The Marshal's Rebellious Bride: (A Sweet Western Historical Romance) (The Dalton Brides Book 9)

by Cassie Hayes

  “You didn’t know? I assumed one of the men would have told you.”

  “No,” he managed. No other words came to mind. Catherine eyed him hard, then a small smile touched her lips.

  “Some investigator you are.”

  That stung, he had to admit, but she was only teasing him. Besides, she had a point. How did a trained officer of the law not sniff out a secret that big?

  You were too busy thinking you had her figured out, that’s how. Maybe she’s not as much like Rebecca as you thought. So what are you going to do about it?

  5

  Not wanting to push her on a painful subject she clearly didn’t want to discuss, Griff kept Catherine entertained with stories of his travels for the next hour or so. Talking to her came surprisingly easy when it never had before. Maybe it had something to do with his new perception of her.

  “Remind me what breed Gladys is, Curtis.” Catherine leaned forward to rub Gladys’s long, regal neck. “I know you’ve told me before but I don’t have a head for horses.”

  “An Apalousey, some call her a Palouse horse. Not too common anymore, especially down this way.”

  “Where did you get her? The spots on her hindquarters are so unusual.”

  “Up north in the Idaho territory. The Nez Perce Indians used to breed them until their war a while back. I was up that way a couple years ago visiting my cousin in a little place called Hope Springs. I helped catch a cattle rustler and Gladys was my payment for services rendered.”

  No need to tell her about how, after Griff had tracked down the man, the rustler was shot while trying to kidnap one of the resident’s teenage daughters. Or how he didn’t die right away. Or what the girl’s father did to expedite the man’s demise. A shudder rippled down his spine.

  “She’s very nice.” Catherine looked down at him sheepishly. “You know, I never rode a horse until I arrived at the ranch.”

  Griff kept his face blank. “Oh?”

  “The first time I tried to mount one, I tumbled right off. But I’m getting better, don’t you think?”

  “You’re a natural.” She fairly glowed at his praise, and his heart swelled at the sight. He never imagined she would share such personal things with him. It felt nice.

  “Oh, look!” Catherine pointed to a puny cluster of trees up ahead. “Let’s stop for breakfast.”

  “Breakfast?! What on earth are you talking about? I’ve got a killer to catch, or did you forget? I’ve lost enough time this morning without stopping to eat.”

  The easy smile on her face fell away, replaced by an expression he was accustomed to seeing: A scowl. Blast! He couldn’t have kept his big mouth shut, could he? The tension that flared between them since the moment he laid eyes on her wavy locks and sparkling eyes had been easing. He just had to go and step in it.

  “Tully Owings isn’t going anywhere in the next twenty minutes, Marshal.”

  Her cold tone drilled into him, chilling his skin until goosebumps covered his arms. And she was back to calling him ‘Marshal’.

  “Besides, you don’t know this stretch of prairie, so I can tell you that this is the last decent spot to rest until we reach our destination.”

  “Which is…?”

  She didn’t even dignify his prompt with a glance. Instead, she dug her heels in Gladys’s sides until the reins pulled free of Griff’s hand and they trotted off ahead of him. Blasted woman! She really was getting better at riding. He scrubbed at the back of his neck, wondering what had just happened.

  By the time he caught up with them, Catherine was laying a spare saddle blanket on the ground. Where did that come from?!

  “Please bring me my bag, Marshal.”

  Griff’s gut knotted up at her stiff posture and clipped words. He never intended to insult her. Blasted touchy woman. Irritation replaced the guilty pit in his stomach and he jammed his hat on the saddle’s horn. When he yanked her heavy satchel free of the saddle and something inside clanked, she shot a glare at him.

  “Careful!”

  Griff rolled his eyes and dropped the bag at her feet, bowing deeply. “Is there anything else her majesty requires?”

  “Only for you to sit down and be quiet,” she snapped, pulling a seemingly endless supply of bundles from her bag.

  Griff’s stomach chose that moment to rumble so loud that Gladys looked over at him. He couldn’t stop from chuckling as he eased himself down to the blanket.

