The Cowboy's Reluctant Bride. Debra Cowan

      She wrapped her arms around herself, looking at the forest surrounding them. “Do you think someone is here right now?” she asked in a low voice.

      He glanced down, seeing a flare of alarm in her eyes. She hid it well, but she was worried. He wanted to reassure her, which made him snort. He was hardly made for that.

      Still, he tried. “It’s so quiet that I think we would hear if anyone else was nearby, and I haven’t heard anything.”

      She nodded, but her gaze darted around.

      He focused again on the slant of light through the trees and stepped to the left, completely concealed behind a thick pine. From here, he could see Ivy’s house clearly. Everything, including the barn, the corral, the road leading to her home. Just like the drawings.

      It was a perfect spot to observe the farm and matched the view of the illustrations.

      Nerves taut with the same instinct that had kept him alive in prison, Gideon studied the ground then bent to pick up a broken pine branch. With his boot, he cleared a spot on the soft ground then laid the branch next to the tree where they stood.

      “What are you doing?”

      “If someone does come back, they’ll likely build a fire here again.” He anchored the wood on either end with small rocks. “Not only because it’s a perfect place to watch your house, but also because I doubt they’ll risk marking another spot.”

      He checked the other side of the tree, pleased to discover the Powell farm wasn’t visible from there. “When they get in place, they’ll break the twig.”

      “That’s smart,” she murmured, “but an animal could break it.”

      “Yeah, but if a person does it, there will be some other sign of that. A boot print, marks on the tree maybe.”

      “That means you’re going to have to check here every day.”

      “Right.”

      “We can take turns.”

      “I’ll do it.”

      “I can help.”

      “Miss Ivy, your brother sent me here to do this job.”

      “I’m helping,” she said baldly.

      She might look softer than velvet and be a whole lot prettier than Smith, but she probably had every bit as much grit as her brother. And she might need it.

      The dead horse and the campfire remains proved someone had been here. To frighten Ivy? Or for something worse?

      Gideon had to find out. Which meant he wasn’t going anywhere, no matter how badly Ivy might want him to.

      Chapter Two

      Gideon Black’s face had gone from blank to grim upon seeing the remains of that campfire.

      By the time they sat down to lunch, Ivy was impressed with the man, though she didn’t want to be. For whatever reason, she hadn’t thought to look in the woods for signs of the person causing her trouble.

      Maybe because she was so tired. She’d barely slept last night for replaying the night of Tom’s death over and over. She’d managed to stop the memory, but not the guilt. As a result, she had slept poorly, and she couldn’t blame that on her guest.

      Gideon gestured to the platter of ham and corn bread. “This is good.”

      “Thank you.” Sitting across from him, her skin felt prickly.

      And hot.

      The man was the size of a mountain. He dominated the space, making even the table that could seat ten people look small. His face, rugged and strong, was weathered by the sun and life. Grooves cut on either side of his mouth hinted that he must’ve smiled a lot at one time. She’d seen no evidence of it.

      Using the cloth napkin she’d laid next to his plate, he wiped his lips then took a sip of coffee. “When does your contract with the mayor end?”

      So he was still trying to figure out why someone might want to cause trouble for her. “In a year.”

      “Is there anyone who might want that?”

      “Not to my knowledge.” She sighed. “The mayor will have to be told about the horse. I’ll need to drive into Paladin.”

      “I’ll go with you.”

      The thought of riding all that way in the wagon with him made her skittish. “It’s not necessary.”

      “Still, I’ll go.”

      Her own food sat untouched as he forked open another piece of corn bread and spread it with honey. Why had Gideon been in prison? Maybe it had been due to a mistake like her brother being wrongly identified as a train robber. A clerical error had incorrectly listed him as dead rather than as one of the prisoners transported to Leavenworth.

      “Mr. Black?”

      “Gideon.”

      “Gideon. How long were you in prison?”

      His head came up, those blue eyes burning into her. Wariness etched his features. “Five years.”

      “Why were you there?”

      He laid down his fork. A long moment passed. “For murder.”

      She drew in a sharp breath. There was no need to ask if he was serious. His eyes hardened, squelching a brief flare of remorse and anger.

      “And were you guilty?”

      “Yes.” He watched her carefully, as if expecting her to order him to leave.

      She wasn’t afraid of him. If Smith thought Gideon was dangerous, he never would’ve sent him.

      Just as he took another sip of coffee, she asked, “Who did you kill?”

      He shook his head.

      “I think I have a right to know, Mr. Black. You’re living here.”

      Looking pained and irritated at the same time, he set his cup down. “A rancher’s son.”

      “Did you kill him in self-defense?”

      “No.” His jaw tightened as he held her gaze, his entire frame rigid with tension.

      She wanted to press him for more, but the raw bleakness in his face reached right into her chest and squeezed. She couldn’t do it. “Thank you for telling me.”

      He said nothing, just resumed eating.

      For a moment, the only sounds were the scrape of forks on the plates, the occasional call of a bird. The man clearly didn’t want to discuss himself. That was fine. She had other questions.

      “Smith won’t talk much about his time in prison.”

      Resignation chased across Gideon’s face, and he again set aside his utensils. His voice was flat. “He doesn’t want you to know.”

      Because it had been horrible. Ivy’s throat tightened. Her brother was home. That was what mattered. Their parents and his wife, Caroline, were helping him heal. Who was helping Gideon Black? Did a murderer deserve help? Smith thought so. “Do you have any family?”

      “No, ma’am.”

      “No one at all?”

      “No.”

      His tone was polite, yet she could sense his agitation. “How did you and Smith become friends?”

      After a longing glance at his food, he said, “There was a, um, misunderstanding between him and some other inmates. I helped straighten it out.”

      His words were so careful, so deliberate that she knew he wasn’t telling her everything.

      “Was