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The Law And Miss Hardisson
Lynna Banning
Crazy Creek, Oregon, had never seen a lady lawyer before, much less one like Irene Hardisson–and neither had Clayton Black, Texas Ranger. In fact, it had been over a year since he'd caught the scent of anything sweeter than gun powder. He was on the trail of a killer, and it had suited him just fine–until now….Fortunately, the lady liked games, and after a few hands of poker, Irene and Clayton discovered they had more in common than they thought. And what started as a mission for justice was quickly turning into a mission of the heart….



Just thinking about three long nights playing poker with the prettiest lawyer west of the Mississippi made Clayton Black’s skin tingle.
There were some things about Irene Hardisson he’d give his eyeteeth to know—like what she thought about at night. What she wanted in life. What she looked like underneath all those flounces.
That settled it. He’d stay. For a while. A short while. Might do him good to hang his hat somewhere he was actually wanted for a change. But she was no rambling rose. She was a lady and he wouldn’t compromise her. And he’d work damn hard to keep her from sticking in his memory when he rode away.

Praise for Lynna Banning’s previous titles
PLUM CREEK BRIDE
“…pathos and humor blend in a plot that glows with perception and dignity.”
—Affaire de Coeur
WILDWOOD
“5 *s.”
—Heartland Critiques
WESTERN ROSE
“…warm, wonderful and witty—a winning combination from a bright new talent.”
—Award-winning author Theresa Michaels
The Law and Miss Hardisson
Harlequin Historical #537
#535 THE STOLEN BRIDE
Susan Spencer Paul
#536 SILK AND STEEL
Theresa Michaels
#538 MONTANA MAN
Jillian Hart

The Law and Miss Hardisson
Lynna Banning

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Available from Harlequin Historicals and LYNNA BANNING
Harlequin Historicals
Western Rose #310
Wildwood #374
Lost Acres Bride #437
Plum Creek Bride #474
The Law and Miss Hardisson #537
To my aunt, Jean Banning Strickland
With special thanks to Suzanne Barrett, Ida Hills, Norma Pulle and Leslie Yarnes Sugai.

Contents
Prologue (#u0b74f769-bb66-5e4e-b1be-8e2b83dc97e8)
Chapter One (#u41c490f7-d609-5926-9adb-6419c451b94a)
Chapter Two (#u52194e55-faba-58e6-a993-d44e6c81ec63)
Chapter Three (#u69fb6c1e-c85f-5b26-87cd-d889bd99686f)
Chapter Four (#uf3870d9a-51fa-5d76-b3b4-cb97805fe3b0)
Chapter Five (#ud43af576-1a17-5e42-adf7-8f0e8d93428b)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue
All he could remember was there were cherries on her hat. Bright, shiny, red cherries, nodding over her forehead. Nothing else penetrated the fog of pain and nausea while they’d loaded him into the stagecoach. He slumped into the corner seat and set himself to endure the thirty-mile trip across the eastern Oregon plains to Cedarville, where the driver claimed there was a doctor.
Early that morning he’d been full of beans and vinegar, anxious to get this job over with and head back to Texas, anxious for a meal he didn’t have to cook over a fire he built himself. That ended when someone shot him off his horse and the gelding dragged him a quarter of a mile before he could get his boot out of the stirrup.
“He’s probably broke some ribs and maybe busted his arm in a couple places,” the stage driver had said. Someone sloshed whiskey down his throat and the cherry hat lady sniffed.
There were other passengers, but the one he vaguely remembered was the one who was dressed Eastern and acted mighty prim and proper. The driver suggested she might care to wait for another stage, but she gave him a frosty look and in a tone like flint said, “I am expected in Crazy Creek, and I intend to get there.” After a pause, she added, “Is he more drunk, or more hurt?”
“Oh, Lordy, ma’am. He ain’t a drinkin’ man. But he shore is hurt. Somebody musta bushwacked him, cuz he’s good with a gun, bein’ a Texas Ranger, y’see. He ain’t likely to lose a fair fight. He’s hurt, sure enough.”
“Very well. He is as anxious as I am to get to town. Why delay further?”
The driver grunted.
When the coach started up, his head slid forward against the siding. Then something soft and warm cushioned his cheek and he vaguely remembered a wet, cool cloth against his face and a not-to-be-denied voice saying crisply, “Drink this,” and the burn of straight whiskey from a tilted bottle.
When they pulled into the dusty town, he remembered that she climbed out and started giving orders. “Watch his head. If the doctor is nearby, you men can carry him.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver said.
“Wait!” she commanded. “Should he have more whiskey if the pain gets worse?”
“We ain’t got more, ma’am. Only had one bottle.”
She looked up and down the dusty trail that passed for a street, pulled a bill from her reticule and handed it over. “Get whatever you think he might need, and bring me the change.”
They manhandled him out of the coach and he thought dimly that his chest might explode with the pain. But the only thing he could recall clearly were the bright red cherries on her hat.
When he finally regained consciousness, he was on a bed in the corner of the doctor’s office, trussed up in tape and bandages with one helluva headache.

Chapter One
Crazy Creek, Oregon
1883
Clayton Black drew rein at the top of the hill and gazed down at the secluded valley stretching below him. He sucked in some air, winced at the familiar pain in his rib cage and let his breath out easy. Two of his ribs were bruised, the doctor had said. One was cracked. He couldn’t take a breath without being reminded.
He rubbed his injured arm as he gazed down at the creek twisting through the land. Bordered by gray-green willow and cottonwood trees, it lazily encircled the tidy town and then meandered off to the west.
He hurt enough that camping out another night held little appeal, but still he hesitated. Crazy Creek looked too civilized to attract an outlaw like Brance Fortier, but you never knew. Maybe Fortier had passed through here. Maybe somebody had seen him, would remember which way he was headed. Not likely he’d stay long in a town as peaceful as this.
Clayton didn’t plan to, either. Just the look of the place—trim picket fences, rosebushes in bloom, boardwalks on both sides of the streets—gave him the jitters. Too orderly. Too civilized.
He squinted under the wide brim of his hat. Newspaper office, mercantile, hotel, livery stable, barbershop, sheriff’s office. A gleaming white church steeple drew his gaze and he groaned. It was one of those towns full of pious people and prayer meetings. A white steeple town.
Too much like his mother’s meticulously kept plantation in Louisiana, and not enough like the dusty, ramshackle ranch in East Texas he and his father called home. Or had, before Fortier killed him.
A lump the size of a walnut swelled in his throat. I’ll get him, Pa. You just lie easy and don’t worry. If he got back alive, he vowed he’d plant a sweet-briar rosebush on the graves of his father and his sister.
Once more, Clayton directed his gaze on the little town curled in the lap of the green valley. The late morning sun poured down like honey. The landscape was so different from the dry, sagebrush-dotted desert he’d ridden over the past four days for a moment he thought the view might be a mirage, a glimpse of some lush emerald and gold paradise. Only thirty miles from Cedarville, but it looked like another planet.
He’d bet money it was Fortier who had winged him and then kicked in his ribs. All he remembered was the thump and sting of the bullet in his shoulder and waking up with his arm in a sling. Now, in addition to the warrant he carried for the outlaw, he had a personal score to settle. His crippled arm was his gun arm. It would be weeks, maybe months, before he could shoot straight.
He tossed back his chin-length black hair and ran his tongue over dry lips. He knew Fortier had passed this way; the outlaw’s trail led straight toward town. He lifted the reins and stepped his horse back from the cliff edge. “C’mon, Rebel. Time to go.”
Funny name, Crazy Creek. There was something he should remember about it, but he couldn’t recall what. Since the shooting, there were still things he couldn’t remember, but something about the place tugged at his insides. It was so pretty and serene it looked painted. Except for that boy down there, larruping through an alfalfa field after his dog, it hardly looked real.
He urged his mount forward, letting it pick its own way down the steep path. However out of place the trim little village made him feel, he’d have to ask around. If he was lucky, he’d pick up Fortier’s trail on the other side of town.
And if he wasn’t lucky…well, then, Fortier would shoot him in the back, like he’d shot Pa and Jannie, and that would be that. In some ways, it would be a relief.
Clayton’s lips twitched into a lopsided smile. He knew only one thing for certain—he would capture his father’s killer or die trying.
The look of the town below him, so settled, so civilized, made him nervous. Yeah, a white steeple town, full of people with refined manners and an extra helping of bigotry.
