The Marshal's Wyoming Bride. Tatiana March

her. “You can’t have your cake and eat it,” her father used to say. When she’d asked him to explain, he’d told her it meant that when a person faced two divergent paths, they could only follow one.

      She’d chosen to protect Claude and Eugene. And in doing so she had betrayed her friends and neighbors. Don’t fall for those lies, she had wanted to yell at everyone. They are conmen. Fraudsters. But a greater loyalty had sealed her lips. She’d told herself it didn’t matter if people lost money, because the sums were small, easily afforded by the victims.

      And then, when the angry mob had surrounded Eugene, and Claude had stumbled and fallen, unable to fire the shot required to make the charade complete, it had been no choice at all. She had acted upon instinct, the way one might jump into a river to save someone about to drown, and had assisted her friends in their escape.

      And now she would have to face the consequences of her actions. What was Yuma penitentiary like? Horrors reeled through Rowena’s mind. Convicts, including murderers and rapists, gaining access to the female prisoners. Male guards taking liberties. Beatings. Poor food. Lack of medical care. Intrusive physical examinations.

      She’d be twenty-six when she came out, and she might look like an old woman. Feel like an old woman, too—no future, no hope, nothing to look forward to. She couldn’t let it happen. Deftly, bursting into action, Rowena bent over, rummaged beneath her skirts and extracted a tightly rolled document from a narrow pocket sewn into her petticoat.

      Her father’s will, leaving Twin Springs to her. She had treasured the document, believing one day she would go back, find a way to fight for what was hers. Now those dreams had to be swept aside in the face of greater necessity.

      She would ask the attorney, Mr. Carpenter, to sell the land on her behalf. He would come to see her if the sheriff sent out word. Slowly, her panic subsided. Everything would turn out all right. Claude and Eugene would be safe. Everyone would get their money back. She would have lost any chance of reclaiming Twin Springs, but those chances had been slim anyway.

      Pacing the cell, Rowena waited for the sheriff to return. Outside, the light gained midday brightness and then dimmed again. No visitors came. No one brought her food. Either everyone was too busy at the courthouse, or they had turned their backs on her.

      Finally, voices. She rushed to the iron grille, pressed her face between the bars and yelled into the corridor. “Sheriff Macklin! Sheriff Macklin!”

      The burly lawman appeared, keys dangling in his hand.

      “Sheriff Macklin, can you please fetch Mr. Carpenter for me? I have a property I can sell. I can reimburse everyone.” She was babbling, the words tumbling out like grains in a mill. “I meant no harm. I will make restitution, just as the judge ordered.”

      The key rattled in the lock. The grille slid open with a screech. Sheriff Macklin stepped aside and gestured for her to come out. “You’re free to go, Miss Rowena. Your fine has been paid.”

      “Paid?” Her brows drew into a baffled frown. The telegram had said: Safe in San Francisco. Catching boat immediately.

      The message had been to inform her that Claude and Eugene were beyond the reach of the law, and it would be safe for her to reveal the truth. There was no way the conmen could have found out about her plight, could have wired the money to pay her fine. She made a small, helpless gesture with her hand. “But how…who…?”

      “Marshal Hunter had a bank draft for three thousand and the rest in cash.”

      Stunned, Rowena blinked. She could clearly recall the marshal telling her that he could only just afford the down payment on the property he wished to buy, that he carried a bank draft for the exact amount. In settling her fine, he had not only given up the land he coveted, he had also spent most of his traveling cash. In her mind, she could hear his voice, the way it had softened when he described the land, and she recalled how his gaunt features had lit up with pleasure, how his wistful expression had revealed a longing for a place to call his own, a place to lay down roots.

      Guilty conscience stalking like a ghost by her side, Rowena walked out of the jail. It was not her dream that had been sacrificed, but Marshal Hunter’s dream. As she made her way through the evening chill to the boardinghouse, the rolled-up document hidden beneath her skirts tapped against her leg, like the finger of fate pointing out that she possessed the means to make restitution, to help the marshal resurrect his dream of land of his own.

      * * *

      There was no time to waste, for Marshal Hunter might be planning to ride out at first light. Barely pausing at the boardinghouse to make sure her room and her belongings remained undisturbed, Rowena hurried over to the hotel.

      Minna Tellerman was sitting behind the reception counter, busy with a needle and an embroidery hoop. Rowena walked up to the frail woman and managed a shaky smile. “Hello, Mrs. Tellerman. Could you tell me where I can find Marshal Hunter?”

      Minna Tellerman—whose husband had bought a share in the worthless mining claim—refused to meet Rowena’s eyes. “Room four. Turn left at the top of the stairs.”

      So, restitution might not buy forgiveness. Rowena turned to go, then spun back and spoke softly. “I’m sorry for not having revealed the truth sooner, Mrs. Tellerman. I hope you have heard that everyone will be reimbursed in full?”

      Minna Tellerman’s chin dipped in a reluctant nod that confirmed she had indeed heard the news but was not allowing the recovery of her husband’s investment to blunt her resentment. Pointedly ignoring Rowena, she focused on her embroidery.

      Ill at ease, Rowena gathered her skirts and set off up the stairs. Some of the men waiting to enter the dining room followed her path with sly, disrespectful looks. Puzzled, Rowena averted her face. Then it struck her, another blow to her already battered armor. Gossip must have gone around that Marshal Hunter had paid her fine, and people believed that for a man who barely knew her to spend such a large amount for her benefit, she must have given him something in return.

      Shame burned on her cheeks, but she soldiered on, located the correct room, raised her hand and rapped on the door. “Marshal Hunter. It’s Rowena McKenzie.”

      That familiar, uneven trail of footsteps crossed the room. The door sprang open and Marshal Hunter stood in front of her, hair mussed, the tails of his shirt hanging free. Rowena hesitated. The rules of social propriety seemed inconsistent—it had never crossed her mind there might be something improper about the marshal visiting her in jail, but entering a man’s hotel room seemed out of the question.

      “I need to talk to you,” she informed him, a pointless comment since there could hardly be any other reason for her to appear at his doorstep.

      The marshal stepped out into the corridor and left the door ajar behind him.

      Rowena gathered every bit of courage, every aspect of ladylike decorum she could muster. “I understand you settled my fine. Why did you do it?”

      When they first met, Marshal Hunter had hidden all his emotions behind a blank mask, and now he put on the same neutral expression. “Had some money on me. Seemed as good a way to spend it as any.”

      Exasperated, Rowena flapped her hand in the air. Why did men think it made difficult situations easier if they pretended it didn’t matter? “What about your land?” she demanded to know. “That ranch in California you said was the prettiest piece of property you’d ever laid eyes on.”

      “There’ll be other parcels of land.”

      “Maybe. But we both know what you have given up.” She met his guarded gaze with a fraught look that implored him to stop belittling his sacrifice. Being denied the opportunity to express her gratitude wouldn’t lighten the burden, but instead add to it. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. And please don’t do me the discourtesy of saying something trivial, like ‘You’re welcome’ or ‘Don’t mention it’.”

      Marshal Hunter said nothing, merely nodded.

      Rowena