Never Marry a Cowboy (3 page)

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

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

“Late this afternoon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because she's dying.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How many of them hated you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I always knew your wife was remarkably intelligent.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shook her head vehemently. “No. He said he needed to talk with you about business. I'd never seen this part of the state, so he let me come along.” She pressed trembling fingers to her lips and tears welled within her eyes. “Did he tell you
everything
?”

A rusty blade gouged into his gut could not have caused more anguish than he experienced at this moment, having to acknowledge the truth with such inadequacy. “Yes, and I am so incredibly sorry.” He held out a hand imploringly. “Words fail me.”

“How could he ask that of you?”

“His heart was in the right place.”

“His head obviously wasn't. I am sorry, Mr. Montgomery. So sorry. Dear God, I wish I
were
already dead. Please excuse me.”

She rushed past him, opened the door to the boardinghouse, and fled inside.

Her wish for death echoed through his head like a scream released within a cave from which there was no escape.

 

Breathing heavily, Ashton flung open the door to her brother's room. He shot up in bed, his eyes red, as though he'd had a grueling, sleepless night.

Too bad. She'd had an awful, embarrassing, mortifying morning. She slammed the door shut, and he jerked.

“What's wrong?” he asked groggily.

She crossed the room and wrapped her hands around the bedpost. She knew she had the advantage because he wouldn't get out of bed and expose her to his half-clothed—if he were clothed at all—body. Her entire life, everyone had sought to protect her. In death, they were doing the same. “You came here to ask Mr. Montgomery to marry me?”

He closed his eyes and dropped his head back. “Ah, God.” He squinted at her. “You saw Kit?”

She nodded, unable to stop the images of Christian Montgomery from seeping into her mind. The sun easing over the horizon had toyed with his hair, turning it a burnished amber. And his eyes. Those pale blue eyes looked almost silver and seemed to pierce her soul.

When he spoke, his deep voice sent shivers of pleasure rippling through her. Only once had she ever experienced anything like it—the night he'd come to her brother's house and regaled the guests with tales of his adventures. She'd hung onto every word like a smitten schoolgirl.

This morning, his touch had been the gentlest she'd ever known, and yet his hand had also possessed strength. So much strength.

She released her death grip on the post and took a step toward him. “David, how could you ask a friend to marry your dying sister?”

She saw in his eyes that he wanted to deny that she was dying, but his words were honest. “Because he
is
a friend.”

“That was an awful thing to ask.”

“I know that now, but when I saw you in Mother's dress—” She watched him swallow. “There's so much I want to give you, and so little time to give it to you.”

Suddenly drained from the turbulent emotions swirling within her, she sat on the edge of the mattress. “But a husband?”

He held up his hands. “No, just a bridegroom.”

She furrowed her brow. “I don't understand.”

“I only wanted him to make you a bride. You would go through the marriage ceremony, have a day like you dreamed of having, and then come back to Dallas with me.”

“A pretend marriage? That's even worse.” She would have shot off the bed if she'd had the strength.

“A pretend marriage, but a real ceremony. Kit is British. He understands that people get married for
reasons other than love and that often husbands and wives don't live together. That's why I thought this idea would work.”

She shook her head. “Ludicrous.”

David smiled warmly. “He said the same thing.”

“But why him? You know men in Dallas—” A horrible thought struck her mind. “You found my private journal.”

He averted his gaze.

She slumped forward, tears burning her eyes. “You read my most intimate thoughts,” she rasped in a hollow voice echoing betrayal.

“Not everything. I only know that you favored him.”

“Did you tell him that?” How would she ever face the man again if David had told him what she'd written in her journal?

“No, of course not.” David leaned forward and took her hand. “I only wanted to give you a dream.”

“Instead, you've given me a nightmare.”

 

Kit heard soft footfalls and lowered the newspaper he'd been staring at while Ashton's parting words continued to intrude on his thoughts. David walked down the stairs, Ashton clinging to his arm, her face a reflection of calm. Slowly Kit came to his feet.

“So you two have talked,” David said, his smile mocking.

Kit felt the heat suffuse his face, his gaze darting between brother and sister. How different they looked. He had grown up with a sibling who was his mirror
image. “I apologize for speaking out of place. I thought she knew.”

David pulled out a chair for Ashton. “I decided against telling her until I'd tested your feelings on the matter. I didn't want her to be disappointed.”

“David!” Ashton snapped.

Kit raised a brow. She might be ill, but she wasn't weak. Elegantly she sat, picked up a cloth napkin, and settled it across her lap. Images drifted through his mind of another time when she had sat across from him—at David's table. He had been too caught up in his own hell truly to notice her, to notice any of the women that night.

Kit took his seat as Mrs. Gurney bustled into the room, carrying platters laden with biscuits, eggs, and bacon.

“Good, everyone's here for breakfast. Nothin' worse than cold eggs lessen it's no eggs at all.” She set the platters on the table. “You folks hear that our marshal was a hero last night?”

Grimacing, Kit reached for the plate of biscuits and extended it toward Ashton. “I simply prevented a few men from murdering a floor.”

Laughing boisterously, Mrs. Gurney patted his back with her beefy hand. “You are too modest, Marshal. You stopped a man from havin' to dance to their tune, is what I heard.”

“You shouldn't believe everything you hear, Mrs. Gurney, unless it's the rumble of my empty stomach.”

“Well, then you eat up. All of you, eat up!” She hurried from the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kit watched Ashton place a small portion of eggs and one piece of bacon on her plate. He remembered how little Clarisse had eaten at the end. His throat constricted, and he wondered if he'd be able to swallow.

“I was surprised to hear you'd taken on the job of marshal,” David said as he scooped up a large serving of eggs.

Kit shrugged. “It was something to do.”

“Risking your life for others is a bit more than that, Mr. Montgomery,” Ashton said softly.

He stilled, wondering how he could explain that everything he did was an attempt at retribution for the one life he had been unable to save. He couldn't. “You make too much of it, Miss Robertson. My main duty involves carting drunks to the jail so they can sleep off indulging in too much whiskey.”

She met his gaze. “I believe Mrs. Gurney is right. You're too modest.”

“I assure you that modesty has never been one of my character flaws.”

“David told me you have no flaws.”

He darted a quick glance at David, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I spoke more of your virtues than your flaws,” David explained.

“That must have been a short conversation,” Kit said.

Ashton laughed so sweetly that Kit wanted to capture the sound and hold it deep within himself.