He pursed his mouth and tried to whistle. No way. He didn’t belong here.
Hell, what was new about that? Being half Cherokee meant he didn’t much belong anywhere.
“There,” Irene murmured in satisfaction. She rearranged the in-work file on the large oak desk and glanced approvingly at her well-organized office. It looked much more tidy since she’d washed the front windows and painted the rough pine walls. The sheriff wouldn’t mind. Besides, he was out of town.
Her office adjoined his, but he didn’t own the building. Nate Cummings, the undertaker, did.
She’d paid Nate three months’ rent in advance and the stocky gray-bearded man had let her do anything she wanted. She’d even spread a large oval braided rug over the plank floor. While Nate’s watery blue eyes had widened, he had snapped his mouth shut and said nothing.
“Crazy Creek never had no lawyer before,” Nate told her. She’d been famous ever since her first afternoon in town when she’d hung out the engraved metal sign she’d brought from the East and promptly got involved in that hostage standoff. Now her pending work file—actually the oval top from one of her hatboxes—overflowed with appointment requests. In the sheriff’s absence, she noted with a flush of pride, people turned to her for advice. They had waited years to settle property boundary questions, draw up wills, have marriages and births recorded. Townsfolk streamed into her office like spawning salmon.
On impulse, she moved to the window. Oh, how good it was to be here in the West! She never wanted to see Philadelphia again. She’d had enough of wealthy clients suing other wealthy clients over some Thoroughbred’s bloodlines. Real law—the constitutional rights she believed in with every fiber of her being—was needed in the West. Out here, the country was still growing. Back East, life—at least for her—had stopped when pneumonia took her father. After that, she couldn’t wait to leave.
Irene’s throat closed. She decided to busy herself dusting out her desk drawers. Settling herself on the hard oak swivel chair, she pulled open the bottom right-hand drawer and leaned over to inspect the contents. A dried-up bottle of Sanford’s ink, two dusty cigars, and—
The door banged open. “Where’s the sheriff?” a low, gravelly voice inquired.
“Gone,” Irene said without looking up. “Is there something I can—”
“Gone where?”
Irene raised her gaze to the doorway and stopped breathing. A tall man stood before her, one arm in a black cloth sling, his leather vest coated with trail dust, his tanned face impassive. Steady gray eyes held hers. “Gone where?” he prompted.
Irene jerked to attention. “Gone, um, gone—” She couldn’t think with him staring at her that way! “Gone…hunting!”
“Where’s this I. P. Hardisson, then? Sign says he’s a lawyer.”
“He is. I mean, I am! I am I. P. Hardisson.”
He looked her over for so long she felt tingles at the back of her neck. “Irene Pennfield Hardisson,” she supplied. Something about the man unnerved her, but she managed to keep her voice steady. “Attorney-at-law,” she added unnecessarily.
“Clayton Black, Texas Ranger.” His eyes still rested on hers, but he didn’t move. Tall and lean, he just stood and looked his fill.
“Mr. Black.” Irene extended her hand.
He gave her fingers a quick, hard shake with his left hand, then stuffed his hand into his back pocket. “You ever hear of anyone by the name of Fortier?”
“Brance Fortier?”
“That’s him. You know him?”
“N-not exactly.”
“Where is he?”
“I—he was in jail when I arrived in Crazy Creek—”
“Jail!”
“Yes, but they released him.”
“They what?” His eyes turned to cold steel.
“Well, I—he was accused of stealing a—”
“I’ll bet,” Clayton said in a dry voice. “Probably ran his own horse to death. So they let him go?”
It was more an accusation than a question. Irene’s resolve stiffened. “A man,” she pronounced in measured tones, “is presumed innocent until proven—”
“Horse-rocks!”
“Please let me finish.”
Clayton took two long steps forward and leaned over her desk. “Okay,” he said. “Finish.”
She blinked. His face was so close to hers she could see the flush of anger on his high cheekbones. Hair black as midnight swept his collar.
“—until proven guilty,” she concluded.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that. But what I want with Fortier hasn’t anything to do with horse-thievin’, so where do I find him?”
“I have no idea where he went after the hostage exchange.”
“Hostage exchange! Who was involved in that?”
“That you will have to ask the sheriff,” she replied with a sniff. She didn’t want to admit it was she who had negotiated the exchange. He looked mad enough as it was.
“Well now, I can’t do that now, can I? Seein’ as he’s gone ‘hunting.’ Just what is he hunting, Miss Hardisson?”
Something about the man’s deliberate, self-confident manner made her insides fluttery.
“I cannot say.”
“Can’t?” he pressed.
“Will not,” she amended. She had no legal leg to stand on, and she knew it. She swept the crumbling cigars into the wastebasket beside her desk and tried to think. For some reason she didn’t want to reveal to this man her role in Brance Fortier’s release. She looked him in the eye and shook her head.
“You’re obstructing justice, Miss Hardisson. I have a warrant for Fortier’s arrest.” With his good arm, he withdrew the paper from his inside vest pocket and unfolded it on her desk.
Irene scanned the document. “Murder! Oh, my.”
“So you see, ma’am, you’ve gone and put your legal foot right in the middle of my job, and I suggest—”
“This is Oregon, not Texas,” she enunciated with care. “Have you authority in Oregon?”
She prayed he would not challenge the point. She’d read law under her father in Pennsylvania; she hadn’t been out West long enough to know Oregon law.
He ignored her question. “When did you see Fortier last?”
“A few days ago. I went over to the jail—”
“And released him,” he finished for her. “I’ll bet he lit out within ten minutes.”
Irene drew in her breath and exhaled. “It was more like five minutes.”
Clayton laughed out loud. “Brance Fortier’s one of the old Cortina gang. I doubt he’s within a hundred miles of this valley by now.”
“I am quite sure he will be back within the week.” She started to rise.
Clayton pinned her wrist to the desk. “Either you are a damn fool,” he said quietly, “or you are a damn good liar.”
Irene wrenched her hand free and stood up, breathing hard. “Mr. Black, if you will excuse me, I have business elsewhere. Good afternoon.”
She slammed the desk drawer shut, yanked her black silk parasol from the china stand beside her desk and marched past him to the door.
He got there ahead of her.
“Stand aside, please,” she ordered. She looked up at him with fire in her eyes. He noted they were an odd shade of green, and the mass of dark chestnut hair piled on top of her head seemed too heavy for the slim neck. The rest of her was pure woman. Small waist, gently flaring hips, skin like peach silk. The soft green dress clung to her upper torso in a way that made his mouth go dry, and her large, expressive eyes, framed by definite eyebrows and thick, black lashes, looked fearless.
He folded his good arm over his sling, content to block her way. She smelled good. Sweet and clean, like soap. He inclined his head toward her to get another whiff.
And then he spied something over her shoulder. Something she had forgotten in her fury. It sat on a glass-fronted bookcase behind the desk, and he hadn’t seen it because he’d been focusing on those green eyes of hers.
Balls of fire, there couldn’t be more than one creation like that in the entire country!
And there it was, right smack in front of him. That straw hat with the shiny red cherries on top.

Chapter Two
The parasol opened with a swish. Beneath the arch of black silk a pair of flashing eyes held his. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“You’re the lady on the stagecoach!” Clayton managed. “I recognize your hat.”
The green eyes widened. “My hat?”
“Ma’am, I was badly wounded. As I recall, you got some whiskey for me, and for that I am eternally grate—”
“Whiskey!” She studied his face, then inspected the sling on his arm. Her face changed. “Oh, yes, I remember now.”
“The doctor in Cedarville dug out the bullet and taped up my ribs. I’m obliged to you, Miss Hardisson.”
Her dark brows drew into a frown. “It was Brance Fortier who shot you! That’s why you want to find him, is it not? To settle the score?”
“Not exactly.” Clayton shifted his weight, leaned his aching back against the closed door of her office. “To tell you the truth, ma’am, I don’t know who shot me. Never saw him. Might’ve been Fortier. Might’ve been somebody else. Doesn’t much matter, since I’m takin’ Fortier back to Texas soon as I find him, to stand trial for murder.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Black. Brance Fortier is not going anywhere until he is tried for horse theft here in Clackamas County.”