  “Guess my empty belly didn’t get the message.”

  Her snicker sounded as light as the brook babbling next to them, and just like that, the tension between them eased. Griff took a moment to get a good look at their picnic spot. It really was quite nice. Trees for a little shade, a small brook that Gladys drank from contentedly and flat ground with few rocks.

  The spread Catherine laid out before him made his eyes boggle. Fried chicken, hard-boiled eggs, several rashers of bacon, fried green tomatoes. Even fresh bread with a small crock of butter! Her satchel lay deflated at her feet, nearly empty.

  “This is why your bag was so full?”

  “Yes,” she replied with an ‘Aren’t you sorry now?’ smirk.

  Boy, was he. “I never eat like this on the trail.”

  “Well, you do today. Consider it a bonus for agreeing to take me along.”

  Without another word, he dug in. After the previous night’s feast, he shouldn’t have been hungry but months of barely eating more than jerky and hard biscuits had taken its toll. All he could manage were grunts of appreciation between huge mouthfuls of delicious food.

  Catherine picked at the food daintily, flushing whenever she glanced at his gluttony. Was it pleasure at his enjoyment of the food or disgust? He didn’t have a clue but figured she should take it as a compliment. Judging by this meal, she was every bit as good a cook as Bonnie Dalton. Another surprise.

  By the time he ate his fill, the sun peeked over the tops of the stubby trees. Its warmth and his bursting belly almost lulled him into a nap. If he didn’t have a fugitive to bring to justice, he would have been tempted — assuming she actually knew where Owings was, which he doubted.

  When was the last time he’d enjoyed a fine meal with a lovely lady? Rebecca, no doubt. Pushing those thoughts away, he caught Catherine’s gaze.

  “You’re quite the cook, Miss James.”

  She waved a hand at him. “Can we please go back to using each other’s given names?”

  “I’d like that. A good cook, a crack shot and braver than any woman I’ve ever known. You’re a constant surprise, Catherine.”

  She snorted in a most unladylike fashion, quickly covering her mouth in embarrassment. Pink flooded her creamy cheeks and he finally understood why she brought that silly parasol along. Skin that fair would burn like a cheap steak out here.

  “Brave?”

  “You don’t seem anxious at all about our, um, adventure.”

  “Do I need to remind you that looks can be deceiving, Curtis? In reality, I’m scared to death.”

  “You’re smart, too,” he said with a wink.

  Squinting against the sun, he looked around for his hat. There it was, dangling from the saddle horn. All he wanted to do was rest here for a few minutes longer but the sun was blinding. What was a man to do when he was too full to move?

  “Here,” Catherine said. “I still have a little shade left.”

  Griff shaded his eyes to see what she was holding out to him. The glare was too bright so he blindly took the item from her, trying to ignore the zap of electricity when his fingers brushed across hers. What the…?

  Her parasol!

  Catherine bit her lip hard in an effort to not giggle at Curtis, leaning back against a log with her pretty pink parasol — with fringe — held over his head. He looked utterly bewildered for a minute, then caught her amused expression and grinned. The laughter that burst from her felt so good. She couldn’t remember the last time she laughed all the way from her toes.

  Not every man would happily hold a para
sol like that. A surge of admiration for him flooded her. She’d always thought he was a fine man, she simply had no interest in him romantically. She had no interest in any man in that way. But the more he visited, the more she rebelled against everyone’s suggestions that she encourage his attentions. For the first time, she was almost tempted.

  No, you must keep your guard up, her brain insisted. Even if he wasn’t the typical rough and tumble Marshal, his vagabond lifestyle held no interest for her. After an entire life of not belonging — anywhere or to anyone — Catherine longed for a place to call her own, a real home.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” he murmured, his shrewd eyes burning her skin.

  “I was just wondering why you joined the Marshal Service,” she hedged.

  His gaze remained on her for a long moment before he pulled open his coat and flashed the badge pinned to his chest.

  “The jewelry, of course.”

