But of course she couldn't know him. If the Martins were to be believed, this man had been born over a hundred years before her. She was supposedly sitting smack-dab in the year 1878, and she needed to keep that in mind if she planned to stay one step ahead of this game—whatever this game was.
She quirked an eyebrow at the barrel of the man’s old-fashioned pistol and wondered if the thing even worked. He was standing in a spread-legged stance beside her chair; lean hips, wide chest, shoulders so broad you could roller skate on them. Who ever he was, he was pretty impressive. He was wearing a tan-colored cowboy hat that shadowed his eyes, making it impossible to read his expression, but his rigid posture told her he wasn’t adverse to using the gun he was holding.
“It isn't polite for a man to flash his weapon in public,” she remarked.
He lowered his aim from her face to the center of her chest, and her attention lingered on the sculpted line of his stubble-covered jaw and the fullness of his lips. She wondered who he was, and what she’d done to warrant this particular greeting.
And then he spoke. "You've got two seconds to tell me who you are and what you're doing here."
His voice was smooth, steady, and Lacey narrowed her eyes. She’d never had a lot of patience for pushy, arrogant men. Feeling pretty confident he wouldn’t shoot her in the Martins’ living room, she settled her attention on the hot fire in front of her and went back to trying to solve the problem at hand: finding the little woman who’d brought her there and—
"Don't make me ask you again, lady."
"Listen, Maverick,” she snapped, “you're bullying the wrong person. I've got a lot on my plate right now and I am not interested in playing cowboy with you. So you can take your questions, along with your little hat and your little gun, and go straight to hell.”
She tugged her blanket up tighter beneath her chin and refocused on the fire, hoping this time the man would go away.
He didn't.
“Let’s start with your name."
Lacey clenched her teeth. He could start with the moon for all she cared. She had bigger fish to fry. She certainly hadn’t been serious when she’d agreed to travel back in time to 1878—who could have imagined that bite-sized woman was capable of pulling something like this off? But if her so-called spiritual guide had been able to take her into the past, then the woman was certainly capable of sending her right back home. Lacey would have been standing in the middle of the Martins’ living room demanding exactly that, if not for the little woman’s warning that was, even now, ringing like a death knell through her head: “The charges against you will be waiting right here if you should choose to re-embrace them.”
She heard the hammer on the man’s gun click back, but refused to show any indication she'd noticed.
"Shall I count to ten?" he stated.
“Don’t feel like you have to show off on my account,” she muttered.
He was awfully sure of himself with that cannon clutched in his fist. Her can of pepper spray could have given him a run for his money, but her purse had been left in the bedroom along with all of her clothes.
"You don't look like a Rawlins," he commented.
She angled him a sharp look. “A what?"
"A Rawlins. As in Lorraine Rawlins."
"Maybe that's because I'm not a Rawlins-as-in-Lorraine-Rawlins."
He met her hard stare. “What are you doing here?"
“Warming up and trying to ignore you.”
“I don’t think ignoring me would be all that wise.”
She opened her mouth to tell him that he could measure her concern for what he thought in microgivashits, but before she could open her mouth, Hazel Martin came bustling into the room with a silver serving tray in her hands.
"I brought you both some coffee," the woman said. She caught sight of the gunman. "Matthew Brady,” she chastised. “Get that blasted pistol outta her face.”
Lacey had already downed three cups of the strong brew that Hazel called coffee—one more and she'd probably be awake until the apocalypse—but anything even remotely warm was hard for her to turn down at the moment. She accepted another cup from Hazel.
"Hazel," the man said, "I want you and George to go in your room and lock the door. Stay there until I tell you it’s safe to come out.”
The woman leveled a haughty look at him. "I have supper to cook," she retorted. "And George has lamps to fill. Enjoy your coffee, Miss Guarder," she said to Lacey. "That is your name, isn't it? Miss Guarder?"
