The Marshal's Wyoming Bride. Tatiana March

of ownership.”

      “But I could dispute that, could I not, if I have a bill of sale from Miss McKenzie?”

      “The bill of sale could be dismissed as a forgery. Or, the other party could claim that Miss McKenzie sold the ranch to them prior to selling it to you. If they find out about her criminal conviction for participating in a fraud, they could use the information to support a suggestion that she might have sold the same property twice.”

      The lawyer cast a longing glance toward a cabinet by the wall, making Dale suspect he kept a bottle there. “I could do with a drink,” Dale said.

      “I can accommodate you.” Carpenter bounced up, as eager as a grasshopper, and hurried to the cabinet. “I keep this for the benefit of clients,” he said as he returned to his desk with a bottle and two glasses. “Whiskey can ease the sting of bad news.”

      He poured, and they lifted their glasses and downed their drinks. Making no offer of a refill, the lawyer put the bottle aside. “Let me see the will again.”

      Dale slid the document over. Carpenter shuffled the pages, read out loud. “To my daughter Rowena McKenzie or to her husband…”

      “There is no husband, as far as I know,” Dale pointed out.

      Animated now, Carpenter leaned forward across the desk. “And that is the key to making the most of the situation. The best way for you to pursue your claim is to marry Miss McKenzie and make sure she travels to Wyoming with you. A legal marriage will give you a right by inheritance that cannot be disputed, and Miss McKenzie can prove that her signature on any document claiming a prior sale is not genuine. Of course, that is assuming she is telling the truth and there has been no prior sale.” The lawyer paused to let the idea of Rowena McKenzie as a habitual fraudster stew for a moment.

      “However, even if you managed to prove ownership, the ranch could be occupied by squatters. You might then have to fight them to gain possession.” A note of warning entered Carpenter’s tone. “I have to stress that there are a number of risks involved in pursuing your claim. Is Miss McKenzie being honest with you? Will you be able to disprove any competing claims? Can you evict any potential squatters already in residence?”

      The lawyer sat straight again, adjusted his silk tie and gave a discreet cough. “Should you decide to accept those risks, and go ahead and marry Miss McKenzie, I would advise you to make sure the marriage becomes binding. Otherwise, after you’ve secured the ownership of the ranch, Miss McKenzie could file for an annulment and send you off on your way. You’d have done everything, perhaps even risked your life, for nothing.”

      Dale thanked the lawyer, collected his papers, paid the bill and left. His mind seemed to have seized up, refusing to process the information. The clearest thought in his head was that Carpenter was not an alcoholic. He was a skilled lawyer who lacked confidence. The shot of whiskey had merely served to sharpen his wits and loosen his tongue.

      Outside, the sky was gray. Gusts of wind whipped along the street, chasing litter and making shop signs clatter. He set off and kept walking, all the way to the end of Main Street and beyond, where the town petered out. Turning left, he took a winding path up into the pine forest. The chill in the air bit through his clothing, but he liked it. It was dry cold, unlike the damp winters of the northeast. Wyoming would be like that, too.

      Like the wind stirring in the trees, the lawyer’s words whispered through his mind.

       “Marry Miss McKenzie… I would advise you to make sure the marriage becomes binding…”

      Would she do it? Would she marry him? Even if she refused to consummate the marriage and they settled on a union which was nothing more than a business arrangement, he’d have the pleasure of her company. He could enjoy her warmth, her laughter, her serene presence that dispelled some of the darkness inside him.

      And if she did agree to make the marriage binding, as the lawyer had so cunningly advised, he could have her. Perhaps just the once. Perhaps more than once. Would she touch him without horror when she felt the scars that covered his body? If she managed that, if she could tolerate him, the physical side of their relationship might create a basis on which friendship and affection could grow. His hands clenched into fists, as if he were already fighting not to touch her, not to demand more than she might be willing to give.