Salvation in the Rancher's Arms. Kelly Boyce

any way, shape or form. He had the edge of an outlaw rather than a shining knight.

      Not that Rachel believed in shining knights. She had disabused herself of their existence a long time ago.

      Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and marched into the livery.

      She stopped inside the door, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. The scent of hay, horses and manure mingled in the air around her, but she had spent too much time in her own barn to pay it much heed.

      She found Mr. Beckett brushing long strokes down his horse’s back in one of the stalls. The horse, a beautiful paint, nipped playfully at the brim of his hat. He chuckled and spoke in low tones. She couldn’t make out the words, but the sound surprised her, drew her in. She stood silently for a moment and watched. He’d removed his sheepskin jacket and tossed it over the edge of the stall door. His broad back shifted with each stroke of the brush, mesmerizing her. There was a fluidity to his movements, and while one hand brushed in a rhythmic pattern, the other rested on the animal’s neck, petting it. The horse nickered in response to the sound of its owner’s voice.

      The unguarded moment surprised her. She had expected to arrive to find him glaring down at her, arms crossed, impatience stamped into every ruggedly handsome feature while he counted the hours before he could toss them off the ranch. This hint of good humor threw her.

      Then again, who wouldn’t be in good humor after the boon of winning a prime piece of land through no more effort than the turn of a card?

      The muscles in her neck tightened.

      “You gonna stand there all day?”

      She jumped. “I...I...how did you know I was here?”

      He peered over his shoulder. Whiskers shadowed his square jaw. The brim of his hat hid his eyes, and still she could feel the force of his gaze through every inch of her body. There was something about this man. Something beyond the rugged face and strong body. He had a presence, commanding and vibrant. No doubt she could have walked into a room blindfolded and known instantly if he occupied the same space. The awareness irritated her.

      “I could sense you there.”

      Rachel swallowed. A shivery tremor swept through her veins as his answer echoed her own thoughts.

      She fought to get her voice out without trembling. “I wanted to talk to you. About last night.”

      “Figured.” He rested an arm on the short stable wall and stared at her. Hot liquid poured through her veins from the strength of his full attention.

      She gripped her hands in front of her and forced her spine straight, ignoring the strain on her muscles. He was not going to make this easy. “I guess I owe you some thanks for catching me when I—” She couldn’t say the word, couldn’t admit to the weakness.

      “Fainted?”

      She squinted into the dimness. Was he smiling? His mouth quickly resettled into an unreadable line and she wondered if it had just been a trick of the light.

      “Yes, I suppose. Thank you.”

      “Not necessary.”

      “Well...either way.” She shifted on her feet. “I think we need to speak about the deed to my land. Am I to understand you now believe you own it?”

      He didn’t answer right away. He made one last stroke down the paint’s neck and walked out the back, rounding the stalls and coming up behind her. She spun on her heel to face him, surprised to find him so close. Her body’s response to his nearness hit her square in the stomach and she took a quick step back.

      There was a hard-bitten practicality about the man. It showed in the efficiency of his movements and the economy of words he used to convey an opinion. But his eyes held something different, something softer that gave him a sense of humanity. She wondered what his story was. Had he always been this way? Or, like her, had life hammered away until the person he became was far different than the one he had started out as? Perhaps she could talk reason with him, convince him to—

      “No believing about it,” he said. “Your husband put the deed in to meet the raised stakes. I won the hand.”

      So much for reason.

      “A-And that’s legal?” Could she contest it? There had to be a law to prevent people from doing something as colossally idiotic as throwing away every last acre they owned on a stupid card game!

      “Yes, ma’am. It’s legal.”

      And, even if it wasn’t, by the time the circuit court judge made his way to town for her to plead her case, Mr. Beckett could have parceled off sections of land, sold them to the highest bidder and been long gone.

      Her heart sank into her worn leather boots, taking her hopes with it. She stared at Mr. Beckett’s chest, absorbing what he told her. The tiny red checks on his shirt had faded until the color barely existed and one buttonhole was empty, the frayed remains of thread poking through the hole.

      Caleb Beckett owned her land. She had lost everything. The room swayed around her.

      “No, you don’t.” He reached out and closed the gap between them, placing a hand on either elbow to hold her steady. “None of that, now.”

      His voice reached deep inside of her. She closed her eyes, fighting the uncomfortable ache his touch created and allowed herself one brief moment of respite where someone else took the burden and she did nothing more than hang on.

      She opened her eyes and stared at his chest again. “You’re missing a button,” she whispered.

      “Beg pardon?”

      “On your shirt. You’re missing a button.” This was what she noticed. Her entire world was collapsing around her and all she could think about was how his shirt was missing a button. She must be losing her mind.

      He let go of one arm and reached for the front of his shirt, pulling it out far enough to see the damage. His forearm brushed against her breast and her body tightened involuntarily. He didn’t apologize. The touch was so brief and light perhaps he hadn’t even noticed. But she had. An unexpected jolt shot from her breasts to the tips of her toes, hitting every place in between.

      “Guess I’m not much of a seamstress.”

      She nodded and pulled away, walking farther into the livery to put space between them. It was hard to breathe when he stood close. She almost preferred passing out over the strange commotion his nearness created. It made no sense. She didn’t know this man, this stranger, yet she responded to him like a common harlot.

      Like her mother.

      She threw off the thought and held her ground. She could not afford to weaken. “If it isn’t too much to trouble you with, Mr. Beckett, perhaps you could tell me just what it is you plan to do now that you own my land.”

      * * *

      Caleb mulled the question over in his mind, trying to clear the storm that touching her had stirred. His shoulder still held the phantom imprint of where her head had rested the night before when he’d carried her to her room. His arms still bore her weight.

      What were his plans?

      All night he’d lain awake wrestling with the question. It had seemed cut-and-dried as he rode out of Laramie toward Salvation Falls. He would sign the deed back to Sutter’s family and leave. As much as having a place to call home appealed to him, he knew that kind of life was not meant for him. He had learned his lesson on that account the hard way.

      But watching Mrs. Sutter hold herself together while her life fell apart, threw him off balance, a sensation he didn’t much care for. Sutter had left his family in a bad way financially, then gone and got shot before he could make reparation. But it was obvious his wife had carried the burden of his ineptitude for far longer than the few days Sutter had been dead, and it had worn her down until she teetered on a sharp edge.

      The easy thing would be to give