!

George and Hazel came rushing into the room—and thank God for that. The marshal was sitting in the middle of her back, doing his best to get her nightgown up past her bottom.

"Oh, my heavens!" Hazel cried out.

"Get this son of a bitch off of me!" Lacey screamed.

George hurried forward. And the next thing Lacey knew the sweet, friendly man was helping Matthew Brady hold her down!

"Just hold her legs still!" the marshal shouted at the older man. Hazel Martin stood back, hands covering her mouth, doing nothing to help her.

"You're all a bunch of wackos!” Lacey screeched. "I should have known it from the very beginning! You’re not going to get away with this—"

As quickly as the attack had come, it stopped. Both men stood and stepped back from her. George Martin even offered Lacey a hand to help her to her feet.

Lacey ignored George’s gesture and scrambled to her feet on her own. Breathing hard, she glared at the two men. There was a distinct breeze now coming in from the back of her nightgown, and she reached around to check the damage. Her fingers sank into several sizable holes. She gathered the material around to see for herself and found the entire back of the nightgown—from the hem to her knees—gone.

"You lowlife bas—" She cut herself short, her accusations screeching to a halt on the tip of her tongue.

She brought the material of the nightgown higher, looked closer at the holes, and realized it wasn't just a trick of the light that made them look dark around the edges. The material was singed. That’s when she realized what had happened. Somehow, when she'd turned from the grate, she'd caught her voluminous nightgown on fire.

Shocked by what had really happened, she looked back at George who was standing by the chair looking sheepish. She'd never uttered so much as a syllable of regret in her life and was now dumbfounded over what to do.

George saved her by holding up his hands. "Now, now, it's all right. You're lucky Matthew caught it in time. Muslin burns like dry grass in a desert.”

Lacey glanced over at the marshal. He was still staring darkly at her. If he hated her so much, why hadn't he just let her go up in a puff of smoke?

His nose was bleeding. She must have kicked him in the face trying to get away from him. "You should have said something,” she accused.

"I did." He dabbed at his nose with the back of his hand. “You probably would have heard me if you hadn't been so busy cursing me and everyone of my ancestors.”

George chuckled and rubbed his own bruised jaw. “You really pack a wallop, young lady.” He clapped the marshal on the shoulder. “Come on in the kitchen and let's have a look at that nose."

Lacey stared after the two men as they walked past her, still wishing she knew what to say. She might have felt a little more appreciative toward the marshal if he weren’t acting as if everything that had just happened was her fault. It wasn't as if she'd intentionally set herself on fire.

"Lacey, you come along with me," Hazel Martin said, leading the way from the room. "You're gonna need a new nightdress."

Refusing to feel embarrassed, Lacey clutched the charred edges of her nightgown in a bunch at her hip and lifted her chin. “Yes, I suppose I am." She followed Hazel down the hallway.

"And don't you worry yourself about cursin' down the moon.” Hazel stopped at the door to Lacey’s assigned bedroom. "I did worse than that when I caught the seat of my pants on fire warmin' myself over a brandin’ pit."

Lacey was relieved that the woman wasn't angry. "Thank you.”

Hazel opened the door for her. "You know, you really oughta give that thank you to Matthew. I've always said, a man can come in mighty handy. They chop wood, do repairs, put you out when you're on fire…” She chuckled softly. “You'll find some fresh nightgowns hangin' in the armoire there.”

Lacey nodded and Hazel walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. She appreciated the woman’s kindness, but thanking Matthew Brady was the furthest thing from her mind. Just because he'd chosen to help her—without any solicitation on her part—didn't mean she had to put aside all their differences and fall to her knees in gratitude. The very idea nauseated her.

It was true that an argument could be made that the marshal had, quite possibly, saved her life. But, as far as Lacey was concerned…that was his problem.