“Yes,” Lacey replied. “It is.” For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why everybody seemed to doubt that. If she was going to lie about who she was, she certainly would have come up with a better name than the ridiculous one she’d been given at birth by a mother high on heroine.
Hazel Martin smirked. "Well, Matthew. That's certainly good enough for me. Has our marshal, here, even bothered to introduce himself, Miss Guarder?"
Marshal? Lacey turned furious eyes on the man. He was a cop?! She should have guessed based on his cocksure attitude and the make-my-day set of his stubborn jaw.
"Would you like a cup of coffee, Matthew?" Hazel asked. "Or would it only get in the way of the gunplay?"
"Hazel?” George Martin called from the back of the house. “Get on outta there, hun, and let the man do his job.”
Hazel pursed her lips. "I s’pose I'll be in the kitchen…if somebody decides to come to his senses.” She gave the marshal a pointed look.
Hazel left the room and Lacey settled back into the leather chair with her coffee, now even more determined to ignore the marshal. He still hadn’t lowered his gun and she was beginning to take it personally.
"If you're not Lorraine Rawlins, then who are you?"
Lacey sighed. Maybe if she gave him a straight answer he’d go away and leave her in peace? “My name’s Lacey Guarder.”
He let go with a deep, soft laugh. "You expect me to believe your name is Lacey Garter?”
She threw him a hot glare; like in twenty-five years she’d never heard that one before? “That’s Guar-der. G.U.A.R.D.E.R. And I don't give a damn whether you believe me or not.”
"Where, exactly, are you from, Miss Guarder?”
"The twenty-first century.” He wouldn’t believe her, but it was fun to say it just the same.
He gave her a bland stare. “What’s your business in Tranquility?”
“A much needed vacation.”
“From what?”
She smirked. “People like you.”
He was watching her closely, reading her body language and expressions, trying to discern the truth, but she hadn't lied to him—yet. When she did, the truth certainly wouldn't be written all over her face.
His strong chin lifted slightly and she caught a glimpse of thick, brown hair peeking out from beneath his hat. "What happened to your horse?"
Lacey had already gone through this line of questioning with the Martins. Why not make it more interesting the second time around? “I ate him," she replied. She turned her attention to the flames dancing in the hearth.
"You ate your horse.”
She shrugged. "A girl gets hungry in a blizzard.”
“And your coat?”
“What coat?”
“The one the Martins say you weren’t wearing.”
“I didn’t bring a coat.”
“Why would you go out in a snow storm without a coat?”
She smiled. “Because it wasn’t snowing when I left.”
She heard him sigh and looked over to see him holstering his gun. He took off his hat, revealing thick, walnut-brown hair that was puckered on top and plastered down on the sides with sweat. He tossed the Stetson to the sofa, and pushed his hand through the rumpled mess on his head. Their eyes met. His were green, a deep shade of jade, and that feeling came back again in spades—that same unmistakable sense that she'd met him somewhere before.
"What were you doing wandering around in a snowstorm?" he asked.
"Free
zing to death." He was tragically good looking—tragic for her—tousled hair and all. She felt drawn to every line and angle of his face.
“Without a horse and a coat,” he stated.
His lips were full and expressive. Watching them form words was downright mesmerizing. He arched a dark brow at her and she realized she was staring. She cleared her throat and looked back at the fire. “That’s right,” she answered.
"The Martins mentioned something about you being confused as to what year it was?"
In her daze, Lacey had asked the Martins about the date. The Richter scale couldn't have measured her shock when George Martin had answered, “November 10th, 1878.”
"I'm afraid they're the ones confused," she responded. "I asked what time it was, not what date." Her first lie to him, but certainly not her last. Thankfully neither of the Martins were in the room to dispute it.
“Did you have somewhere you needed to be?"
Lacey had been interrogated too many times to fall for such a leading question. “Did I say that?” she replied.
"You haven't really said anything."
“Maybe there’s nothing to tell.”
He folded his arms. “I highly doubt that. You here alone?”
