A Marriage By Chance. Carolyn Davidson

the sink. It splattered her trousers and sprayed across the front of her shirt, coffee grounds scattering the floor at her feet.

      “Burn yourself?” he drawled, his eyes watchful. And yet, there was an underlying note of concern she thought as she shook her head. Not for the world would she admit to the stinging sensation on the tender flesh above her waist. With a glare he seemed to ignore, she left the kitchen, stomping up the stairs to her room where she slammed the door with a flip of her wrist.

      The shirt hit the floor and she strode to the long mirror, peering at herself, one finger tracing the pink skin where the damp fabric had left its mark. Her washcloth was handy and she rinsed it in the pitcher, then wrung it out and placed it over the area, her hand trembling as she held it in place. Not from the pain, for there was little to bear, but from the chagrin of looking a fool before the man in her kitchen.

      She loosened her belt and dropped the trousers to the floor, stepping out of them readily as she levered off her low shoes. Stocking-footed, she walked to the bureau and pulled open a drawer, seesawing it a bit as she worked one-handed to find fresh clothing. There wasn’t much choice, her daily wardrobe consisting of a variety of shirts and several pair of nondescript trousers.

      Back before the mirror, she removed the damp cloth and examined her skin. It wouldn’t blister, she decided, only be touchy for a day or so. And that she could live with. Easier than she could tolerate the arrogant cowboy who’d come to play squatter on her ranch.

      He was still there when she stalked into the kitchen minutes later. “You all right?” he asked, holding a cup before himself.

      “Are you drinking my tea?” she asked, fury chilling her words.

      “Not yours, ma’am. I found my own cup and poured from the potful you made. I thought you might like fresh, so I poured yours out.”

      He’d cleaned the floor, too, she noted, and wrung out the rag, placing it on the edge of the sink. Somehow, that small act cooled her anger and she only nodded as she refilled her cup and leaned against the buffet to drink it.

      “I’ll ride along with you, if you don’t mind,” he said.

      “I don’t need company,” she told him. “Just give me the paper Peter signed and I’ll take it to town to show the lawyer.”

      He shook his head. “You may not need company, but that paper proves my claim. It doesn’t leave my pocket till you hear the verdict for yourself. And then I’ll deposit it in the bank vault for safekeeping. I’ve already spoken to the bank president.”

      She felt a flush rise, and swallowed hot words of anger. “You discussed this with Mr. Webster? You told him that my brother gambled away half my ranch?”

      He nodded. “I also told him it was worth his hide if that information went any further. As far as anyone else knows, I bought it from your brother. I told Hogan to let your hands know they’d be facing trouble if they let the cat out of the bag.”

      Her shoulders slumped and she placed her cup on the buffet. “I’ll saddle a horse and be ready to leave in five minutes.” Unable to meet his knowing gaze, she tugged on her boots that sat by the back door, then snatched a jacket from a hook and jammed her arms into the sleeves. “I’d suggest you do the same. And bring your damn piece of paper along with you.”

      Chapter Two

      “The whole thing looks legal to me, Chloe. Are you certain that’s Peter’s signature?” Paul Taylor returned the letter she’d offered for his inspection. Then, while awaiting her reply, he picked up the document J.T. had offered as proof of his claim.

      Chloe looked for a final time at the wrinkled letter and felt the hand of fate clutch at her heart. “Yes, I’m about as sure as I can be, without watching him write it. He has a distinctive hand.” Not neat, but certainly no one else she knew scrawled quite so boldly as Peter when he set pen to paper. “Can I do anything at all about it?” she asked quietly, ignoring J.T.’s presence at her side.

      “Hmm—no, I doubt it,” Paul said, shaking his head as he finished reading the simple note the lawyer in Silver City had written up. “He’s tied it up neat and tidy, I’d say. Peter signed away his interest in your ranch, sure enough.” He glanced up at J.T. and his eyes were glacial. “Took advantage of the young man, didn’t you?”

      J.T. returned the icy stare. Then, as Chloe shifted beside him, he stifled the harsh words that sprang to mind and softened his stance. “No, not really,” he murmured. “The boy was set on gambling away everything he owned, it seemed, and I figured it was worth my while to spend a couple of hours helping him along. I gave him a stake when the game broke up, and advised him to go home and face the music.”

      He looked down at Chloe’s upturned face and shrugged. “Apparently, he decided against it, and wrote his sister a letter instead.”

      Paul watched the byplay in silence, then held out the document to J.T. and nodded, a curt movement of his head. “You’re in the clear, as far as I can tell. Enjoy your winnings, mister.”

      His tone gentled as he turned his gaze on Chloe. “Can I do anything else to help?”

      “No.” She shook her head, not willing to encourage him in any way, shape or form. Paul Taylor had more than once expressed a desire to keep company with her; and though he was a nice man, she wasn’t interested in pursuing a courtship with him. “I think you’ve covered it all,” she said quietly, and turned to leave Paul’s office.

      The door closed behind her and J.T. caught up with her rapid pace as she headed for her horse. “Slow down, lady,” he said smoothly. “Let me drop this off at the bank and I’ll ride back with you.”

      “I don’t need your company,” she told him sharply. “And I don’t intend to be seen waltzing around town with you.” Leading her mount to the edge of the boardwalk, she stepped into the stirrup and onto the saddle.

      J.T. watched, and his chuckle galled her to the core. “You need to carry a mounting block around with you, ma’am. Either that, or get a shorter horse.”

      She swung the black mare around and faced the man. “I’ve got shorter horses, but this is the one I prefer. Keep your advice to yourself, Mr. Flannery. I’m sure you’ll find good use for all your knowledge when you start working the ranch.”

      He rocked back on his heels, hands thrust into his pockets, and his grin was cheeky, she decided. “Never said I had a lot of experience at ranching, Chloe. But I’m more than willing to learn the details from you.”

      “And here I thought you were already making decisions about changing my way of doing things,” she taunted, holding a tight rein on her horse. The black pranced sideways, fighting the bit, and J.T. reached out a hand to grip the reins beneath the horse’s jaw.

      “Now, here, I’m qualified to give a little advice, ma’am. The first thing you need to do is let up on those reins,” he said quietly. “Don’t let your temper spill over onto the animal you’re riding. You’ll have her all lathered up before you leave town.” The mare tossed her head and J.T. released his hold. He reached to tilt his hat brim a bit, then watched as Chloe turned the horse in a tight half circle and loosened the reins.

      Her mount broke into a quick trot, and J.T.’s eyes lit with appreciation. The woman could ride, sitting the saddle like she’d been born there. Her head high, nodding at several passersby, Chloe rode quickly toward the edge of town, and J.T. headed for the bank. In moments he’d placed his proof of ownership into an envelope and watched as Mr. Webster deposited it in the big vault.

      His next stop was at the general store, where he chose pants and shirts to fill in his sparse wardrobe, adding socks and drawers to the pile before he nodded to the woman who’d gathered the assortment together for him. “How much?” he asked.

      “Let me see,” she told him, obviously adding the total in her head. “That’ll come to four dollars, even.” She took