A Marriage By Chance

The minister’s gaze swept the onlookers, then focused on Chloe and J.T., a small smile curving his lips. “We are gathered together to join this man and this woman in the state of holy matrimony.”

“Who giveth this woman…” the minister began, and before the words could be fully spoken, Chloe’s brother muttered the appropriate response and pressed her hand into J.T.’s palm. And then she was caught up in the beauty of words and phrases that promised to change her life forever.

She spoke her responses in a voice that barely trembled, heard J.T.’s own vows offered in dark, husky tones and felt the cool circle of gold surround her ring finger as he placed it there. His kiss was circumspect, brief, but warm against her mouth. His lips touched her cheek and then whispered words against her ear.

“You won’t be sorry. I promise….”

Acclaim for CAROLYN DAVIDSON’s recent titles

Maggie’s Beau

“A story of depth and understanding that will touch your heart.”

—Rendezvous

The Bachelor Tax

“From desperate situation to upbeat ending, Carolyn Davidson reminds us why we read romance.”

—Romantic Times

The Tender Stranger

“Davidson wonderfully captures gentleness in the midst of heart-wrenching challenges, portraying the extraordinary possibilities that exist within ordinary marital love.”

—Publishers Weekly

#599 THE LOVE MATCH

Deborah Simmons/Deborah Hale/Nicola Cornick

#601 MARRYING MISCHIEF

Lyn Stone

#602 SHADES OF GRAY

Wendy Douglas

A Marriage by Chance

Carolyn Davidson

MILLS & BOON

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and CAROLYN DAVIDSON

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“Wish upon a Star”

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A Marriage by Chance #600

Too often we take for granted those people we live with, the people who make out lives full and rich with their presence. This writer cannot write without an atmosphere conducive to her emotional well-being. I am fortunate to share a home with the mother of three of my grandchildren. So, to Merry, my friend for many years, and to Erin and Kelly Jon, who keep me young, I dedicate this book.

But most of all to the man who makes my life complete: to Mr. Ed, who loves me.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Prologue

Silver City, Nevada

March, 1894

Three queens and a pair of deuces appeared before him, and Peter Biddleton all but licked his lips as his eyes flickered to the mound of cash in the middle of the table. It was a cinch, he decided. He had bet first on the three ladies, tossing in his other two cards, and watching as the dealer slid two more in his direction. Now he felt the thundering of his heart as the pair dealt him nestled beside the aloof trio of royal blood.

“Reckon I can bet,” he drawled, pushing in his last gold piece, watching as it rested against several more just like it, there where bits and pieces of cash lured him.

The dark-featured man across the table watched from beneath hooded eyelids, silent as he considered the cards he held. And then he placed them facedown on the table and nudged three gold coins toward the pot. “Got something you’re proud of, sonny?” he asked mildly. “It’ll cost you to stay in.”

Peter aimed a futile glare at the man who spoke. Tall, dressed in the well-worn garb of a cowhand, the stranger had walked with an arrogant stride across the floor of Molly’s Saloon only two hours before. He’d watched for long moments, then joined in the game already in progress. Now his dark, flat gaze focused on his lone opponent, the rest of the men surrounding the table watching with eager eyes the silent battle between the two men.

“That’s the last of my money,” Peter said reluctantly, glancing down again at the full house he was certain was a winner. It felt right. The cards were warm in his hand, the queens looking triumphant, the deuces paired beside them.

“Are you out?” the stranger asked, unmoving except for the lifting of his eyelids as he bent his attention on Peter’s face.

“I’ve got a half interest in a ranch in Wyoming,” Peter blurted. “Worth more than the whole pile,” he muttered, his free hand gesturing at the seductive kitty in the middle of the table.

“Call me or fold.” Lazily spoken, the words were a challenge, one Peter could not ignore.

“I’ll bet the ranch,” he said, making up his mind quickly, before the image of Chloe could force him away from the table and out the saloon door.