Does a tiny angel count? “That’s none of your business.”
“How long do you plan to stay?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Know anybody in town?”
“Nope.”
“Got any family?”
“Either charge me with something or leave me alone.”
His lips twisted into a slow smile. "Spoken like someone who's seen the inside of a few jail cells.”
Lacey could have kicked herself for letting that vital piece of information out. The mention of family had always been a trigger for her. She recovered quickly, though, and gave him a wide-eyed stare. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He turned and sat down next to his hat on the forest-green sofa. "You don't look like a Rawlins.”
“Could that be because I am not a Rawlins?”
He nodded and studied her carefully. “So you say. But I think I’ll stick around and make sure for myself.” He sank back into the cushions and propped his ankle on his knee.
Lacey gritted her teeth. She was tired, hungry, and fresh out of witty retorts. The lawman looked lousy with confidence, and she had to turn back to the fire or completely lose her cool. She'd been dumped in the middle of a blizzard, left to her own devices in a completely different century, only to have another cop breathing down her neck.
Chapter 3
Matthew held aside the lace curtains and stared out the front window at the snowflakes flying around like buckets of feathers in a whirlwind. In the two hours since he’d arrive at the Martins’ homestead, tall drifts had formed against the sides of the house and the entire front porch had vanished beneath a blanket of white.
He saw no signs of his deputies. He figured they’d given up on the weather and settled in for a drink at Charlie's. Matthew couldn’t blame them; by the looks of things, he might be staying put himself for the rest of the night.
The tangy smell of roasting meat drifted through the house and his thoughts turned to Amanda. She was expecting him to escort her to Reverend O'Rourke's for dinner that night. He hated to disappoint her—especially with that popinjay Reginald Sterling waiting in the wings to woo her—but there really wasn't much he could do about it all. His job had to come first. Amanda was sweet and sensible; she’d understand.
He let the curtain flutter back over the window and turned to look at Miss Lacey Guarder who was still curled up in the chair in front of the fire. She’d been so quiet for the past hour that he wondered if she’d fallen asleep.
He stared at her profile and couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d met her somewhere before. She wasn't a Rawlins, he was fairly certain of that; she looked nothing like the large, ugly men he’d had locked up in his jail. The Rawlins family were known for their dark-as-sin coloring and wicked emerald eyes, and this copper-haired, tawny-eyed beauty didn't come close to fitting that description. Lacey Guarder was as dainty and ivory skinned as a store-bought porcelain doll, but he wasn’t one to be easily fooled by outward appearances. No, his instincts were telling him that beneath that veer of ethereal beauty the woman was as crooked as a dog’s hind legs.
If she wasn’t a Rawlins, then who was she, and what was she doing in a nowhere little lumber town like Tranquility? Any body who refused to say where they were from was just hiding something.
She looked over at him, pinning him with her shrewd gaze, and he felt the look solidly in his chest. There was something about this woman… “I’ll be sending off a telegram to Seattle," he announced. “Maybe the law in King County can shed some light on who you are.”
At the very least, he hoped she’d blanche at the threat. The last thing he expected was her to find humor in it. “Don’t hold your breath,” she chuckled.
The smokey sound of her laughter played on his nerves. He found himself transfixed by the way the firelight gilded her hair in deep oranges and golds and painted shadows along the soft curves of her delicate face. Of their own accord, his eyes latched onto the bowed shape of her full mouth. Swallowing hard, he looked toward the main hallway, hoping for a distraction. Where had George and Hazel gotten off to?
“Shouldn’t you be heading home soon?”
His attention shot back to the woman in the leather chair.
She gestured toward the snowfall out the front window. “It’s getting pretty deep out there. Wouldn’t want the town to worry about their marshal.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You and I are gonna have issues if you cause any trouble in my town.”
“Don't sweat it, Dirty Harry. I don't plan to be here that long.”
Whether by design or an unhinged mind, the woman was having a hard time getting his name right. “Sounds like you spend a lot of time on the road,” he commented.