  Catherine had spotted flashes of his badge before, but she’d never seen the whole thing. She always envisioned something more ornate, with filigrees and special seals. This was made from flat gray steel, a wide ring circling a five-pointed star. The only lettering said U.S. Marshal. That was it. Pretty plain, really.

  “Very funny. If you don’t want to talk about it, all you have to do is say so.”

  Her feelings were only a little bruised that he wouldn’t share personal details from his life, even though he’d dragged far too many from her. To cover her emotions, she began packing away the remaining food. No sense in wasting it.

  “No, I’ll tell you.” He sat up, closing the parasol and focusing on the carved handle. “Our motto is ‘Justice, Integrity, Service’. I strive to live up to those qualities every day, and I will until the day I die.”

  What drove a man to be so committed to such an ideal? Catherine envied his dedication. She sat perfectly still, not wanting to break the spell. After a moment of gathering his thoughts, he continued.

  “You see, my father…” He glanced up, eyes filled with grief. “I’ve never told anyone this before.”

  “You can trust me,” she whispered, her heart aching for the pain he felt. She would never break his confidence.

  “My father was unjustly convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. The sheriff and judge in Durango were corrupt, and my father launched a campaign to roust them from office. It backfired. They framed him for the murder of his business partner and he was hanged by a mob before the trial.”

  “Oh my…” A hollow ache sat where her stomach used to be. Her thoughtless words about how Mary and Maggie had been ‘lucky’ to have known their parents love must have cut him to the quick. Shame threatened to overwhelm her. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “I was seventeen. Before he died, he made me vow to not seek vengeance, but rather justice. The Marshals’ code appealed to me because those were the qualities my father valued in a man. As long as I follow those tenets, I know my father’s looking down on me with pride.”

  A tear slipped down Catherine’s cheek unheeded. Emotion roiled around inside her, mixing up what she thought she knew and what was true, until her head spun from it all.

  “What happened to the crooked men?” Asking seemed wrong, somehow, but she had to know. Curtis’s mouth turned up in a grim version of a smile.

  “It took longer than I hoped, but justice finally found them.”

  Curiosity burned inside her to find out what form justice took, but she didn’t press. Divulging such an intimate story must have hurt enough, he didn’t need her dredging up more bad memories.

  They sat in silence, each ruminating over their own thoughts, when a nearby bush rustled loudly. Curtis whipped his pistol from its holster so fast she almost didn’t see his hand move. But instead of a wolf or catamount, the savage creature that emerged stood no taller than her tender ankle.

  “Don’t!” she cried, motioning Curtis to put away his gun. Grabbing a rasher of bacon, she held it out to the skinny pup, which eagerly gobbled it down in two bites. “How did a puppy get way out here?”

  “That’s a coyote, Catherine,” he said, jumping up and looking around. “You shouldn’t feed it. Its mother might be around. Last thing we need is to get rushed by a protective mama coyote.”

  “Nonsense. Look at her, Curtis. She’s starving.”

  He stooped to take a better look. Even she, a city girl, could see the pup’s ribs poking through her mangy, light brown coat. Reaching back, he grabbed a chicken leg, breaking off small pieces to feed the pup. It inhaled them.

  “That’s a good girl,” he cooed, petting it gently. It leaned into his hand and whined for more food. “Not too much too fast, pretty lady.”

  Scooping the little ball of fur up in his big hands, he cuddled it next to his chest and carefully examined it. The way it whined and wiggled in his arms drew a giggle from Catherine. She’d always been of the firm opinion that a man’s character could be discovered by the way he treated animals.

  “Looks like she’s in good shape, other than being a little scrawny,” he finally announced, glancing at her with eyes that matched the coyote pup’s coat perfectly. “But I’m afraid it’s time to get back on the trail, Catherine.”

  Disappointment coursed through her. She’d always loved playing with the odd puppy that strayed through the orphanage’s yard — not that the horrible headmistress would allow the children to keep one. Better not to get attached, old Mrs. Whipple used to say, cuz they’re just gonna up and die on ya anyway.