“Let’s see your deed.”

“I don’t have it,” Peter admitted. “But I’ll handwrite a letter of ownership.”

“Is there a lawyer in Silver City?” The dark eyes lifted to sort through the gathering crowd.

“I’m a lawyer.” Stout and well dressed, a middle-aged man stepped forward, then directed his attention to Peter. “You sure you want to do this, son?”

Peter nodded, his jaw set, his hands sweating.

“Where’s the ranch?” the lawyer asked, drawing a small notebook from his pocket. His pencil moved quickly across the page as Peter spoke, describing the location and size of the Double B Ranch, his father’s legacy, and then he placed notebook and pencil on the table. “Sign here,” he said, watching as Peter’s trembling fingers grasped the pencil.

Torn from the notebook, the single page fluttered in the air, settling with a whisper of sound atop the pile.

A long index finger nudged the brim of his black hat as the man across the table leaned forward, fanning four jacks across the battered tabletop.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, boy.”

Chapter One

Ripsaw Creek, Wyoming

April, 1894

“Of all the stupid idiots in the world, why did my brother have to be at the top of the list?” Chloe Biddleton’s hand clutched a single sheet of paper, the scrawled letters a tangible threat to everything she held dear. “Damn you, Peter,” she snarled, glaring up at the shimmering sky as though her brother might be visible there among the clouds. And then she repeated the words, softly, in a barely heard whisper, as hot tears filled her eyes.

“Let me see it.” Calm and patient, Hogan held out his hand. “Let me have the letter, Chloe.” Reins in hand, her ranch foreman stood before her, and Chloe placed the missive she’d all but clenched into a wrinkled ball in his palm. Hogan spread it carefully, reading the blotted words and phrases slowly, and his face took on a deadly cast.

“Sold you out, didn’t he?” He read it again, muttering phrases aloud. “A damn poker game. Boy never could hold five cards without losing his shirt.” And then his voice deepened. “Jasper Thomas Flannery. Sounds like a city slicker to me, Chloe. And he’s on his way to stake his claim.”

“If Peter ever shows up here again, I swear I’ll kill him.” Chloe’s anger knew no bounds as her gaze encompassed the house and barns surrounding her. “He lost half of my ranch to some dude, cleaned out our bank account, and I’m supposed to understand.” Her shoulders slumped as Hogan placed a callused hand on her arm.

“He never loved the place the way you do, Chloe.”

Her head lifted abruptly and her eyes glittered. “And that’s supposed to make it all right? He loved spending the money Pa left. I’ll bet he’s having a good time going through every cent of our inheritance.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Hogan agreed mildly. “Don’t get your drawers in a twist, boss. Maybe this fella will take a gander and decide to be a silent partner. Could be he’s not interested in running a ranch.”

“Yeah, and could be, with my luck, he’ll want to run the whole show.” She’d known early on that the day was headed for disaster. Losing a prized colt to colic in the early hours of the morning had been more of a heartbreak than a financial disaster, but that loss had set the tone of the whole livelong day.

She’d wished more than once for Aunt Tilly’s comforting presence during the long hours. From mending a jagged barbed wire cut on a cowhand’s arm to the burning of six loaves of bread, forgotten in the oven as she sewed up the injury, one thing after another had fallen into place, equaling total disaster. The sewing of torn flesh was bothersome, but she’d done it before. When it came to baking, the presence of Aunt Tilly was almost a necessity. And it would be several weeks before she returned for the summer months.

Now Hogan stood before her, weary from the long ride to town, where he’d picked up the mail and done the banking chores on her behalf. Wisely, she’d kept extra cash, both for minor emergencies and for the mortgage payment, beneath the mattress in her bedroom, away from Peter’s grasping hands. At least the ranch was safe for the next six months.

Hogan cleared his throat and she looked up at him. Don’t kill the messenger. The old adage held new meaning as she silently berated the man for the letter he’d carried.

