She hesitated, then spoke quietly. “Myself.”
“Never an easy thing to do,” the marshal replied with a note of empathy in his tone.
Rowena nodded. “My turn.”
She intended to fire out another question, but her mind went blank. She had asked about his home, about his choice of career. What about his family? Before her brain caught up with the implications of the question, she blurted out, “Are you married?”
Slowly, the marshal’s expression sharpened and those green eyes fastened on her, so bold and direct Rowena believed they could see to the very core of her. But when the marshal replied, his voice was bland, perhaps a little impatient. “Why do you want to know?”
Up to now, she’d been enjoying the sparring. It had been like bantering with her suitors in Boston—not that she’d had many, for unlike some of her school friends she possessed neither great wealth nor important family connections—but what she felt now was not the girlish, superficial fluster of those occasions. What she felt now was deep and dark and laced with undertones of danger.
She inhaled a fortifying breath and refused to contemplate why the question about the marshal’s marital status might be of interest to her. “No particular reason,” she replied with a casual air. “I was just making conversation. And that was your question. My turn.”
She racked her brain, but her concentration was in tatters. She couldn’t think of anything that would allow an emotional retreat, could come up with no casual question that would draw them back from the dangerous waters of exchanging intimacies, of confessing hidden thoughts.
“Will you come back tomorrow?” she asked finally.
“Yes.” Like a gentleman who has been given a hint that his allotted visiting time had come to an end, the marshal rose to his feet. “Good night, Miss McKenzie.”
He retreated with those strangely deliberate footsteps she’d noticed before, not because of any visible quality in how he walked, but because her musician’s ear had picked out the distinctive cadence of his boot heels against the cement floor.
As the marshal turned around to slide the iron bars back in place, Rowena couldn’t stop herself from staring at him. One by one, she registered every part of his appearance—the coal-black hair, freshly cut, the gaunt face with high cheekbones, the green eyes framed with dark lashes, the hard slash of a mouth, the lean yet powerful body. Marshal Hunter stood still, aware of her scrutiny. For a while, it appeared to Rowena that time had stopped turning.
After what seemed like an eternity, the marshal dipped his head in a curt nod of farewell and vanished out of sight, leaving her alone with an avalanche of confused thoughts that ran the gamut from past failings into future possibilities.
* * *
Dale finished his morning shave and studied his reflection in the gilt-framed mirror hanging above the cracked porcelain washbasin in his hotel room. What had Rowena McKenzie seen when she’d stared at him with such intensity? Had she been repelled by his scar?
Are you married? Are you married? Are you married?
The question seemed to whisper at him from every corner of the shabby, well-worn hotel room. Dale shook his head, as if to dislodge the soft feminine voice that appeared to be stuck inside his mind. The attempt proved as futile as swatting at a fly with a piece of string.
He’d never considered that marriage might be an option for him. And yet, he could not stop his thoughts from reeling back to Roy Hagan, a friend he used to ride with in his outlaw years. Born with different colored eyes, Roy had been an outcast all his life. He’d been an outlaw when he met Celia, a bank clerk’s daughter, and escorted her on a trail through the Arizona Territory. They had fallen in love, and despite Roy’s lawless background, Celia had accepted him. She’d given herself to him, had fought to have a future with him. Their love had seemed so perfect, so complete, even with death looming over them, for at that time Roy had not yet broken free from the Red Bluff Gang, or been granted a presidential pardon. But Celia had loved him anyway, had been prepared to risk her life and sacrifice her reputation to be with him.
Could it happen to him? Could a woman love him like that?
Dale scowled at his image in the mirror. Of course it couldn’t happen to him. Rowena McKenzie had stared at him because she’d been repelled by his scar. He had done his duty. He had uncovered the facts, at least enough to piece together a clear picture of the situation.
Number one: he knew that Robert Smith and Elroy Revery were professional fraudsters who had perpetrated the same scam on many occasions. On at least one such occasion Revery—or whatever was his real name—had been shot and carted away by a bolting horse. As Revery had since reappeared, it was evident that he had not died, and the same was likely to apply on this occasion. The lack of a body supported that assumption, although this time Revery had been forced to sacrifice his horse.
Number two: Rowena McKenzie was an honorable person—Dale trusted his lawman’s instinct on that—and she had lived in Pinares for two years, during which time Revery and Smith had been operating elsewhere. During those two years Miss McKenzie had not sent or received any letters or telegrams. She could not have been in contact with the fraudsters. It must be a coincidence that they had come to Pinares.
Number three: Rowena McKenzie had done her best to stop people from investing in the worthless mining shares, and hence it appeared that she was not part of the fraud. However, she had secretly visited Revery in his hotel room, which was evidence of a bond between them. The bond did not seem sinister, with the conmen having some kind of a hold over her, for Miss McKenzie seemed confident that once she revealed the truth about the shooting her troubles would be over. Further, she did not appear to have any dark secrets that could be used to blackmail her.
Number four: Rowena McKenzie had grabbed Kurt Lonergan’s pistol from the holster and fired the shot that allowed Revery to escape. She had done this after Smith, masquerading as one of the disgruntled investors, fell over in the crowd and was unable to use his gun. Clearly, she had facilitated the escape of the conmen, but it appeared to have been an impulse, dictated by the occasion. Had it been premeditated she would have arranged to be carrying a gun.
Number five: Rowena McKenzie was refusing to defend herself against a murder charge. She was waiting for a telegram that would allow her to reveal the truth. The telegram must be to let her know that Revery and Smith were safely out of the territory, and any other territory or state where there might be a warrant out on them.
This information, part fact, part speculation, ought to be enough to convince any judge that Rowena McKenzie should not hang, but should instead remain in custody until she was prepared to talk. He could relay his findings to Sheriff Macklin and be on his way to California. He ought to hurry, sign the agreement to buy his ranch before anyone else discovered the place and pushed the price beyond his reach by offering more.
Are you married? Are you married?
Ignoring the voice that whispered inside his head, Dale pulled his suit coat on. His task was not completed. He understood the chain of events, could be almost certain that Rowena McKenzie had not committed murder. However, she had aided and abetted fraudsters, and he couldn’t consider his job finished until he had discovered what had caused her to do that. It would then be up to the judge to decide if Miss McKenzie was guilty of participating in a fraud, or had merely acted unwisely out of misplaced loyalties.
* * *
Outside, the sky was laden, the ground white with a layer of frost. Steeling himself against the icy wind, Dale hurried down the street to the small brick building that housed the jail and the sheriff’s office.
Sheriff Macklin sat at his desk, feet propped on top, a steaming mug