She said it with such conviction Clayton gritted his teeth. Why, why was he saddled with this annoyingly stubborn lady? She sure didn’t act as soft as she looked, small and fragile in green-sprigged muslin puffs and ribbons. She acted like she knew something he didn’t, and it got under his skin. He needed to find out where Fortier had gone and get the hell out of this place! The town and everything in it—especially her—made him uneasy. All he wanted was Fortier and justice. Swift and efficient.
And Irene Hardisson knew which direction he was headed. He cleared his throat. “Miss Hardisson, I’m dead tired and hot and sweaty from near twenty hours in the saddle. If you don’t mind, we’ll continue this skirmish later.”
She sent him a look that would fry bacon. “Well, I never!” Hands propped on her hips, she stood toe-to-toe with him.
Clayton stifled a groan, then spun on his heel and headed for the door. “I need some answers. I’ll be back after supper.”
“I will not be in after supper,” she snapped. “I will be at my home.”
“Fine,” he shot back. “Where do you live?”
“I did not mean for you to call, Mr. Black. I am not receiving. I meant—”
“At the hotel, then. Later. I’ll probably pick up a poker game, see what I can find out.”
With a nod in her direction, he bolted through the doorway and was gone.
Openmouthed, Irene listened to his boots clump down the boardwalk. She most certainly would not see him later! Their business, such as it was, had been completed. She had absolutely no wish to see Clayton Black ever again.
On the stagecoach she had not paid that much attention to the injured man they had loaded aboard other than to supply some pain-deadening whiskey. He had looked every bit the lowlife. Now, the man might be dusty and rumpled, but with his tanned, even features and straight, dark hair, she noted he was extraordinarily handsome. She nudged the awareness to the back of her mind. A moment ago he had stood there, assessing her with those cold gray eyes, and she had felt…well, intimidated.
So what if he is a lawman? A Texas Ranger, or so he said. That did not mean he was a gentleman. “Gentlemen,” she announced to her pile of waiting papers, “do not intimidate ladies.”
She swept to the bookcase behind the desk and retrieved her straw hat. Decorated as it was with shiny red fruit, it had cost her four whole dollars at Whyte’s in Philadelphia. She’d bought it because it reminded her of her father; he had adored cherries.
“And a poker-playing lawman at that,” she muttered. “Papa always said that was the devil’s game. That’s why he taught me to play chess instead.”
She pulled the door closed behind her, locked it with the key she dug out of her reticule, and headed down Park Street to her cottage.
Her spirits drooped. Another restless night with nothing to occupy her mind but how lonely she felt, so far away from everything familiar to her—the solid brick house she’d grown up in, her father’s library of books, her father himself, dead these past four months.
On the surface, she maintained the cool, controlled manner that had been bred into her, but inside, when she was alone, she had to face her real feelings. Her soul ached at the loss of her father. She would never see his dear, bewhiskered face again.
Her shoulders sagged. She was two thousand miles from the cobblestone streets of Philadelphia, the comfortable, welcoming home she’d always known. She longed to be there now, longed to let Nora help her out of her stays and petticoats, draw her a bath, bring supper on a tray. For all the years she could remember, the plump housekeeper had loved her and taken care of her, just like a mother. Oh, why had she ever left?
Because it was not enough, a voice inside reminded. You wanted to make your own way, be a part of the new Western frontier.
Well, now she was part of it, God help her! She supposed men like Clayton Black went with the territory. Men who hunted other men. Men who intimidated women. Men who frequented smoke-filled rooms playing…poker.
It was only a game, wasn’t it? Why had Father been so against it?
She loved games, excelled at them. Loved the feeling of control she gained when she mastered the rules. She guessed her joy in such activity was an antidote to losing her mother when she was four, and the confusion that overwhelmed her later when her father began to fail.
She had studied law not only to uphold the name of the Hardisson law firm but because it offered her a kind of emotional security. She could not predict life or death, but with intelligence and knowledge of the rules, she could dictate the outcome of a trial. Or a game.
The thought pulled at her as she turned the corner across from the town square and sped toward the white frame house that was now hers. Inside was safety and warmth. Predictability. After her encounter with Clayton Black, she felt more than the usual need for such things.
“But at least I had the last word,” she announced to her empty front parlor. She halted in front of four rolls of rose-sprigged wallpaper she’d left leaning against the stepladder. “Or did I?”
She could not remember. When he had looked at her, under her corset her heart began to hammer like a piston and her thoughts flew up and away like so many dandelion puffs.
She smoothed her palm over the carved oak banister in the hall and stepped with exaggerated dignity onto the first stair. “I am becoming a notional old maid with a silly brain that goes into flutters over a Texas Ranger’s smile! Well, I will have none of that, thank you. None whatsoever!” She reached the top landing and marched to her bedroom door.
Inside, the golden afternoon light poured in the open window, bringing the scent of roses and Mrs. Gerstein’s honeysuckle vine from the neighboring yard. Irene shut her eyes. Papa is gone.
She opened her eyes and spoke aloud to the windowpane. “And he is never coming back.”
“Cut the cards, mister?”
Clayton reached out his good arm and split the deck. He’d played seven hands, won the pot after the last one, and now his mind wandered away from the game while the dealer slapped cards down onto the scarred oak table.
Sweat crawled down his back. He felt off balance. He’d unpinned the badge on his vest to forestall questions, had been invited to join the game with no inquiries. He wondered if the five men gathered around the table would be as friendly if they knew he was a Texas Ranger. If they knew he was after information, they might clam up.
He didn’t belong here. If they knew he was half Cherokee, he wouldn’t even be allowed in. The sign in the hotel lobby said No Indians. He longed to get up and leave, but it was too early to break up the game. He hadn’t learned a damn thing about Fortier so far. Maybe he was sitting at the wrong campfire.
Irene Hardisson knew more than she was telling, he could feel it in his gut. It was her he had to talk to.
She sure hadn’t had much to say to him this afternoon!
A grin threatened to crack his dry lips. Man, she had a temper. She was starched stiff as a corset stay!
He shifted in his chair. Even after two whiskeys, his shoulder hurt and his ribs still ached. A soft bed with clean sheets beckoned upstairs—why not wait till morning to talk to the lady lawyer?
Yeah, Clayton, mi amigo. Why not?
Because she smelled good. And she looked soft and frilly and her dark hair shone like firelight licking coals, and…she smelled good. Like a woman.
And because he was hungry for something he couldn’t even begin to name. Someone to talk to. Somewhere to belong.
Just for tonight. Tomorrow he’d head out and try to pick up Fortier’s trail. It made him nervous to stay in one place too long. But tonight…tonight he wished—
“Mr. Black?”
In an instant, the entire table of men rose to their feet. Clayton’s cards slipped from his hand and scattered, most of them faceup. Without turning his head, he knew who it was. In a town like this, men stood up when a lady entered a room.
He stood up, too, removing his hat as he did so, just like his momma had taught him.
“Miss Hardisson.”
“I have come to apologize,” she said in a low voice.
With his left hand, he grasped her elbow and turned her toward the entrance. “You shouldn’t be in here, this is a—”
“I know what it is. A card room.”
“The lady is welcome to stay,” one of the men offered.
“No, thank you,” came her crisp reply. “I came only to speak to Mr. Black about…a certain matter.”
Clayton steered her through the doorway and into the hotel foyer, then turned her to face him. “About Brance Fortier?”
The dark lashes descended, but not before he saw that her eyes looked odd. Uncertain.
“Miss Hardisson,” he prompted. “About Fortier?”
“About poker.” She blurted the words and shut her lips tight.
“What?” he said, louder than he intended.
“Poker,” she repeated. “I want you to teach me how to play poker.”
Clayton released her arm and took a step backward. “Are you crazy? Ladies don’t play poker!”
“Why not? I am skilled at hearts and baccarat. Why not poker?”
He searched for a reply. “It’s…complicated.”
“I am quite intelligent. I want to learn.”
“Well, I’ll be—what the hell for?” His voice came out so loud the drowsing hotel clerk jerked awake. “What the hell for?” he said more softly.
Her face changed. “I have my reasons.”
Clayton frowned. In the space of a few seconds, her expression had gone from hopeful to determined and back to hopeful. It didn’t make any sense.
They looked at each other in silence. “You want—need—something from me,” she said at last. “And I want something from you.”
He knew she didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but his heart leaped anyway. The word “want” on her tongue made his throat go dry.
“And that is?”
“Teach me.”
Under his jeans, Clayton felt his groin tighten. “To play poker,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Why should I?”