“Don’t get mad at me, Chloe,” he told her, accurately reading the anger she tossed in his direction.

She wilted, accepting the letter from his hand, folding it carefully, almost feeling like she needed to preserve the latest threat to her welfare. “I’m not. Not really, Hogan. I’m just worn-out. I knew better than to count on Peter for any help. I guess I just didn’t think he’d be such a hindrance.” Her lips curved in a rueful smile, a gesture of apology to the man standing before her who worked so hard for so little recompense.

“Things’ll get better,” he said staunchly. “The herd looks good this spring, and you’ve got pret’ near two dozen mares already dropped their foals. There’s more calves out there than I can count—”

“And not enough hay to see us through to the first cutting,” she reminded him glumly. “We need a good spring rain to green up the pastures. At least the river’s running good, and we don’t have to tote water.”

“I arranged for a load of hay from Hale Winters on my way to town,” Hogan told her. “He’ll deliver it tomorrow.”

Chloe sighed and turned from him to walk up the porch steps. “Maybe Jasper Thomas Flannery will be old and fat and not long for this world. Do you suppose he’ll be willing to spring for a load of hay?” She laughed, a harsh sound unlike her usual cheerful demeanor. “Maybe when he discovers he hasn’t won a gold mine, I won’t have to put up with him for long.”

“Yeah, and maybe those hogs out in the pen will take off flyin’ any minute now.” Hogan lifted his gaze to a puff of dust in the distance. “Either we got company comin’, or that’s a dust devil whirlin’ up the road.”

Chloe turned back to follow his pointing finger, and then turned to meet his gaze. “Jasper Thomas, himself. How much do you want to bet?”

His horse was trail-weary, his saddlebags nearly empty, and his stomach in need of a good home-cooked meal. The bank in Ripsaw Creek was richer for the deposit he’d just made, and unless he missed his guess, the woman standing in front of the white ranch house a hundred yards ahead was his new partner.

A firm believer in fate, he’d sat in on the poker game on a hunch. Weary of wandering, his spirit yearning for a place to call his own. Now, at thirty-two, he’d decided to sink his funds into a homestead, settle down and think about a future. One that didn’t include a deck of cards. California was calling, a nebulous dream of home, and maybe even a family, luring him.

Four jacks. Four pieces of heavy, well-worn paper, had put the Double B Ranch in his pocket. Only half of it, he reminded himself. But with a woman as his partner, he’d still be in charge. Another look at the female watching him diluted the strength of that assumption.

J. T. Flannery touched his hat brim, lowering it a bit, the better to shade his eyes, and stiffened his spine. Trouble. He could smell it three hundred feet, dead ahead. The boy had been a soft touch, a weakling of the first water, a traitor to his family’s heritage.

The sister looked to be another story altogether.

She was short, but sturdy, with a neat compact body tucked into a pair of trousers and a dark shirt, and from her stance, he’d say she was halfway to being in a temper. Not that he could blame her any. He’d warrant she was expecting him, given the fact that the man pointed out as her foreman had collected the mail in town, and J.T. was dead certain Peter’s letter was contained in the batch. Generally, a barkeep knew everyone in the area, and the one J.T. had quizzed was free with information.

He’d watched as the lean cowhand rode from the bank to the general store, where the post office occupied one corner, noted the scowl on his face as the man examined the outside of the single envelope among the various catalogues and periodicals he held in his hand. An hour seemed like a reasonable length of time to dally along the way, assuring the letter would be read before they rolled out the welcome mat at the ranch. And at that thought he’d grinned privately, before lifting his considerable length into the saddle, and set off for the ranch.

“What do you want, stranger?” The woman asked as J.T. rode within six feet of her, refusing to back off as the big stallion snorted and stretched out his long neck to check her scent. She was brave, he’d give her that much.

“J. T. Flannery, ma’am, coming to claim my winnings.”