“Could be,” she evaded.
“A person’s gotta hang their hat somewhere.”
“I don’t wear hats.”
George Martin stepped into the room. “How are we all doin’ in here?" he asked. "Hazel says I was to come in and be sure blood wasn't gettin' spilt all over the new Montgomery Ward rug." He moved behind Lacey Guarder's chair and gave Matthew a questioning look.
Matthew gave him a subtle shrug. George was clearly looking for reassurance, but Matthew couldn't give him any. The woman may not be Lorraine Rawlins, but he didn’t trust her as far as he could spit.
"The marshal has managed to cool his blood lust for the time being,” Lacey Guarder remarked.
George laughed, a deep, rich laugh that sounded suspiciously like relief, and then walked around the chair to stir the fire in the hearth. "And how are you comin' along, Miss Guarder?" he asked. "You all warmed up yet?"
"Yes, thank you. It was very kind of you and your wife to take me in."
"Oh, taking a body in from the cold ain't nothin' anybody else around here wouldn't a done," George replied.
The woman cast Matthew a sideways glance. “Well, maybe not anybody."
"I tend to reserve my hospitality for people who aren’t adverse to answerin’ a few simple questions,” Matthew replied.
She arched a tawny brow at him. “So then it’s normal for you to interrogate everyone you meet?”
George chuckled. “In Matthew's defense, Miss Guarder, he’s only doin' his job. We had a robbery at the bank this mornin', and Matthew had good reason to believe one of the culprits had headed this way. I'm sure he's feelin' real sorry about mistaken you for one of the outlaws. Aren'cha, Matthew?"
Both of them looked at him, George clearly expecting him to apologize, and Lacey Guarder clearly believing he wouldn't. The lady had it right. Matthew Brady never apologized unless he was wrong. She might not be Lorraine Rawlins, but he’d bet his horse that Miss Lacey Guarder wasn’t as innocent as she claimed.
She leaned clo
ser to George. “I don’t think he’s sorry at all,” she whispered loudly. "I think he still might want to shoot me.”
George gave her a broad smile. “Don’t you worry, none, honey. We don’t allow people to shoot our guests.”
Matthew couldn’t believe what he was seeing. She had the man completely charmed. “George, I hope you and Hazel won’t mind a little more company tonight. I’m afraid the storm’s got me pretty well boxed in.”
Lacey Guarder gave him a shocked look and he smirked at her. That’s right, lady, he thought to himself. I’m not leaving you alone with these fine people for one little second.
“Of course, Matthew,” George replied. “You’re welcome to stay as long as ya like.”
"Come and get it while it's hot!” Hazel shouted from the kitchen at the back of the house. "Last one to the table washes the dishes.”
“Dagnamit,” George blurted. "I forgot to fetch canned peaches from the cellar." He lumbered across the room, all six foot four inches of him. "You two best get in there before the wife takes offense," he called. "Otherwise she's bound to toss the whole mess out into the blowin' snow."
Matthew looked back at Lacey Guarder. She’d stood up in front of him. The woman couldn’t have been more than a few inches over five feet tall: a little stick of dynamite with a very short fuse. She dropped the quilt. She was dressed in a heavy white muslin nightgown.
"Plan to change?" he asked.
"I've heard a woman should never change herself for a man."
She attempted to walk by him and he reached out and took hold of her arm. "I suggest you watch your step—"
Without warning the woman turned into a wildcat. She took hold of his shirtfront, brought up her knee, and stomped her heel down hard onto his foot. The impact went right through the top of his black leather boot. He let out a shout of pain and surprise, but that didn't stop her from finishing the job. She brought back her fist and punched him solidly in the stomach. Not expecting the blow, it doubled him over and drove the air from his lungs.
“Don’t ever touch me!” she gritted out. Then, without so much as a backward glance, she strode right past him and out of the room.
DESTINY'S EMBRACE Page 4