“Because,” she said, her voice even, her face studiedly calm, “I can make it worth your while.”
His heartbeat stuttered. She was an innocent, so naive she didn’t know how suggestive her words were, especially to a starving man. He cleared his throat and worked to keep his voice steady. “Just what are you prepared to offer?”
Irene cocked her head. “Information. About Brance Fortier.”
He knew he was gaping at her. Twice he had to remind himself to close his mouth. Disappointment that her bargaining chip was limited to information warred with curiosity about what she knew.
“It’s a deal.”
“Very well. Shall we commence here, in the hotel?”
“Too public, you bein’ a lady and all. You live in town, I reckon. How about your place?”
“That would not be at all proper, I’m afraid. We would have no chaperon.”
Chaperon! She talks about making it worth my while and then… Right. She’s offering information. Just information.
“What about your law office?”
She considered his suggestion, then nodded. “I’ll fetch a pot of coffee.”
“I’ll bring a deck of cards.” And all the restraint I can muster. Damn, but she looked pretty when she smiled. Didn’t do it very often, but it was like the sun in summer when she did.
She turned away and stepped daintily toward the hotel entrance, then pivoted toward him. “I’ve been waiting for this for years, Mr. Black. I know I’m going to enjoy it!”
Clayton groaned and watched her ruffled backside sway down the hotel steps and up the street.
Hell’s fireballs! He couldn’t have resisted following her if he was made out of solid granite and welded to the floor!

Chapter Three
Irene unlocked the door to her office and set the coffee tray from the Maybud Hotel on the table just inside the entrance while she lit the single kerosene lamp. In the soft glow of light she whisked her desk clear of her appointment calendar and the stack of work in her hatbox, then retrieved the enamelware pot. Advancing to set the tray on her desk, a thought struck her.
Her mother would spin in her grave at the prospect of entertaining a man late at night, unchaperoned, without a single thought to propriety! And Nora—she’d best not think about what Nora would say. Why, oh why had she suggested it?
Because you are restless and lonely. She needed to do something, keep busy. And when he’d mentioned poker…
She couldn’t abide knitting, or needlework of any kind for that matter. It gave her a terrible headache. But she did love games. Learning a new one would give her something to do, something to think about besides how much she missed Papa. In fact, she thought with an inward smile, were he acquainted with the circumstances, her father would surely advise her to seize the opportunity!
She released a long sigh. Papa always was a very practical man.
Clayton stepped through the open door, noiseless as a cat. “Good evening, Miss Hardisson.” He removed his wide-brimmed gray hat and hung it on the peg just inside the door.
Irene sank onto her desk chair. Then she straightened her spine and sent a sideways glance at him as he folded his long body into the chair across from her. He held her gaze, amusement dancing in his eyes.
Quelling the tiny flutter in her belly, she leaned toward him. “Would you,” she said in a voice not quite her own, “please explain the rules of the game?”
Clayton leaned back against the oak chair frame and studied the young woman across from him. She’d brought a whole pot of hot coffee from the hotel dining room, and he appreciated that. But the rest of it didn’t make much sense.
She looked too citified to be sitting here in an Oregon frontier law office, even one with whitewashed walls and lace curtains at the window. She spoke and moved like a lady—an educated lady at that—but as he explained the game of five-card draw poker, she looked more and more like a little girl reveling in wide-eyed fascination over a new toy. Her eyes sparkled as he described the suits, the various hands and their relative value, how to deal and bet and call.
Most surprising of all, the lady lawyer who had all the answers this afternoon said not one word. She just listened with that intent look of concentration on her face, the cherries on her hat bobbing when she nodded. She never asked a question. She never asked him to repeat anything. Most of it must be over her head, and he was amused and not a little admiring of her focus on the complicated game.
At the conclusion of his instructions, she smiled up at him. “Do let’s play a round!”
“Play a hand,” he corrected.
“Very well, a hand, then. May we?” She laced her fingers together under her chin and Clayton had to chuckle. She looked like a hungry urchin eyeing a pan of hot biscuits. This was more than interesting—it was unbelievable!
He tried not to smile at her delight. “Deal the cards,” he ordered.
She shuffled the deck awkwardly, presented them for cutting, and dealt out five cards each. “What shall we use for betting?”
Clayton blinked. Ladies didn’t gamble. Somehow he figured she’d prefer to play without betting. On the other hand, nothing much would surprise him at this point. He was already nonplussed by a thing or two about this particular lady. With a jolt he realized he had forgotten he was playing for information about Brance Fortier. Bets it would be.
“We could use matches,” she suggested.
“Don’t have enough.”
She raised her eyes to his. “What about dried beans?”
“Don’t know many lawyers who keep a stash of dried beans around. You got some?”
“Well, no. I’ve been taking my meals at the hotel until my stove is delivered.”
“Not beans, then, it looks like.”
“There must be something we could bet!”
He liked the way she didn’t give up on an idea right away. She had a most unladylike amount of grit, and he liked that, too. In fact, he mused as he watched her eyes widen at the cards in her hand, he found himself downright content in her company. He hadn’t felt comfortable around a woman since…
The warning bell went off in his head just as she looked up. Take one fine-looking female and stir in a healthy dose of interest and you’ve got trouble. Big trouble. The kind he swore never to risk again.
He had to get this over with and get out of here. If her mind was so set on playing poker, he’d use that to his advantage.
“This might seem a little unusual, ma’am, but once we had a Mexican foreman and an Indian wrangler on the ranch. They were usually on opposite sides in the skirmishes the Mexicans and the Comanches got into in Texas, so when they played cards, they bet ‘truths.”’
“Truths? How do you mean?”
“We called it Truth Poker.”
Her eyes lit up. “You mean the winner could ask a question and the loser had to answer it?”
“Yep. You can see why bets never got very high.”
She leaned across the desk. “But it sounds like such fun! Perhaps we could do the same?”
Clayton regarded her with satisfaction. “You serious?”
“Of course I’m serious! Hardissons do not mince words when it comes to the truth—it’s an immutable constant in a world of turmoil and change. It is an obligation of honor to seek it out. Truth,” she reiterated, “is sacred!”
She straightened her shoulders. He watched the soft green dress pull over her breasts. She looked straight into his eyes and Clayton felt his gut tighten. Her dress was the exact shade of her eyes, a clear, sea green with startling flecks of amber.
“Truth,” he enunciated carefully over a throat gone dry, “is relative.”
Her head came up. “Truth is what is true.” The cherries waved like miniature boats on a stormy ocean.
“Either way, ma’am, it’s a matter of honor. If we agree to this kind of bet, neither of us can lie.”
“Of course not!” she agreed with a smart little nod of her head. “That’s what will make it interesting. Your move, I believe?”
All at once Clayton thought of a hundred reasons why he shouldn’t be doing this. It was one thing for Luis and White Owl to barter information. As a matter of fact it made the bunkhouse card games unbeatable entertainment—you never knew what you were going to hear.
But what the hell was he doing, gambling with his secrets? Sweat gathered at the base of his neck, and not because of the oppressive heat in the small room. For another, more disturbing reason.
The night air hung heavy and still, as if waiting for something. A thundershower, maybe. Through the door she’d purposely propped open he smelled the dust, the faint scent of sagebrush, smoke from some strolling ranch hand’s hand-rolled cigarette. If he had the sense God gave an ant, he’d call a halt to the poker lesson and walk this lady safely back to her residence.
Without conscious thought, his lips opened. “I’ll take one card.”
She slapped it down and he glanced at it, suppressing a smile. He needn’t worry. It would be over soon. He’d win this hand easily. In fact, she was so green he’d win every game and that prospect caught his interest. He’d worm out of her what she was hiding about Fortier in three hands. Four at the most.
“I’ll bet one question.” He watched her face.
She was obviously pretty smart. He wanted to see what she’d do when she lost her wager and he began to probe.
What occurred to him next sent a current of excitement through his brain.
Under the guise of the poker game, he could ask her anything he wanted, find out her secrets. That intrigued him almost as much as Fortier’s whereabouts.
Again the warning whisper in his brain. If you weren’t curious about her in the first place, you wouldn’t give two figs who won the game.
But he was curious. Interested. Drawn to her, even.
All of it. Clayton sighed as she peeled two cards off the top of the deck and slid them into her hand. Her eyelids flicked down, then up. “Call.”
He laid his cards faceup on the desk. “Two pair, kings and jacks.”