From the look in her eyes, it might not have been the brightest opening he could have come up with. She looked as though she were wishing for a shotgun to aim in his direction, and he tried in vain to restrain the satisfied grin that curved his lips. “I take it you’re not happy to see me,” he continued smoothly. And then he answered his own query with a slow shake of his head.

“Naw, I didn’t think you would be.” Watching her, he wondered at his own lack of caution. She wasn’t armed, but the man behind her wore a gun and she looked capable of snatching it from the holster and aiming it in his direction.

“You thought right, mister.”

Her voice was calmer now, but no less threatening for all its softness. He’d met more women than he could shake a stick at, but this one was in a niche of her own. No fussy ruffles for Peter Biddleton’s sister. No curls adorned her head. No paint or powder covered the freckles that thrived on her cheeks and across her nose. She was pure female, all right, but didn’t bother to dress up the packaging. Her long, dark hair was braided, the thick plait wound around her head, and her eyes were the icy blue of a winter sky.

She stuck her palms into the back pockets of her trousers and he almost grinned again at the picture she presented. If she only realized how her stance emphasized the lush lines of her bosom, how her neat little figure was revealed by the pose she’d taken, she’d no doubt shoot his eyes out for the liberties they took.

“So you’re the rotten bastard who cheated my brother out of his inheritance,” she said, her gaze narrowing as she took his measure. “And I suppose you think I’m going to welcome you and show you around, don’t you?”

He shifted in the saddle, and in a swift movement slid to the ground, facing her head-on. His jaw set, he fisted his hands against his hips, the better to control the sudden urge for battle her remark had brought to the surface. “Number one, ma’am—” his hesitation was just a bit longer than a heartbeat “—my mother and father were duly married when I was born. I take it as an insult to the lady who changed my drawers to be named illegitimate.”

He caught a glimpse of regret in her eyes, and then it vanished as quickly as it had come to be, and he softened his stance. “As to the other, no, I don’t expect a welcome. But—” this pause was longer, and he included the man beside her in his lingering look “—but I do expect to have full access to every single speck of property I own a half share of. That includes the house, the outbuildings, and every living creature in the barns and out of them.”

She inhaled sharply, and her face was white beneath the freckles now. “I’ll be seeing a lawyer in town as soon as I can make arrangements, Mr. Flannery. If your claim is valid—”

“It is, ma’am. I assure you the transfer of deed was accomplished by a genuine attorney in Silver City, Nevada.”

“Was that where you met my brother?” she asked tightly.

He nodded. “He was in a poker game in Molly’s Saloon, and I sat in on the action. Trust me, lady. If it hadn’t been me, he’d have lost the ranch to someone else. He was headed for disaster when I walked in, and I just sat there and waited for it to happen.”

“I told you the boy couldn’t play poker for crap,” the tall ranch hand said harshly.

“You the head man here?” J.T. asked, and was rewarded by a glare from the woman before him.

“I’m head of the place,” she said. “Hogan’s my foreman.”

J.T. held out his hand, fixing his gaze on the husky rancher. Hogan’s hesitation was brief, and his callused palm gave as good as it got as the two hands clasped with a show of force. “You any good at your job?” J.T. asked quietly, assessing the man with a glance. Well put together, wearing his work clothes like a second skin, he stood tall and straight, his eyes wary as he lent silent support to the woman.

“I like to think so.”

“He’s the best there is,” his employer stated firmly. “I’m Chloe Biddleton,” she said grudgingly. She slid her hands from their moorings and fished the letter from her front pocket. “According to this, your name is Jasper Thomas—”

“J.T.” Firm and harsh, his voice spoke the abbreviated title, and her chin lifted as she nodded.

“J.T. it is, then.”

“You want to come out to the barn and take a look around?” Hogan asked, and J.T. wondered if the man sought to lessen the pressure on Chloe. She looked like a good strong wind would blow her over right now, her faith in her brother in shambles and faced, out of the blue, with a new partner.

