The Cowboy's Reluctant Bride

She wasn’t afraid of him. If Smith thought Gideon was dangerous, he never would’ve sent him.

Just as he took another sip of coffee, she asked, “Who did you kill?”

He shook his head.

“I think I have a right to know, Mr. Black. You’re living here.”

Looking pained and irritated at the same time, he set his cup down. “A rancher’s son.”

“Did you kill him in self-defense?”

“No.” His jaw tightened as he held her gaze, his entire frame rigid with tension.

She wanted to press him for more, but the raw bleakness in his face reached right into her chest and squeezed. She couldn’t do it. “Thank you for telling me.”

He said nothing, just resumed eating.

For a moment, the only sounds were the scrape of forks on the plates, the occasional call of a bird. The man clearly didn’t want to discuss himself. That was fine. She had other questions.

“Smith won’t talk much about his time in prison.”

Resignation chased across Gideon’s face, and he again set aside his utensils. His voice was flat. “He doesn’t want you to know.”

Because it had been horrible. Ivy’s throat tightened. Her brother was home. That was what mattered. Their parents and his wife, Caroline, were helping him heal. Who was helping Gideon Black? Did a murderer deserve help? Smith thought so. “Do you have any family?”

“No, ma’am.”

“No one at all?”

“No.”

His tone was polite, yet she could sense his agitation. “How did you and Smith become friends?”

After a longing glance at his food, he said, “There was a, um, misunderstanding between him and some other inmates. I helped straighten it out.”

His words were so careful, so deliberate that she knew he wasn’t telling her everything.

“Was that when you saved his life?”

“Yes.” His muscles were drawn taut beneath his buff-colored work shirt, his shoulders straining at the fabric.

“Was that when his leg was broken?”

The jerky nod and coiled energy in his body warned her off, but she couldn’t help another question. “Is that how you got those scars?”

His face completely closed up. She’d never seen anything like it. His features turned to granite, blue eyes blazing, his mouth white with restraint. Angry color slashed across his sharp cheekbones.

He rose, his massive frame blocking out the sun. “Would you like me to take my meals somewhere else, Miss Ivy?”

“No.” She stood, too. Would he really go? Absolutely, she realized. There was no bluff on his face. “Please, finish your meal.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then started to sit. The sound of an approaching horse had them both turning toward the open screened door. A couple of chickens squawked and hustled out of the way of a brown mare, its hooves flinging red mud as it trotted toward the house.

She held back a groan. “I wonder what he wants.”

Gideon strapped on the gun belt he’d shed for their meal. Plucking his hat from the peg beside the door, he looked at her over his shoulder. “You know him?”

“Yes. It’s Conrad, the stagecoach driver. Neal Conrad, but he goes by his last name.”

“Didn’t you say he was just here yesterday?”

“Yes. I can’t imagine what he wants.”

She stepped onto the porch, and her guest followed. An enticing mix of man and leather floated to her. She could feel the powerful width of Gideon’s chest at her back. While she appreciated the gesture, Conrad was an annoyance, not a threat.

The stage driver, a man with sharp features and flowing blond hair, jumped off his horse and whipped the reins around the hitching post. “I came as soon as I could.”

Giving Gideon a narrow-eyed look, Conrad reached her in two strides, arms outstretched.

She stepped back, managing to avoid contact. He was always touching her, and she didn’t like it.

His blue-checked shirt and dark trousers were clean. His eyes were deep brown, his features as perfect as a drawing and he possessed about as much substance as a piece of paper. He was trim and well built, a handsome man. And he knew it.

“What brings you out two days in a row, Conrad?” Ivy asked evenly.

“I came to check on you. See how you fared in the storm.”

“Just fine.”

He turned his attention to Gideon, his eyes hardening when he saw how close the other man stood to her.

“Who are you?” he asked sharply.

Ivy barely stopped herself from snapping that it was none of his business. Before Gideon could answer, she did. “Conrad, this is Gideon Black, a family friend.”

“Are you staying here or just passing through?”

As if that were any of his concern. Ivy fought the urge to order the stage driver off her property, but that wouldn’t be smart, businesswise. “He’s my guest, Conrad. He brought a message from my brother.”

The man scrutinized Gideon before his gaze swung to Ivy. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Gideon and I are just having a visit.”

The subject of the conversation had yet to say a word, but Ivy didn’t miss the shrewd glint in his eyes as he sized up the other man. She also didn’t miss the way he kept one hand on the butt of the revolver in his holster.

“I drive the stage,” Conrad announced unnecessarily.

“So Miss Ivy said.” Gideon folded his arms over that broad chest. With a scowl on his compelling features, he looked as approachable as a rattlesnake.