“Full home,” she replied in a matter-of-fact voice. “Three queens and a pair of fives.”
Clayton stared at the cards. “Full house,” he mumbled. “Hellfire, a full house!”
“Excuse me, yes—a full house.” She glowed with triumph, her cheeks rosy, her green eyes dancing.
“And now, for my question.” The smile she sent him made his head spin.
“Yeah?” It was all he could think of to say.
The lady with the cherries on her hat cocked her head. “Tell me, then, Mr. Black. What exactly are you hiding about Brance Fortier?”
Clayton jerked. “Why do you think I’m hiding something?”
“I just do. I sense it. When you talked about him this afternoon, you stared at the floor. Only the floor. Yet when you spoke of other things, you looked directly at me.”
“I did, did I?”
“You did.”
“You’re pretty observant,” he grumbled.
“I am extremely observant, yes,” she agreed, her voice low. “And you owe me a truthful answer. What really happened in Texas that you should come all the way to Oregon to settle it?”
Lord, he was trapped. Hoisted in his own net. He closed his eyes.
He didn’t know whether he could tell her. He was honor-bound to speak the truth, but he wasn’t sure he could get the words out. Wasn’t sure he could live with himself if he heard his voice say out loud what had really occurred.
“Mr. Black?” she reminded. “A pledge is a pledge. I’m waiting.”
“You bring any whiskey for the coffee?”
Her eyes grew round. “No.”
Clayton groaned.
“But I could get some,” she added quickly. “From the establishment across the street.”
“Forget it. I don’t want you going into a saloon. I’ll do without it.”
She waited. Over the sound of their breathing in the soft night air came the scrape of crickets and a tinny piano playing an old song he used to like. “Lorena.”
All at once he couldn’t breathe. He’d have to speak of it, maybe not tell all of it, but enough to satisfy the game of honor he’d so foolishly started. God in heaven, he prayed. He wasn’t sure he could do even that much.
“Okay, Miss Hardisson. Listen up.”
The penetrating green eyes traveled over him as if he were a bug caught under a magnifying glass. He resisted the urge to stand up and smooth back his hair for inspection.
Irene focused her attention on the cords that stood out on Clayton Black’s tanned neck. She had him now. But for some reason her feeling of triumph faded as she watched him lick his lips over and over. Whatever he had kept hidden, it was hard for him to speak of.
Suddenly she was sorry she had asked that particular question. His obvious pain made her throat ache.
“Pa—my father—was Josh Black. A Ranger, like me. Last spring he tracked some of Juan Cortina’s old gang over the border into Louisiana, and I went with him. Turned out my mother’s half brother was one of them. We caught up with him at my mother’s place near New Orleans.”
Clayton angled his body away from her, spoke with his face turned toward the window. “We split up to make the capture, and Dad moved off a ways to draw Fortier’s fire away from me. When he yelled for me to move in, Fortier spun around and shot him. I—”
He stopped and pressed his lips into a straight line. “I should have gotten a bullet into the bastard, but I wasn’t fast enough.”
His long fingers closed into fists. “I tried to get to Dad, but Fortier came toward me and then my kid sister ran out of the house. Fortier grabbed her and put a revolver to the back of her neck. Jannie kept looking at me, kind of smiling, even though I could see she was scared. ‘You’ll do the right thing, Clay,’ she said.”
A horrible sense of foreboding settled over Irene. She reached out one hand to stop him.
“Fortier saw me coming and he put a bullet into me to stop me. Just missed killing me. Then he dragged Jannie off behind the stable and…” He sucked in a harsh breath.
Irene pressed her fist against her mouth. No more. She could not stand to hear more.
“By the time I reached her, he’d shot her, too.”
“Oh, I am so sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry to have asked you to speak of it. I beg your forgiveness, Mr. Black.”
He leveled his gaze on her, his gray eyes unfathomable. “Luck of the draw, I guess.”
She racked her brain for what to say. “I—of course you would prefer not to play any more poker.”
His lips formed a one-sided smile. “Who says so? Can’t say I enjoyed losing the first hand, but the game’s not over, Miss Hardisson. Not by a long shot. You owe me a chance to recoup my loss, so to speak.”
“Oh. Well, I…” She shuffled the cards to hide her confusion. She definitely did not wish to admit her part in freeing Fortier. But if what Clayton Black said was true, if Brance Fortier was a murderer…She didn’t know what to do.
On the other hand, she would like to find out all she could about the enigmatic man sitting across from her. One way to do that was to win another hand of poker. But could she really do that?
Of course she could! It was a simple matter of keeping her head and hiding her feelings. Goodness knows, after twenty-five years in straitlaced Philadelphia society, she was an expert at that!
Clayton cut the deck and she dealt another hand, gathered up her cards and suppressed a gasp. Ace, king, queen of diamonds. Quickly she discarded the two unrelated cards. She needed a jack and a ten, and she put all her concentration on those numbers.
Clayton grunted. “I’ll hold.”
She pressed two cards facedown on the desk, then set the deck aside and peeked at her hand.
Nothing. Not even two of a kind. She’d have to bluff. She could feel his eyes studying her, and she tried to keep her face expressionless. “I bet one question.”
“Raise you one.”
“You mean if I win, I may ask two questions?”
“That’s right. And if you fold—”
“Oh, I won’t fold,” she said with an assurance she did not feel. Desperately she hoped he would be taken in by her pretense and would toss in his cards first. That way, she need never show her worthless hand and she would win another—no, two—more questions. It was worth a try.
“Meet my bet or fold,” he instructed.
“Very well.” It occurred to her that he might be bluffing as well. She hoped so. That way she might save face. She watched as he laid his cards faceup on the barrel.
“Pair of kings,” he said in a low voice.
“Oh. I—well, I…” With a sigh she laid down her cards. “You win.”
“Damn right,” he drawled. “Now you get to give me some answers.”

Chapter Four
Irene flinched. She looked up into Clayton Black’s hard, steady gaze and her heart gave a little skip. Such cool, calculating eyes, and that knowing expression, as if he could see into her thoughts. She steeled herself to admit as little as possible but still forfeit the “truth” he’d won.
Clayton’s lips opened. “Okay, here’s my first question. Why are you unmarried?”
“What?” The breath caught in her lungs. She expected him to ask about Fortier, not her.
“You heard me. I figure you’re about twenty-five. If I remember correctly, most society ladies back East have a brood of younguns by that age. How come you don’t?”
“I’m twenty-six,” she said quickly. “I’ve been…busy.”
“Busy,” he repeated. “Busy being a lawyer instead of a woman, is that it?” He sat back, considering. “Sorry, but I don’t buy that. Nobody with a functioning blood supply is that busy. Now, you owe me the truth, so let’s hear it.”
Irene bit her lower lip. What insolence! He had no right to ask such a thing. No man with any manners would pose such a question.
“Don’t you want to know about Brance For—”
“Nope. At least not yet. I figure I’ve got plenty of time for that.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited.
You lost the bet, a voice reminded. Now you must pay up.
“Oh, all right,” she blurted. “My mother died when I was four, and I resolved I would never…entertain any gentlemen callers. I made a promise on her grave to devote my life to taking care of Papa.”
His eyes flickered, then softened. “How’d she die?”
Irene swallowed. “She was out riding. The horse refused a jump and threw her. Her neck was broken.” She drew in a breath to steady her nerves. “Why would you want to know such a thing?”
Clayton gave her a long, assessing look. “Don’t know, exactly. Just wonder what a pretty woman’s doing in a little picture-book town like Crazy Creek. Why she’d come out West to be a lawyer. It isn’t for money, I knew that right off. Your dress and that hat say you don’t need money. So why?”
Irene opened her mouth, then closed it. “I assume that is your second question?”
He nodded.
She thought for a moment. True, she did not need money. But she did need…something. Freedom, maybe. A new start in life. Something. However, she wasn’t about to admit this to Clayton Black. No sirree. He would laugh at her.
But, she reminded herself, she had to answer truthfully. He had done so, at some expense; it was a matter of honor.
“I have never been completely on my own before,” she confessed.
“Thought so,” Clayton said, his voice quiet.
Her head came up. “You what? I assure you, Mr. Black, I am a very capable attorney.”
“Thought that, too,” he responded. “Just curious is all.”
“About what, exactly?” Her tone sounded extra prim, even to her.
“About you.”
