Rogues in Texas 03 - Never Marry a Cowboy Page 2

  Harry shook his head in obvious bewilderment. “I don’t understand, Kit. With the money we made off that initial trail drive—”

  “I have very little of it left.”

  Harry’s green eyes widened in disbelief. “What in the bloody hell did you do with it? I know you didn’t gamble it away in here.”

  “What I did with it is my concern, not yours.”

  “The first year we were here, we picked cotton, and you wouldn’t tell me then what you did with the money you earned. But it wasn’t available when we decided to try our hand at herding cattle, so we were forced to take on an investor—”

  “For which you should be eternally grateful, since you ended up marrying her,” Kit pointed out in his own defense, although he’d never felt that he needed to justify the disappearance of his money.

  Harry grinned, warmth reflected in his green eyes. “God, Jessye was something on that trail drive, wasn’t she?”

  “She was indeed. You weren’t so bad yourself.”

  Harry’s smile faded. “I would have liked to have seen it through to the end, but broken legs and a smashed hip do not a worthy cowboy make.”

  Kit glanced around the saloon that had over the years, in small ways, begun to take on the appearance of the gentleman’s clubs they’d frequented in London . Nothing extravagant by any means, merely the shadow of their memories preserved here and there. “You’ve done well for yourself with the Texas Lady.”

  “I can’t complain. Besides, I think we’ve all done rather well. Gray’s farm is prospering. Your skill with a rifle became legendary and the citizens appointed you marshal. Can’t say that I blame them. You saved my life more than once.”

  Kit felt the familiar ache of an ancient festering wound. No matter how many lives he saved, he had not managed to spare the one that had mattered most. He drained the remainder of the whiskey from his glass, not bothering to protest when Harry refilled it. “It’s not enough.”

  Harry glanced up. “The whiskey?”

  Kit shrugged. “My life.”

  “My Lord, but you are morose this evening. You must have received a letter from Christopher.”

  Kit nodded at his friend’s perceptive deduction. “It seems Father is arranging another marriage for him. Although he failed to mention his feelings on the matter in his letter, I sense he’s not in favor of the match. However, obligations and duty will no doubt bind him to Father’s demands. It’s almost innate, isn’t it?”

  “Would we be here otherwise? We were rebellious, but when our fathers commanded us to leave, we left. Perhaps we were good sons after all.”

  “No goodness resides within me, Harry. I would not have done the things I have, otherwise.”

  Harry rubbed his thumb over the lion’s head that adorned his cane. “You’re thinking of Clarisse.”

  “She is constantly on my mind. Even when I seek solace with other women, they always leave me wanting because none is her.”

  “You’ve turned her into a saint. She wasn’t one, you know.”

  Kit lifted his glass in a mock salute. “No, she was an angel.” He took a long swallow of whiskey, relishing the final drop. “I must be off.”

  “Take the bottle with you.”

  Kit picked it up. “Gladly.” He stood. “Give my best to Jessye and the girls.”

  “Always.”

  He grabbed the confiscated weapons, tucked them within the crook of his arm, and walked from the saloon, making a mental note to look over the wanted posters in his office. He could tell when a man was a fun-loving cowboy simply looking for a good time and when one had evil running through his soul. He suspected the latter of Jasper and his comrades.

  Kit welcomed the cool night air hitting him, the only natural thing in this state that ever reminded him of England . The stars he’d never noticed until he’d watched over a herd of cattle at midnight .

  The desire to return to Ravenleigh plowed into him. After five years, he should no longer miss the place of his birth, but he had yet to find anything to replace it in his heart. He missed the grounds, the books, and the art. And he missed the people. He longed for conversations that weren’t accentuated with crude swearing and spitting.

  Discussions with Harry and Gray offered some respite, but he spent less time in their company. Once they’d been in hell together. Now, he alone remained, and with that admission, the loneliness deepened.