  Sniffing back the tears that prickled at her eyelids, she nodded and turned to pack the food. She couldn’t bear to watch him shoo the little puppy away. But when she spun around to strap the half-empty satchel to Gladys’s saddle, her heart nearly leapt out of her chest.

  Curtis tucked the pup into a saddlebag and when she caught his eye, he shrugged.

  “What? Can’t leave her out here to die.”

  6

  Griff no longer felt the need to lead Gladys, knowing that Catherine had enough skill to keep her moving in the right direction. The coyote pup lay snuggled deep in his saddlebag, snoring lightly. Its belly bulged from all the food Catherine kept sneaking to it as they walked.

  “So are you ever going to tell me where we’re going?”

  A blush crept up Catherine’s cheeks. “Do you know the Carson ranch?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “Well, it’s a few miles away from here. That’s where Tully Owings is hiding out.”

  “How do you know?” He tried his best to keep the skepticism out of his question. It seemed unlikely that an unmarried woman who could barely ride a gentle horse at a trot should have any reason to visit a ranch this far out of town. She took her time answering.

  “I don’t have much, Curtis. Never have. What I do have are skills. I can cook, clean, sew, embroider, knit, you name it. They’re about the only things I left the orphanage with. That and a pocketful of lies.”

  Bitterness rolled off her like heat rising from a desert, but he stifled his curiosity and let her continue at her own pace.

  “The Daltons have kindly put the word out that I’m available for odd household jobs. Old Mr. Carson needed a big pile of clothes mended so Bonnie and Maggie dropped me off on their way to town a week or so ago. I swear the man didn’t have a single item that didn’t have some kind of hole or tear in it.”

  Griff never would have guessed Catherine possessed such skills. Since laying eyes on her several months earlier, he’d assumed she eschewed manual labor, like someone else he once knew. What a fool he’d been comparing them. The more he got to know her — the real her — the more shame he felt for judging her so harshly.

  “It took hours and hours to work through that pile. I set myself up in an out-of-the way corner of the main house and kept to my task. Mr. XX passed through from time to time, as did some of the ranch hands. They all ignored me as if I wasn’t there, which was fine by me.”

  A shudder wracked her petite frame and that shadow passed ac
ross her face again. This time, though, he knew she was remembering her kidnapping. Maybe one day she’d tell him more about it. Of course, that would mean spending more time together. That didn’t sound half-bad to Griff.

  “Mr. Carson was eating a plate of day-old stew for lunch when a shifty character skulked in. He jumped up and shook the man’s hand, calling him by name. ‘Tully, what the blazes are you doing out this way?’ he said. I remember because I thought that was an odd name, but you never mentioned his first name in your previous visits.”

  Excitement and fear pulsed in Griff’s veins. All this time, he half-thought she either made up knowing where to find Owings, or she was mistaken. Maybe not…

  “The man looked just as you described at dinner last night. Small, older, rather ugly and a big scar on his face. He looked like he’d been on the road for some time, sort of like you.”

  Me? He did his best to hide how insulted he felt at her words. He didn’t fancy having her consider him unattractive.

  “Unlike you, though,” she continued, “he had a…hardness about him. Like he would just as soon shoot you as look at you. Before answering Mr. Carson, he glanced around to make sure they were alone. His eyes passed right over me like I wasn’t there. Then he outright told Mr. Carson that he need a place to lay low for a few months.”

  “Fool!”

  Griff’s heart raced in his chest and it was all he could do not to jump up behind Catherine and gallop to that ranch. But she was right, Owings had no idea his freedom — and possibly life — would end this day. No need to rush. This would give Griff more time to plan out his strategy. Besides, the journey was getting interesting.

  “Mr. Carson told him he was welcome to use one of his line cabins as long as he needed. He gave him detailed directions on where to find it. So that’s where we’re going, Curtis.”

  Griff admired her quick thinking and steel trap of a mind. Most ladies he’d ever met wouldn’t have paid any attention to such an exchange between men. At least, he didn’t think so. Catherine made him doubt everything he’d ever assumed to be true.