“Me! Why would you want to know—”
He chuckled. “To find that out, you’re gonna have to win another hand.”
Another hand? Her pulse jumped. Actually, she enjoyed the game—it was the forfeited truths that bothered her. Answering his question made her uneasy, as if she were filled with sand and telling things about herself allowed some of her insides to leak away. She wondered if he felt the same way.
She should end this charade right this minute. Return to her cottage and read or…do something. Anything. Even hang wallpaper.
Her brain told her it was just a card game, a harmless pastime. Her heart told her something else—that it was dangerous. The more he unearthed about her, the more vulnerable she felt.
And that, she realized all at once, was how she had grown up—protecting herself from the real world of loss and pain by keeping everything hidden inside herself.
She felt dazed. Some sort of tension was building between herself and Clayton Black. Not as an opponent, but as a man.
Against her better judgment, Irene gathered up the deck and reshuffled it. She laid out five fresh cards for each of them and watched his capable fingers fold themselves around his hand.
“You know,” he said as she gathered up her own cards, “When I find Fortier, I just might kill him.” The words he heard himself utter sent a cold fist of surprise into his gut. He’d never shot a man in cold blood. Never even considered it.
“I don’t believe so, Mr. Black. For one thing, you’d hang for murder.”
“Tell the truth, sometimes I kinda figure on that. I don’t know how I’ll feel living and remembering what Fortier did to Pa and Jannie. Dangling at the end of a rope would be quick and easy.”
Irene heard his words through a jumble of her own thoughts. The man had given up hope. He would throw his life away because he was desperately lost, alienated from himself. Alone. She knew how he felt, knew the hurt, the helpless fury that came with the loss of someone you loved. They had both come to Crazy Creek on the same quest—to find a reason for living.
A little flutter of pleasurable apprehension laced across her belly. She wondered about him. She wanted to know…all kinds of things. She had to win the next hand!
Which she did. Her three nines beat his pair of jacks.
“Now for my question, Mr. Black.” She paused to phrase it with gentility. “What is the reason for your curiosity regarding my person?”
His gray eyes regarded her with studied detachment. “The truth?”
She nodded. “The truth.”
“Well, now there’s different levels of truth.”
“I want to hear them all,” Irene heard herself say.
“All right, then. On one level, I’d say it’s because you don’t ‘fit’ out here, and things—people—that don’t fit kinda make my nose twitch.”
“It is true, I do not fit. I come from Philadelphia.”
“And on another level I’d say because you’re the best-looking thing in this town and I’ve got a bit of time to admire it and be a tad curious.”
“Oh. Oh!”
“And at bottom, I guess you could say I haven’t had a woman in more than a year and I just wondered about you, the way a man wonders about a woman.”
“Mr. Black!” Irene jumped to her feet.
He lifted his hands from the desk and slowly got to his feet. “Miss Hardisson,” he echoed. “I warned you about this game. Truth is what we think we want to hear. Most times the real truth is unwelcome or shocking or—like right now—damned impolite. My apologies for offending you.”
Irene hesitated. She wasn’t offended, not deep inside. She was thrilled right down to her toes! He was a man—all man, from his broad shoulders to his tooled leather boots—and he had those kinds of thoughts about her? Something turned over inside her chest.
“I accept your apology, Mr. Black.” Her sentence came out a bit breathily, and she cringed in the silence. She couldn’t let him see how pleased she was by his admission. No man had ever uttered such stirring words to her! Back in Philadelphia, young men spoke ridiculously flowery phrases. But Miss Hardisson, I have long admired you from afar just didn’t measure up to this Western man’s blunt talk.
She loved it!
Heavens to Betsy, what was wrong with her?
Clayton stepped around the desk and took her elbow. “That’s probably enough poker for one evening. I’ll escort you home.”
“Mr. Black, you needn’t—”
His fingers tightened on her arm. “Clay,” he said. “And I do need.”
He blew out the lamp and walked her out the door.
At the bottom of her porch steps he released her elbow. “Good night, Miss Hardisson.”
She could not utter one single word. Everything about him pulled at her senses, his steady gray eyes, the squint lines etched at the corners, the dark, silky-looking hair that brushed his shoulders. She felt slightly dizzy in his presence.
She unlocked her door and on unsteady legs found her way upstairs to her bedroom. For an hour she sat staring out the open window, breathing in the warm, honeysuckle-scented air and feeling more lonely than ever before in her life.
Clayton. An unusual name. She’d ask him about it the next time they played poker.
Irene wakened when the sun was high and hot and the cackle of Mr. Gerstein’s chickens floated from the neighboring yard, punctuated by the snip-snip of his wife’s flower clippers. She lay still, listening.
A horse clopped by, pulling a rattletrap wagon. In its wake rose the scent of warm dust. Lulled by the sounds and smells, she offered up a short prayer of thanks to God for bringing her safely across the plains to this peaceful place.
Children’s voices echoed from the path winding past her house to Schoolhouse Hill. When the bell began to clang, the voices gradually faded into silence.
Irene sat up. Heavens, it was nine o’clock! She had Mrs. Madsen’s letter to answer and Arlen Svenson’s will to draft! Hurriedly she splashed water from the china basin over her face and neck and dressed in a royal-blue sateen work skirt and high-necked white shirtwaist trimmed with lace. Arranging her hair in a loose bun on top of her head, she secured her straw hat in place with a pearl-tipped hat pin and descended the stairs.
Except for her footsteps on the wooden staircase, the house was quiet. It still smelled faintly of paint and wallpaper paste, but even in its unfurnished state, it felt like home. Her home.
Her furniture—inherited along with the Philadelphia house where she and her father had lived until death took him—would arrive in early August, along with Nora. At the moment she didn’t miss either the housekeeper or her furniture.
She had selected only the most cherished pieces to ship west—the chiffonier from her mother’s bedroom, her father’s polished walnut rolltop desk, the embossed silver umbrella stand, Great-Aunt Emily’s gold-bordered Haviland china, the Oriental carpets in her father’s study, and the carved four-poster bed he slept in. The rest she had directed Nora to sell. She could purchase new settees and tables and chairs in Portland, seventy miles away.
In the meantime, she would manage. She much preferred a bedroll on her very own hardwood floor to Mrs. Bauer’s boardinghouse across the street.
True, she was lonely, but not for her housekeeper. She still grieved over her father’s loss, but she vowed she would not allow thoughts of missing him to spoil this brand-new, beautifully clear day.
In fact, she felt so full of energy she thought she might pop. First, breakfast at the Maybud Hotel dining room, and then…she rubbed her hands together relishing the prospect. Then she would finish up her letters and wallpaper the front parlor!
She could hardly believe she was here in this lovely little town, settled in a pretty white cottage on Park Street. She tried to suppress a smile, but it grew and grew, no matter what.
A whole month without Nora! She did miss the housekeeper, but now that she was here, on her own, she reveled in her newfound freedom. She could eat when she wished, give her own hair the required hundred brush strokes every night, brew her own afternoon tea, and even make the scones she was so fond of—once her stove arrived.
She could get along without the housekeeper for a month, surely. Besides, Nora had plenty to occupy her what with closing out a three-story house crammed with the belongings of four generations of Hardissons and Pennfields. Nora would have plenty of time, now that her father was gone.
She seized her parasol from the oversize vase in the corner and swung open the front door. Perhaps she would have enough of the flower-sprigged wallpaper left over to—
“Mornin’, Miss Hardisson,” a rich voice drawled. Clayton Black rose from the top porch step and tipped his hat.
“Mr. Black! What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Waitin’ for you. Information. And breakfast, in that order.”
“Breakfast!” Her stomach rumbled annoyingly, as if to reinforce the thought. “You’ll get no breakfast here, I assure you.”
“Thought not. You said you eat at the hotel.”
Irene blinked. “And so?”
“So, I’ve got a notion to accompany you, if you don’t mind.”
Irene pointed the tip of her parasol at the sky and released the catch. “As a matter of fact, I do mind.”
The mere sight of the man on her front porch chased away her appetite.
The ruffled silk dome opened in an arc over her head, and for one insane moment she gazed up at the metal ribs and wondered if what she had just uttered was true. The thought of Clayton Black looking at her across a table made her toes tingle. What was it about the man she found so unnerving?
She decided she didn’t want to know. “I prefer to eat alone. I think about my schedule for the day, and often plan—”
“Schedule!”