  He often wondered if he’d accepted the position of marshal because it offered him the opportunity to meet death. Not that he would purposely seek it out, but he knew in his heart that he would welcome it.

  Although they no longer herded cattle, he and his friends continued to invest in their ranching enterprise, hiring men to do the arduous work they abhorred. Just as he’d told Harry, he had retained little of the money from their first venture, but he had set aside a considerable amount since. He was not a wealthy man by any means, but he could provide for himself when needed. When no needs existed, he had other things upon which he preferred to spend his money.

  He opened the door to his office and staggered to a halt. A dark-haired man turned away from the wanted posters lining the wall behind Kit’s desk.

  Kit smiled broadly, truly pleased to see his visitor. “David Robertson! What an unexpected pleasure. When did you arrive in town?”

  “Late this afternoon.”

  Kit closed the door and strode across the room. “Are Madeline and Mary Ellen with you?”

  “No, I left my wife and daughter in Dallas .”

  Kit laid his burdens on the desk before extending a hand toward the Texan he’d met in England several years ago. “What brings you here, man?”

  David looked uncomfortable as he shook Kit’s hand. “I’m here to test the boundaries of your friendship.”

  “That has an ominous ring to it,” Kit said as he studied the man speculatively. He had rekindled their friendship when he and Harry had herded their cattle north, but he hadn’t seen David since Harry’s wedding four years earlier.

  David nodded toward the bottle. “Some whiskey might help to take the edge off my request.”

  Kit grabbed the two tin cups he used to take water to the prisoners the few times that he had them. He settled into the chair behind his desk and liberally poured whiskey into the cups. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” he offered, indicating the chair across from him.

  David sat and took the cup. Kit watched as his friend studied the contents as though he searched for an unfathomable answer. He would not classify David Robertson as a close friend, but he’d always enjoyed his company. The man was successful and well bred, with a wife and daughter who adored him.

  Kit brought the cup to his lips. “Your request?” he prompted before drinking his whiskey.

  David lifted his gaze. “I want you to marry my sister.”

  The whiskey burned its way into Kit’s lungs. He sputtered and coughed, the fire spreading through his chest.

  David bolted out of his chair and pounded Kit’s back. “I’m sorry.”

  Gasping for breath, Kit shoved him aside and glared at him. “Are you out of your mind? I am a rake, a scoundrel, and a rogue. Besides I have a rule not to get involved with the sisters of friends.”

  “I don’t care about your rules. In England , your reputation for luring women into your bed was legendary.”

  “Women to whom I was not married,” Kit felt compelled to point out.

  “But you did charm them, didn’t you? Isn’t that how you persuaded them that a night with you was worth the loss of their reputation?”

  Ah, yes, he had charmed them, become obsessed with them, striving to forget the one woman he could never possess. A dismal failure, that undertaking had been. Nothing, no one, would ever allow him to forget Clarisse. He gulped the remaining whiskey from his cup and reached for the bottle. “Regardless of my charming nature, knowing my tarnished reputation, why in God’s name would you want me to marry your sister?”

  “Because she�
�s dying.”

  Kit felt as though he’d been bludgeoned. He set aside the bottle and the cup that now carried the dented impression of his fingers. “Are you certain?”

  David nodded and lowered his gaze to the floor as though the pain were too great to bear. Kit certainly understood that feeling.

  “Ashton has always been frail,” David said quietly. “So incredibly delicate. When our parents died, she came to live with Madeline and me. Her health began deteriorating. Madeline took her to the doctor. He diagnosed her with consumption. He gives her until Christmas.”

  Kit shot out of his chair, feeling as though the walls of the room were closing in on him, suffocating him. “Then why ask me to marry her?”

