“It’s a deed, Maggie. A whole section of land—640 acres and the cabin. They’re yours.” He laid the paper on the desk behind him and gathered her into his arms. “Once we get things put back together around here, we’ll build a home of our very own. Wear ragged clothes, bathe in the bayou, and make love on a straw mattress.”
Warmth rushed into every spare nook in her spirit, lifting her lips into a trembling smile.
Ben kissed away the drop of mist that escaped the corner of her eye. “Let’s get this wedding over with, Mrs. Maggie Collier, and see if we can find a nice, secluded, peaceful spot to disappear to for a while.”
PART THREE
THE TROUBLE WITH HONEY
Chapter One
March 1866, the Texas Crescent
Lawmen lied.
Daniel Farrow could count on one finger the number of badge-toters he’d caught telling the truth. Just his luck to run across the lone honest man now. Unbreakable jail. Yep, the marshal spoke the gospel.
He scraped a palm down rough-cut limestone as he dropped to his haunches. Then, he traced a line of mortar with raw fingertips. Not the slightest chink.
The marshal chuckled. “Keep looking, Farrow.”
Downright irritating, that lazy drawl. Daniel forced a scowl to retreat before sliding his gaze to the right until it bumped polished oak. The gleaming desk dominated the marshal’s office, too big for the space. But then, so was Halverson’s opinion of himself.
Lounging behind the high-class lumber, the lawdog sighted down the barrel of a Navy Colt before giving the pistol one final swipe with a cleaning rag. “You’ve got seven days to find a crack.”
Daniel pushed to his feet. “Thanks, Halverson. Appreciate you keeping track of the time.”
The marshal’s snort arched in Daniel’s brain like a comma near the end of a sentence. In a week, a noose would supply the period.
He swung a squint to the window. Four vertical bars spanned the two-foot-tall hole in the wall, their ends cemented between layers of rock. No amount of yanking would budge the damn things, but watching the rats in the alley beat staring at Halverson’s smirk.
As he wrapped both fists around cold iron, a chorus of barks and yips erupted outside. The same gentle words he’d heard every evening parted the stink of vomit and piss and swept into the cell.
“Now, now. Let’s not tussle. There’s plenty for everyone.”
He craned his neck and peered into the dimness. Maybe today he’d catch sight of the lady from the café next door.
“My goodness, you’re hungry.” She spoke to the pack of dogs as though they were children. Lucky critters. “Don’t eat so fast. You’ll make yourselves sick.”
The honey in her voice flowed onto his tongue. He licked his lips. If she’d take a mind to move that sweet melody a smidgen closer, he reckoned he could hold up one end of a parley.
He pitched his voice low so the marshal wouldn’t hear. “Evening, ma’am.”
She gasped.
Not the response he’d hoped for, but the wisp carried potential. “I’d be much obliged for a little conversation.”
“I’d be much obliged if you didn’t talk.” The reprimand riding each syllable swept into the cell like a spring breeze.
Damn. Even a verbal smack across the chops gave him reason to smile. “All right. You talk. I’ll listen.”
He held his breath, waiting for a rebuke, but she didn’t say another word. Crockery rattled, hinges creaked, and a bolt slid into place. The dogs whined for a moment, and then they, too, disappeared.
The racket of hammers driving nails in the town square filled the gap, marking the minutes as time dwindled. Strike, echo. Strike, echo. Strike, echo.
Boots meandered across the stone floor. The marshal’s snicker slapped Daniel between the shoulder blades. “Injun Creek hasn’t seen this much excitement in a month of Sundays. We’re planning quite a celebration for you.”
One of life’s great mysteries: Had Halverson been born an arrogant sonofabitch, or had the skill required practice? “Always did fancy a crowd of folks looking up to me.”
Whistling, the marshal moved away. Daniel stared at the dingy clapboard across the alley. That wall wouldn’t present much challenge. This wall, on the other hand… A barrel of black powder and a lucifer would come in handy right about now.
He rested his forehead against the bars. Daisy would dig up his body and throw a second hemp party if he didn’t show up for the wedding.
The jailhouse door scraped open, and a swirl of fresh air tapped him on the shoulder. Fingering the tender crease running from his eyebrow to his hairline, he pivoted. If Halverson’s lucky shot hadn’t dropped him—
His fingertips stilled. So did his breath.
The marshal ushered in a voluptuous vision and lifted a tin plate from her hands. An abundance of golden hair, gathered in soft swirls at the crown, framed her head like a halo. Curls fell beside rounded cheeks.
“What’re you doing here?” Judging by the pucker in his tone, Halverson had eaten one too many sour apples. “Where’s that old drunk you insist on keeping around?”
“Henry hasn’t touched a drop in—”
“What? Twenty-four hours?”