A Marriage By Chance. Carolyn Davidson

down her cheek. At least she had a partner to share the process.

      The choice of sleeping beneath a tree or in the bunkhouse with six men who had no reason to enjoy his presence among them was a toss-up, J.T. decided. If he’d had another alternative such as sleeping in the house, he’d have joyfully embraced it, but somehow he didn’t expect Chloe to offer him a bedroom right off the bat. She’d decided to wait until morning to take the trip to Ripsaw Creek, once Hogan murmured an admonition in an undertone. And then she’d looked up at J.T. with defiance.

      “The barn or the bunkhouse, mister. Or beneath a tree in the orchard if you like.”

      He left her the remnants of her pride, nodding and sliding his bedroll beneath his arm as he sauntered toward the orchard. The barn was too enclosed, and he was a stranger there. Better to be on the outskirts, with a view of house and bunkhouse. He’d slept in worse situations, and the bedroll was warm. Traveling light meant he only had one more clean shirt, and unless he headed to town on a shopping trip, he’d better beg the use of a scrub board from his partner.

      The moon was new, a thin sliver against a cloudless sky. Stars filled the horizon, providing a canopy of silver sequins overhead, visible through branches only beginning to show signs of leafing out. At least it didn’t look like rain, he decided, and leaned against the tree trunk he’d chosen, wrapped in wool, his gun at hand. The house was dark, all but a single window on the second floor. White curtains floated from the open pane, and he thought of the woman who slept with fresh air as her companion.

      Chloe couldn’t be more than—what? Twenty-one, maybe a year or so older. Too young to be faced with the burden of running a ranch, especially with a lack of cash, if what he’d overheard at the bank was to be believed. A clerk, in an undertone that carried to J.T.’s hearing, spoke of Peter Biddleton’s perfidy to a townsman, shaking his head as he told the tale. The rascal had walked off with the contents of their joint bank account, leaving Chloe empty-handed and in desperate need of funds.

      As J.T. watched, a figure clothed in white passed the window. Probably a nightgown, he decided, his eyes focusing on the movement of curtains and the hand that brushed a filmy panel to one side as its owner looked out upon the yard and toward the barn. Decently covered, she was still a temptation, he decided. A couple of the men sleeping in the bunkhouse might look with greedy eyes upon that slender form. His gaze became thoughtful.

      If she were his, he’d—But she wasn’t, he reminded himself. And stood no chance of belonging to him. Nevertheless, she was his partner, unwilling or not. He owed her his protection. His mother had taught him a few things before the fire that cost him the lives of both his parents. One was the sanctity of womanhood. It seemed that he’d taken on the task of keeping Chloe Biddleton safe, along with the responsibility of keeping the ranch afloat.

      Breakfast was a simple affair. Tea and toasted bread usually. Today was doomed to be different. Chloe watched as her new partner approached the porch, his bedroll once more tucked beneath his arm, his hat pulled low, hiding his expression from view.

      “I don’t suppose you’ve got coffee in there,” he began from the other side of the screened door. His voice was early-morning husky, and she rued, for just a moment, the urge that had sent him to the orchard to sleep. It wouldn’t have been any trouble to toss a set of sheets on Peter’s bed or offer him the parlor sofa to sleep on.

      And so her tones were moderate as she waved him into the kitchen. “I have tea made. Does that suit you?”

      His nose twitched and a glum expression turned his mouth down. “I can just about stomach it. Coffee’s better.” He cast a look at the stove. “I know how to make it, if you have the fixings.”

      “In the pantry,” she answered, and then her upbringing had her on her feet. “I’ll get it. Sit down.” In moments, she’d rinsed the pot, filled it halfway and added coffee. The stove was freshly stoked, and she placed the blue-speckled pot on the hottest area. “It won’t take long. Would you like some bread? It got neglected yesterday when I had an emergency to tend to.”

      He eyed the scorched loaves she’d rescued from the oven and nodded. “I’ll cut off the worst of it, if you’ll tell me where the knives are.”

      Chloe waved at the shelf over the stove and he reached for the longest utensil, then busied himself with sawing off the darkest parts from the loaf she’d already cut into. “I heard from Hogan that you sewed up a man’s arm. That your emergency?” he asked, opening the oven door to place two thick slices of bread on the rack.

      “Yes. It wasn’t pretty, but I managed to do the job. Eight stitches.”

      “You’ve got a strong stomach,” he said, turning his head, his eyes fastening on her hands as she tore a piece of toasted bread into small bits.

      “It comes with the job,” she said. Her appetite was gone, what little there’d been to start with. The ride to town was a necessity, although probably futile. Peter’s signature was strong and familiar on the paper she’d looked at yesterday. No doubt existed in her mind; yet, if there was any slight chance, any hope at all, she must pursue this to its end result.

      “I’ll be leaving for town in half an hour,” she told him, watching as he opened the oven door to check on his bread.

      He speared it with the knife and held it before him as he turned to face her. Chloe waved at the buffet where a stack of plates waited, and he followed her silent instructions. Plate in hand, he sat down across from her and she shoved the saucer of butter closer, offering her own knife for his use.

      “Thanks,” he said, absorbed with spreading a thick layer of her butter on the crusty surface. “I didn’t eat supper last night. This smells good.”

      “Why didn’t you go to the bunkhouse? They had a whole pot of chili.”

      His shrug was telling, and she felt a pang of guilt. Courtesy called for a meal to any stranger coming down the road. And she’d sat in here eating her soup while J.T. went hungry. “I wasn’t sure how welcome I’d be, to tell you the truth,” he said after a moment. “Figured I’d wait till today, once you found out that my claim is on the up-and-up before I tackled your ranch hands.”

      “Tackled?” She held her cup of tea midair, her eyes pinned to him as she considered his choice of words.

      His look was level as he nodded. “They’ll have to decide if they can follow my orders or not, before I decide if they still have a job here.”

      “Before you decide—” she caught her breath and almost choked on the bread she’d just begun to chew “—I hired most of those men, and if they cause a problem, I’ll do the firing. That’s not your problem.”

      His head tilted a bit as he considered her. “Maybe that’s a matter of viewpoint,” he said. “They’ll take orders from me, or I’ll show them the road, ma’am. I’m half owner, remember? I mean to begin as I plan to go on with this arrangement.”

      And she’d felt guilty for leaving him in the orchard overnight, and for not feeding him any soup. The tea was bitter on her tongue and the bread was a mass of gluten in her mouth. “That remains to be seen, Mr. Flannery,” she muttered, rising and wishing she could spit out the sodden mouthful that muffled her words.

      From the stove the scent of coffee met her nostrils, and she snatched up the coffeepot with a folded dish towel, dumping it in 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