  David shifted his stance and met Kit’s gaze. “I discovered her in the attic one afternoon wearing the dress our mother had worn the day she married our father. Ashton was weeping because Fate would deny her the opportunity to become a bride. It seemed such a small thing to want. I’m not asking you to act as her husband, only her bridegroom, to give her one day in the sun.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you come from a country where marriages are still arranged, and you understand that vows can be spoken with feeling even when no love exists between the couple.” He took a step forward. “And because when last we met, you told me that Christopher’s wife had taken ill and died. I saw in your eyes that you suffered from her loss, so you know that death can be cruel.”

  Kit snatched the bottle off the desk and drank greedily, relishing the unmerciful flames burning their way through him. He lowered the bottle. “I have watched one woman die. I will not watch another.”

  “I’m not asking you to watch her die. I’m only asking you to marry her. Charm her for one day, one evening. Allow her to be a bride. Then I’ll take her back to Dallas .”

  Shaking his head, Kit laughed and dropped into his chair. He remembered being introduced to Ashton at a party David had hosted, but his recollection of the woman was vague and blurry. The image of a timid mouse hovering in a corner popped into his mind. “I hardly know her.”

  “How well did you know the other women you’ve charmed?”

  All good humor fled. “I seriously doubt you want to put your sister in league with them.”

  “How many of them hated you?”

  “As far as I know, none. I always managed to stay on good terms with my conquests.”

  “That’s the reason I think this idea will work.”

  “You want your sister to become one of my many conquests?”

  David placed his palms on the desk and leaned forward. “I do not want you to bed her. She is far too frail. I only want you to marry her, allow her to walk down the aisle, dance a bridal dance with her. She’ll have her wish, and you’ll have—”

  “A wife! I shall have a wife until she dies.”

  “For six months. Is there someone in your life right now who would object, whom this act of charity would hurt?”

  “I object. This insane notion of yours is ludicrous. I would be shackled to a woman I hardly know, a woman I don’t want.”

  David straightened. “As I said when you greeted me, I was here to test the boundaries of our friendship.”

  “Ask anything else of me and I will grant it, but do not ask me to marry a dying woman.”

  David nodded, obviously accepting Kit’s decision. “Madeline opposed the idea as well.”

  “I always knew your wife was remarkably intelligent.”

  “I hope I didn’t damage our friendship with this request.”

  “No,” Kit said somberly. “I know how difficult it is to watch someone you love die. At the time, you would do anything for her—even die in her place if you could.”

  *

  CHAPTER 2

  « ^ »

  T he morning after he’d finished off a bottle of whiskey always made Kit wonder why he bothered to carry the decanter to his lips in the first place. The dull ache pounding between his temples rolled to the back of his head.

  Marry a dying woman. The thought had kept him tossing and turning on his narrow cot for the remainder of the night. What had ever possessed David to dream up such an incredibly insane scheme?

  The answer came before he’d finished asking himself the question: love.

  He knew the emotion too well to ever be lured by it again into doing something he would regret.

  His mouth felt as though someone had stuffed the cotton he’d picked that first summer into it. That first summer. He stared at his reflection in the mirror as he shaved, finding it difficult to believe how quickly five years had passed. He had been the marshal of Fortune for three.

  In the beginning, excitement had flourished when the trail drovers had begun driving their cattle through Fortune. Kit had needed to calm the rambunctious cowboys. They still passed through every spring, but with a bit more restraint. Even the younger men had heard the tales of the marshal who didn’t wear a gun. Someone had written a dime novel about him. He would have to send a copy to his brother when he found one.

  He lifted his chin to scrape the remaining lather from his face. His gaze fell on the shiny scar, a gift from his father, given to him moments after he was born so he would never be mistaken for the heir apparent. The room had been too dark for Clarisse to notice it the last time he’d seen her. As for the physician, he paid little enough attention to his patients, much less to those who were healthy.

  Kit finished dressing in the back room of the jail that served as his home. Sometimes he laughed when he thought of the opulence that had surrounded him at Ravenleigh. Here his spartan existence suited him.