“—tomorrow’s schedule as well. Today being Friday, Saturday, too, will be allocated to productive activity.”
“Productive activ—? Good gravy!”
She swept on, undeterred by his interruption. “And of course Sunday is the Lord’s Day, and I shall rest.”
“I should damn well think so. Don’t you ever take any time for fun?”
“Fun?” She gave him a blank look. “You mean as in frivolity? The answer is no. My profession is my satisfaction in life. ‘Fun,’ as you put it, is for—”
“Normal people,” Clayton interjected. “Ma’am, you’ll forgive me for sayin’ so, but you’re in sorry shape.” He advanced a step toward her and captured the hand holding the parasol. “Now just come along quiet-like, and we’ll work this all out at breakfast. I’m half-starved. Another thirty minutes on your porch and I’d ’a taken a bite outta my hat, so hurry it up.”
Irene stared up at him. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she announced. She planted her black laced-up walking shoes flat on the porch planking.
“Sure y’are.” Clayton ran his forefinger over the hand clutching the parasol. “I notice you like to make wagers, Miss Hardisson. I’m bettin’ you’ll follow me when I tell you what I found out this morning.” He stepped back.
Irene took a hesitant step forward. “What?” she demanded.
“Good girl,” Clayton murmured. He stepped back again.
She followed him. “What did you find out?”
He did not reply. Instead, he slid his left arm under hers and drew her forward, down the porch steps and along Park Street.
Nelda Gerstein lifted her wicker flower basket in greeting as they passed. “Lovely morning,” she sang.
Clayton nodded at the sweet-faced older woman and touched his hat brim. “That it is, ma’am.”
“A bit hot for July, but then my Thomas always says…” Her voice receded as they moved down the board sidewalk.
“Mr. Black,” Irene huffed as he hurried her along. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m takin’ you to breakfast, Miss Hardisson.” His fingers wrapped over hers on the parasol handle as he guided her across the street toward the hotel. Irene found it difficult to breathe normally with his hard, warm hand on hers.
“And then—” he paused while they ascended the three wide wooden steps at the hotel entrance “—we’re goin’ on a picnic.”
“Picnic! Right after breakfast? What on earth for?”
“Reconnaissance,” he said quietly. “You can ride, can’t you?”
“Most certainly I can ride.” She closed the parasol with a snap. “I was named equestrienne of the—”
“Good.” He propelled her into the dining room, selected a table by the front window and pulled back her chair. “We’ll have ham and eggs, over easy,” he said to the waitress. “And half-a-dozen cold chicken sandwiches. For lunch,” he added.
Irene bristled. “Now just one minute.”
“Certainly, sir,” the waitress breathed. She stood stock-still for a moment, staring at Irene, then she bobbed an awkward curtsy.
Clayton chuckled.
“I prefer to order my own meals,” Irene hissed across the table. She turned to the wide-eyed girl. “I would like ham and two eggs, over easy.”
He laughed out loud.
“And some tea, if you please.” She worked to keep her voice even, but in spite of her efforts it rose alarmingly. The man was maddening. Over-bearing. He acted as if he owned the hotel, the town—even her! Well, she’d soon set him straight on that score.
But you like it a little, don’t you? a voice nagged. Perhaps even more than a little?
She most certainly did not!
Liar.
Clayton studied her face. “You look kinda funny, Miss Hardisson. Something wrong?”
Everything was wrong, she thought in exasperation. Except for one thing, the voice countered. Him. You feel alive when he’s near.
“Nothing is wrong,” she lied. “I am not accustomed to frittering away a perfectly good workday on picnics and such nonsense.”
He nodded. “That figures.”
“Consequently, I have no intention of accompanying you anywhere, much less on horseback.” She flipped the white linen napkin open and settled it across her lap.
“I’ll hire a buggy instead.” His voice was calm, without the slightest inflection. His nonchalance made Irene clench her hands.
“No buggy,” she enunciated clearly. “No horse. And no picnic.” She dumped two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into her tea before she realized what she was doing.
Clayton signaled the waitress. “Better make it a dozen sandwiches. The lady will have quite an appetite.”
The girl giggled. “Certainly, sir.”
Irene gritted her teeth. “I will have no appetite whatsoever.”
He tilted his chair back and gazed at her. “I think you will.” Amusement and something else colored his voice, along with an undercurrent of steely determination that made her apprehensive.
“For one thing, with no buggy and no horse, that leaves us on foot.” He tipped his chair forward. “I know from experience that walkin’ works up a powerful hunger.”
“Never!”
“Right after breakfast,” he contradicted.
Irene squirmed on the straight-backed dining chair. “What makes you think I would even consider—”
“Because, Miss Hardisson, you still haven’t told me what I need to know, and I’m gettin’ itchy. Now I don’t hold with using force—” he looked deep into her eyes “—but the way I figure it, you owe me some information, so I’m gonna make you a proposition.”
Her eyes flashed in alarm. “Mr. Black!” Her tone made him think of a mid-January Texas frost. She’d mistaken his meaning.
Clayton swallowed to wet his throat. “You ever see a chess match?”
“Why no, but—”
“Well then, here’s the bargain. These two foreign fellas, Russians, I think, are playing chess over in Parker’s Meadow. I’ll take you to watch the match, and you’ll give me what I’m after.” He gulped. Balls of fire, what was wrong with his tongue?
She looked at him as if his ears were screwed on backward. For a long, long minute, she didn’t say a word. He tried to read her thoughts, but she met his gaze with carefully expressionless eyes. She’d make a good poker player. He couldn’t tell jack squat about what she was thinking.
He knew it was a long shot. She might have no interest in the game, much less stamina for an entire match, which could extend over the better part of a day. But she liked games, didn’t she? She liked challenges. He’d wager she didn’t know a thing about chess, but maybe she’d last long enough to let down her guard and tell him what he wanted to know about Brance Fortier. He’d been all over town this morning, and nobody even admitted seeing the outlaw leave. Fortier’d probably threatened them.
Two identical platters of food banged down between them. “Would there be anything else, sir?”
Clayton kept his eyes locked with Irene’s. “Yeah. Add a canteen of coffee to those sandwiches, will you?”
“Certainly, sir.”
He reached his good arm across the table and covered Irene’s small, manicured hand. “Well?”
The starch drained out of her. He’d set it up just right, he thought in satisfaction. She’d taken the bait. She’d be bored and talkative within an hour, and he was an expert at ferreting out information.
She looked him in the eye. “May I have your word of honor you will not attempt to compromise me, Mr. Black?”
“My word of honor.” No risk there, he thought. She was his link to Fortier; he’d treat her with velvet gloves. His gut told him the outlaw was long gone, and he ached to be after him. But he figured he could spare three more hours, tops, if it would save him some time later on. Otherwise, he’d have to try to pick up a cold trail, and that was slow and tedious. This way, he could save a day, maybe two.
Besides, he liked the company of this prickly lady lawyer with an unexpected aptitude for five-card draw. At the moment, gazing into her upturned face, watching her rosy lips open to admit a dainty forkful of ham, he didn’t know which he wanted more—breakfast or Irene Hardisson.
Watch it, mi amigo. In your line of work, a woman like this is a dead end.
He knew that, all right. Had known it for years.
Being a Ranger’s wife is no kinda life for a woman, his father had said. Every single day, she’s just one rifle bullet away from widowhood.
Part of him acknowledged the raw truth of the words. Another part of him was so desperately alone he didn’t care about the risk.
Forget it, you dumb son of a gun. You know what you have to do. And you know the price.
God’s little scorpions, sometimes he wished that sensible part of him would just shut the hell up.
“It’s a package,” Irene said at last.
Clayton started. “A deal,” he corrected. Suddenly he wished he’d never proposed the idea. The thought of Irene and himself out in a grassy meadow somewhere made him feel hot all over. He’d sure like to do something other than watch a chess match.
He had to chuckle at that. Truth was, in spite of what Pa always said, he’d got this particular green-eyed woman kinda stuck in his throat.

Chapter Five
On the short buggy ride to Parker’s Meadow—straight out of town on the Portland road the liveryman had instructed, then sharp right at the double oak trees—Clayton watched Irene fidget on the black leather seat beside him. Plain as buttered pancakes she was itching to do something, but he’d lay odds it wasn’t rolling along in a buggy so close to him her skirt brushed his thigh.