“Might as well,” he answered. “My horse could use a rubdown and some feed.” He nodded at Chloe, feeling a twinge of regret. Her head high, her lips compressed, she looked like a woman about to burst into tears, if he was any judge, and he’d just as soon not be in the same vicinity if that happened. A crying woman was about his least favorite thing to deal with, right alongside a cornered rattler or a drunk with a gun in his hand.

The two men led their horses toward the big barn, where a lone cowhand lingered near the doorway. Chloe watched in silence as they ambled across the yard, halting next to the horse trough for the big stallion to drop his muzzle into the water. J. T. Flannery glanced back at her, a quick summary from narrowed eyes, and she felt a flush warm her cheeks. The man was arrogant. Not only that, he was equipped with a tall, rangy body, and an intelligence she could not mistake, gleaming from dark eyes that had viewed her with an appraisal which left her aware of her imperfections.

She knew her limitations as a woman, had looked in her mirror enough times to recognize her lack of beauty. Her fair skin invited freckles, and though her hair was thick and long, she thought sometimes it was more trouble than it was worth. Too short to be impressive, and too well-rounded to be chic, she’d found it handy to have a man she could rely on when it came to running the ranch. Her dependence on Hogan was a trust he’d lived up to.

After Pa died two years ago, she’d taken hold, and in the past year, she’d managed to keep afloat. Until the discovery six months ago that her bank account was bone dry, and Peter had left town with every red cent she’d counted on to buy supplies and coast into the summer. The ability to make the payment on the mortgage was a blessing, but without spare cash, she was faced with the delivery of hay tomorrow and the pride-crushing task of asking for credit from her neighbor.

Thankfully, the general store would keep her on the books until she could round up a few yearling steers and sell them. But at spring weight, it would be for a price less than their worth. She sighed as she climbed the two steps to the porch, then shivered as the wind sought her in the shelter of the back door.

The sadness that overwhelmed her couldn’t be helped. Peter had stolen more than the money Pa had left. He’d made his departure with her youthful optimism in his pocket.

Now, she faced a struggle for survival, and a rusty laugh accompanied the first hot tear that streaked down her cheek. At least she had a partner to share the process.

The choice of sleeping beneath a tree or in the bunkhouse with six men who had no reason to enjoy his presence among them was a toss-up, J.T. decided. If he’d had another alternative such as sleeping in the house, he’d have joyfully embraced it, but somehow he didn’t expect Chloe to offer him a bedroom right off the bat. She’d decided to wait until morning to take the trip to Ripsaw Creek, once Hogan murmured an admonition in an undertone. And then she’d looked up at J.T. with defiance.

“The barn or the bunkhouse, mister. Or beneath a tree in the orchard if you like.”

He left her the remnants of her pride, nodding and sliding his bedroll beneath his arm as he sauntered toward the orchard. The barn was too enclosed, and he was a stranger there. Better to be on the outskirts, with a view of house and bunkhouse. He’d slept in worse situations, and the bedroll was warm. Traveling light meant he only had one more clean shirt, and unless he headed to town on a shopping trip, he’d better beg the use of a scrub board from his partner.

The moon was new, a thin sliver against a cloudless sky. Stars filled the horizon, providing a canopy of silver sequins overhead, visible through branches only beginning to show signs of leafing out. At least it didn’t look like rain, he decided, and leaned against the tree trunk he’d chosen, wrapped in wool, his gun at hand. The house was dark, all but a single window on the second floor. White curtains floated from the open pane, and he thought of the woman who slept with fresh air as her companion.

Chloe couldn’t be more than—what? Twenty-one, maybe a year or so older. Too young to be faced with the burden of running a ranch, especially with a lack of cash, if what he’d overheard at the bank was to be believed. A clerk, in an undertone that carried to J.T.’s hearing, spoke of Peter Biddleton’s perfidy to a townsman, shaking his head as he told the tale. The rascal had walked off with the contents of their joint bank account, leaving Chloe empty-handed and in desperate need of funds.