  He shrugged into his jacket and walked into the front office. Through the grayish hue of dawn easing through the windows, dust motes waltzed above his immaculate desk. Felons glared at him from posters pinned to the wall. He glanced into the hallway that separated the two cells that were his dominion. Today, as usual, they were empty.

  He grabbed his wide-brimmed hat from the peg beside the door and settled it on his head before stepping into the cool morning air of early May. His boot heels echoed over the planked walkway as he headed toward the boardinghouse at the south end of town. His salary from the township included room and board at that establishment, but he preferred his privacy. His stomach, however, preferred Mrs. Gurney’s cooking to his own.

  He stepped off the boardwalk, ducked beneath the whispery branches of a weeping willow, and came to an abrupt halt. A shawl draped over her narrow shoulders and tucked neatly beneath her crossed arms, a woman stood on the boardinghouse porch. Her gaze was latched on the sunrise.

  Her profile to him, he could barely see one corner of her mouth, her soft lips tipped up slightly as though she were appreciating a fine work of art. A black ribbon held her hair in place, one long trail of golden strands that curled at the tiny dip within the curve at the small of her back.

  Ethereal. Angelic. A thousand words tripped through his mind, but none did her justice. She was a work of art. He imagined an artist’s brush outlining her shape with soft strokes that created delicate lines.

  His stomach growled at his delay in getting to the breakfast table. The woman turned her head, her eyes a deep blue that reminded him of the sky.

  Her smile blossomed. “Isn’t it lovely?” she asked quietly as though she feared disturbing the day’s beginning. She shifted her gaze back toward the dawn.

  He walked over the dew-coated lawn, stepped onto the porch, and swept his hat from his head as though he’d come into a place of worship. “Beautiful,” he whispered.

  “I love the start of a new day. It holds so much promise, and each moment is a secret to be revealed.” She laughed lightly, as though embarrassed by her words. She cast a furtive glance his way. “I’m not usually so fanciful.”

  “Are you a writer?” he asked with a generous smile, more than intrigued by her frail beauty.

  Her gaunt cheeks flushed pink. “You don’t remember me.”

  His smile w
ithered and his heart slammed against his ribs. The mouse in the corner. “You’re David’s sister. Ashton.”

  She bobbed her head and extended a hand that looked as fragile as the willow branches through which he’d just walked. “And you’re Christian Montgomery.”

  He closed his hand around hers, expecting to feel the cold scepter of death. Instead, warmth greeted him. Holding her gaze, he bowed slightly and brought her fingers to his lips. “I apologize for not recognizing you.”

  “There’s little about me to capture the attention of a man such as yourself, and many beautiful women were in attendance the night we met. Have you talked with David?”

  Straightening, he released her hand and cleared his throat. “Yes, we spoke late last night. I take it you haven’t seen him this morning.”

  “No, I was exhausted once the stagecoach arrived. I went to bed fairly early. He seems to be sleeping in.” Stepping back, she reached into her pocket and withdrew a handkerchief. She pressed it to her mouth before giving several slight coughs.

  Kit’s stomach tightened at the sight of her curled shoulders and the rasp of a chest that seemingly lacked air. She glanced at him, her eyes less bright. “Excuse me. You were saying?”

  He swallowed hard. Why hadn’t David told him that he had already brought his sister to Fortune, that she was at the boardinghouse, or that their paths might cross before David had a chance to talk with her? Kit preferred never to have set eyes upon her again, much less to have to explain his decision. “I think in spite of your brother’s heartfelt motives and good intentions, our marriage would serve neither of us well in the end.”

  She blinked eyes that seemed too large for a face as delicate as hers. “Our marriage?”

  “Yes. His notion that you and I should wed.”

  With horror sweeping over her lovely face, she gasped and stepped back until she rammed into the porch post. “He asked you to marry me?”

  Kit felt as though he’d just learned that he was to be drawn and quartered. “You didn’t know?” he asked quietly.