The Law And Miss Hardisson. Lynna Banning

She liked challenges. He’d wager she didn’t know a thing about chess, but maybe she’d last long enough to let down her guard and tell him what he wanted to know about Brance Fortier. He’d been all over town this morning, and nobody even admitted seeing the outlaw leave. Fortier’d probably threatened them.

      Two identical platters of food banged down between them. “Would there be anything else, sir?”

      Clayton kept his eyes locked with Irene’s. “Yeah. Add a canteen of coffee to those sandwiches, will you?”

      “Certainly, sir.”

      He reached his good arm across the table and covered Irene’s small, manicured hand. “Well?”

      The starch drained out of her. He’d set it up just right, he thought in satisfaction. She’d taken the bait. She’d be bored and talkative within an hour, and he was an expert at ferreting out information.

      She looked him in the eye. “May I have your word of honor you will not attempt to compromise me, Mr. Black?”

      “My word of honor.” No risk there, he thought. She was his link to Fortier; he’d treat her with velvet gloves. His gut told him the outlaw was long gone, and he ached to be after him. But he figured he could spare three more hours, tops, if it would save him some time later on. Otherwise, he’d have to try to pick up a cold trail, and that was slow and tedious. This way, he could save a day, maybe two.

      Besides, he liked the company of this prickly lady lawyer with an unexpected aptitude for five-card draw. At the moment, gazing into her upturned face, watching her rosy lips open to admit a dainty forkful of ham, he didn’t know which he wanted more—breakfast or Irene Hardisson.

      Watch it, mi amigo. In your line of work, a woman like this is a dead end.

      He knew that, all right. Had known it for years.

      Being a Ranger’s wife is no kinda life for a woman, his father had said. Every single day, she’s just one rifle bullet away from widowhood.

      Part of him acknowledged the raw truth of the words. Another part of him was so desperately alone he didn’t care about the risk.

      Forget it, you dumb son of a gun. You know what you have to do. And you know the price.

      God’s little scorpions, sometimes he wished that sensible part of him would just shut the hell up.

      “It’s a package,” Irene said at last.

      Clayton started. “A deal,” he corrected. Suddenly he wished he’d never proposed the idea. The thought of Irene and himself out in a grassy meadow somewhere made him feel hot all over. He’d sure like to do something other than watch a chess match.

      He had to chuckle at that. Truth was, in spite of what Pa always said, he’d got this particular green-eyed woman kinda stuck in his throat.

      Chapter Five

      On the short buggy ride to Parker’s Meadow—straight out of town on the Portland road the liveryman had instructed, then sharp right at the double oak trees—Clayton watched Irene fidget on the black leather seat beside him. Plain as buttered pancakes she was itching to do something, but he’d lay odds it wasn’t rolling along in a buggy so close to him her skirt brushed his thigh.

      The instant they crested the rise and the meadow spread before them like a rich green carpet, she settled down. Far across the swath of long grass two men dressed in black sat motionless at a makeshift table, its legs hidden in the lush grass.

      The chess players. Clayton shot a glance at Irene and frowned. Her gaze was riveted on the two figures hunched over the table. Her eyes sparkled. “Can you go any faster?”

      Faster? He didn’t expect her to be this interested. Then again, she wasn’t like most women he’d known.

      Which, he acknowledged, had been few and far between. He let out a long breath. All his life he’d taken pains to mask his Cherokee blood with white man’s trappings, as his father had. The only concession he made to his Indian heritage was refusing to cut his hair but once each year. Out here in untamed Oregon, he didn’t look too different from anybody else, but he wondered what Irene would say if she knew about his Cherokee side, how he’d been shunned in both worlds, Indian and white. How uncomfortable he felt in towns like this, or with a woman like her.

      As they drew near, Irene leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap. Clayton pulled the rig into an area of flattened grass and set the brake. A few saddle horses raised their heads, then returned to their desultory cropping of the grass at their feet.

      It was a perfect afternoon, Clayton noted. He considered unhitching the mare, then thought better of it. Irene would be bored and hungry in an hour—two at the most. When she grew tired of watching the game she’d want to head back to town—or, better still, lounge on the meadow and have a picnic with him. And then she’d start talking about Fortier.

      He could hardly wait. He turned to speak to her, but she was gone. “Now where the hell…”

      A flash of blue sateen drew his eyes to the small table set under a spreading oak. Two motionless players in long black frock coats and soft black caps atop their gray heads sat like two large blackbirds, bent over the chessboard between them. Irene positioned herself to one side, folded her arms across her waist and watched.

      Clayton waited for her to move or shift position, but she remained still as a blue-clad statue. Purposefully he circled the small gathering of onlookers, watching Irene, who in turn studied the chess pieces with as much intensity as the two rail-thin players. Russians, someone at the hotel had said. Homesteading adjacent plots of land in Crazy Creek Valley, the two met every Friday to play chess.

      Irene watched the game with unwavering intensity, moving only once to shoo away a bumblebee. The sun climbed high overhead, slipped off center and began to descend.

      Clayton began to pace. He hadn’t anticipated her complete absorption in the proceedings; her look of rapt fascination made him just a tad uneasy. He craved some talk about events concerning Brance Fortier’s disappearance, but at the moment she was plainly interested only in the chess match.

      He walked about the meadow in ever-widening circles, skirting the fringe of fir trees where afternoon shadows began to lengthen, frustration building inside him. On his next loop near the chess table, he studied Irene for signs of flagging interest. She never even looked up at him.

      With a groan, Clayton tramped back to the buggy, loosened the harness and removed the bit from the horse’s mouth. No sense keeping the rig at the ready—Irene was lost in the game.

      Another hour crept by and she didn’t move an inch. Maybe he’d better give up on the idea of a quiet interrogation under the guise of polite picnic conversation.

      Or maybe he had a better idea. Noiselessly he edged close to Irene, leaned forward and breathed a single word into her ear. “Lunch?”

      “Oh, yes,” she whispered without moving. Her gaze pinned on the game before her, she stuck out her hand. “A sandwich, if you please.”

      Clayton plopped a small towel-wrapped bundle into her outstretched palm and watched her unwrap it. She nibbled at the slice of chicken poking out between the slices of bread. While he watched her take occasional dainty bites, her attention glued to the chessboard, he devoured four sandwiches and washed them down with a swig of lukewarm coffee from a glass jar. He wished like anything it was whiskey. This whole charade was getting his dander up.

      Irene Hardisson had said barely three words in as many hours. Only a scattering of pieces remained on the board, but neither of the solemn-face men had made a move in the past thirty minutes. The game was at a standstill.

      No one moved. No one spoke. Irene swallowed the last of her sandwich and stood as if transfixed, her eyes on the board. She cradled her chin in her palm, frowning.

      About time, Clayton thought with a rush of hope. She’s gettin’ bored. He’d just