The instant they crested the rise and the meadow spread before them like a rich green carpet, she settled down. Far across the swath of long grass two men dressed in black sat motionless at a makeshift table, its legs hidden in the lush grass.
The chess players. Clayton shot a glance at Irene and frowned. Her gaze was riveted on the two figures hunched over the table. Her eyes sparkled. “Can you go any faster?”
Faster? He didn’t expect her to be this interested. Then again, she wasn’t like most women he’d known.
Which, he acknowledged, had been few and far between. He let out a long breath. All his life he’d taken pains to mask his Cherokee blood with white man’s trappings, as his father had. The only concession he made to his Indian heritage was refusing to cut his hair but once each year. Out here in untamed Oregon, he didn’t look too different from anybody else, but he wondered what Irene would say if she knew about his Cherokee side, how he’d been shunned in both worlds, Indian and white. How uncomfortable he felt in towns like this, or with a woman like her.
As they drew near, Irene leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap. Clayton pulled the rig into an area of flattened grass and set the brake. A few saddle horses raised their heads, then returned to their desultory cropping of the grass at their feet.
It was a perfect afternoon, Clayton noted. He considered unhitching the mare, then thought better of it. Irene would be bored and hungry in an hour—two at the most. When she grew tired of watching the game she’d want to head back to town—or, better still, lounge on the meadow and have a picnic with him. And then she’d start talking about Fortier.
He could hardly wait. He turned to speak to her, but she was gone. “Now where the hell…”
A flash of blue sateen drew his eyes to the small table set under a spreading oak. Two motionless players in long black frock coats and soft black caps atop their gray heads sat like two large blackbirds, bent over the chessboard between them. Irene positioned herself to one side, folded her arms across her waist and watched.
Clayton waited for her to move or shift position, but she remained still as a blue-clad statue. Purposefully he circled the small gathering of onlookers, watching Irene, who in turn studied the chess pieces with as much intensity as the two rail-thin players. Russians, someone at the hotel had said. Homesteading adjacent plots of land in Crazy Creek Valley, the two met every Friday to play chess.
Irene watched the game with unwavering intensity, moving only once to shoo away a bumblebee. The sun climbed high overhead, slipped off center and began to descend.
Clayton began to pace. He hadn’t anticipated her complete absorption in the proceedings; her look of rapt fascination made him just a tad uneasy. He craved some talk about events concerning Brance Fortier’s disappearance, but at the moment she was plainly interested only in the chess match.
He walked about the meadow in ever-widening circles, skirting the fringe of fir trees where afternoon shadows began to lengthen, frustration building inside him. On his next loop near the chess table, he studied Irene for signs of flagging interest. She never even looked up at him.
With a groan, Clayton tramped back to the buggy, loosened the harness and removed the bit from the horse’s mouth. No sense keeping the rig at the ready—Irene was lost in the game.
Another hour crept by and she didn’t move an inch. Maybe he’d better give up on the idea of a quiet interrogation under the guise of polite picnic conversation.
Or maybe he had a better idea. Noiselessly he edged close to Irene, leaned forward and breathed a single word into her ear. “Lunch?”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered without moving. Her gaze pinned on the game before her, she stuck out her hand. “A sandwich, if you please.”
Clayton plopped a small towel-wrapped bundle into her outstretched palm and watched her unwrap it. She nibbled at the slice of chicken poking out between the slices of bread. While he watched her take occasional dainty bites, her attention glued to the chessboard, he devoured four sandwiches and washed them down with a swig of lukewarm coffee from a glass jar. He wished like anything it was whiskey. This whole charade was getting his dander up.
Irene Hardisson had said barely three words in as many hours. Only a scattering of pieces remained on the board, but neither of the solemn-face men had made a move in the past thirty minutes. The game was at a standstill.
No one moved. No one spoke. Irene swallowed the last of her sandwich and stood as if transfixed, her eyes on the board. She cradled her chin in her palm, frowning.
About time, Clayton thought with a rush of hope. She’s gettin’ bored. He’d just sidle around to her side and ease her away for a private chat.
He touched her elbow, cupped his fingers about the rounded bone and gave a gentle tug.
Irene stood solid as a brick chimney. He pulled again. “Irene,” he whispered. “It’s about time we—”
“Hush!” she hissed.
Clayton released her arm and glanced skyward. Lord help him! He’d been outmaneuvered by a stubborn lady and two old Russian farmers. When he lowered his gaze, he noted the sun just touched the tips of the tall firs encircling the meadow. Another hour and they wouldn’t be able to see the chessboard!
Clayton gritted his teeth. His shoulder was beginning to ache. His feet, too. Most of the tracking he did was on horseback; he wasn’t used to a lot of walking.
But Irene’s interest showed no sign of flagging. In fact, she didn’t look the least bit tired. Or bored. Her face was lit up like a child’s at a candy counter.
Clayton jammed his good hand into his trouser pocket and rocked back on his heels. No, she was definitely not bored. And definitely not chattering to him about Brance Fortier, as he had planned. Devil take the girl!
Give it up, amigo. You made a bad bargain.
He hated to think about the time he’d wasted out here. What was worse, he grumbled to himself as he strode another circuit around the meadow, she hadn’t done it intentionally. Hell and damn. He’d best go feed an apple to that patient mare he’d tied up beside the buggy.
Just as he started to leave, a small sound broke the silence. A carved wooden chess piece, a king, Clayton recognized, lay tipped on its side in the center of the board.
“All right, Isaac,” one of the men muttered. “You vin.”
“Mmm-hmm, Mordecai, vat I tell you?”
“Wait!” a feminine voice ordered. “Queen to bishop three!”
Clayton froze. Both men’s eyes turned toward Irene.
“I mean,” Irene stammered, “if you move your queen to…”
One of the black-clad men leaped to his feet. “Isaac, look! Iss the Hostage Lady!”
Aghast, Irene stared at the man. The Hostage Lady? Was that what she was called? Good gracious!
She sneaked a glance at the lean, tanned Texas Ranger who stood off to one side, one hand in his pocket, eyeing her with sudden interest. Mercy! She most certainly did not relish the thought of Mr. Black’s finding out her role in that hostage matter. Clayton Black had been trailing that man—Brance Fortier—the very man she had helped to escape. If it weren’t for her, the outlaw would still be languishing in the Crazy Creek jail.
The taller of the two chess players leaped to his feet, snatched the cap off his head and bowed low. “Most honored, Missus Lady. You safe my son, Benjamin. Trade him for that horse thief! Be seated, please!”
The other man, Isaac, whipped a bandanna from his vest pocket and ceremoniously dusted off the crude chair his friend had vacated. “Please, sit, lady. Please!” He clasped one arm over his middle and bowed from the waist.
“Oh, please, I—” Irene gripped the back of the hand-hewn chair. “I only meant to say you need not concede—there is one move you can make to checkmate, you see?” She pointed to the chessboard. “With your opponent’s king exposed as it is, all you have to do is advance your queen—”
“Nyet! Game iss not important, now.” Mordecai, at least she thought that was his name, waved one long arm over the table. “You are important! You are Hostage Lady, who talk to outlaw and get my son back for me.”
“Oh, no, I merely…” Irene shrank inwardly at the sudden expression of anger that crossed Clayton Black’s regular features. One black eyebrow twitched upward. He yanked his hand out of his pocket and held it up.
“Well, now,” he drawled, “I don’t believe I’ve heard this part of the story.”
Isaac beamed. “Oh, she was so brave! So smart!”
“Smart,” Clayton repeated in a quiet voice. His eyes burned into hers with such intensity she could not look away. Her cheeks grew hot. She didn’t want the lawman to hear this, didn’t want to acknowledge her part in freeing the murderer he had chased all the way from Texas.
“And brave, too!” Isaac reminded with enthusiasm. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
“Brave, too, huh?” Clayton nodded, holding her gaze. “It figures.”
Mordecai’s bony hands tugged at the top button on his coat. “All day she talk to sheriff, then to outlaw, then again to sheriff. Then it gets late, and she walks alone down the street and outlaw, he walks from opposite with his hand on my son’s neck, and they meet in middle, in front of saloon.”
“And that’s how Fortier got away,” Clayton supplied. The edge in his voice sent a shiver up Irene’s spine.
“Miss Hardisson, you played right into Fortier’s hands.”
“But I had to do it, Mr. Black. He threatened to shoot the boy!”
Mordecai wrung his hands together. “She safe my Benjamin’s life, iss vat she does!”

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