Confused, Lacey spun in a tight circle, looking around in bewilderment at the white, frozen ground. Fat snowflakes drifted down from the sky, melting against her face and catching in her eyelashes. "What the…”
Something brushed against her ankle. She looked down to find her brown suede purse lying at her feet—the same purse that had been deposited into the personal effects locker at the San Diego County jail. She stooped and picked it up. Fear was wreaking havoc with her heart rate. How had she gone from a small, sparse room in sunny California to a snow-covered forest in the blink of an eye?
And then she knew. That woman!
Lacey turned to her left, then her right, searching for the pint-sized prosecutor. Nothing moved in the woods surrounding her. She cocked her head, listened, and heard nothing but winter-muffled silence. She held out her hands and caught a dozen snowflakes. It was all too real.
"Enjoying yourself, Miss Guarder?"
Lacey settled a narrow-eyed stare on the petite woman suddenly standing in front of her. "What did you—” Her eyes widened. She peered closer. The woman’s small feet weren't making any impressions in the snow—because she was floating several inches above the ground. “How are— You aren't— Who are you?!” Lacey finally got out.
"I told you. I am your spiritual guide. And this"—the woman made a broad sweep with her arms—"is 1878 Washington Territory. Welcome home, Miss Guarder."
"Home?" Lacey squeaked.
"You are standing just outside the city limits of Tranquility. It's very cold here. May I suggest you start looking for shelter?”
And without so much as a good-bye, the woman vanished.
Lacey's knees went weak. She dropped to the snowy ground and sat there for several long minutes in stunned silence. She'd always believed there was nothing beyond life and the world she knew—seize the day and all that—and she wasn't sure she liked the ramifications of what was being suggested to her now.
The biting cold began to seep through her pants. The little woman was right: she needed to find shelter.
Lacey stood and brushed herself off. She could feel a chill trying to dig its way between her shoulder blades. Not sure which way to go, she headed off downhill, hoping to find a river that would lead her to civilization.
As she walked, snow spilled over the tops of her leather pumps and soon her feet were soaked and numb. The wind picked up. It penetrated the thin knit of her sweater and left her breathless with cold. Her body began to convulse with shivers. Needles shot through her hands. She looked down and found her fingers pink from the cold. She breathed on them, tried to bring back some warmth, but it didn’t help. If she didn’t find shelter soon, she was going to freeze to death.
She spotted a tall, thick tree and darted beneath it, hoping its branches would shelter her from the falling snow. It did, but nothing could shield her from the unrelenting wind.
She groaned and lifted her face to the gloomy sky. "Is—is this m-my new s-sentence then?” she shouted. “To f-freeze to death out h-here?" Her only answer was the rustling of the snow-laden pines above her.
She huddled up against the tree trunk in a desperate attempt to stay warm, and that’s when she heard the loud cry of an eagle. She looked up and watched the giant bird soar across the sky, dipping and twirling, and then glide off toward the distant horizon…toward a thin line of dark smoke rising up above the tree tops. Lacey’s heart leapt. Where there was smoke, there was fire—a hot, crackling fire.
Her mind set on survival, Lacey left her meager sanctuary and began to make her way toward what she hoped would be shelter. She wasn't exactly dressed for a hike, let alone a march through a blizzard, but the woman who’d abandoned her there had left her little choice.
When she finally came upon the farm house, she felt like she’d been hiking for hours. Her attention fixed on the porch, she forced her frozen legs to move one step at a time until she was standing in front of the carved-wood front door. She pried open the screen door and knocked without thinking. Pain shot through her cold, stiff knuckles. Unwilling to die so close to sanctuary, she curled her hand into a fist and gave the door several hard thuds.
A heavy-set older woman finally opened the door and blinked at her. Lacey tried to speak, but her teeth were chattering so badly she couldn't get a word past her frozen lips.
"Who is it, Hazel?" a male voice called from within.
“I-I’m not sure," the woman called back. She pulled the door open wider. “Oh, you poor dear.”
The heat coming from the house beckoned to Lacey. She was gathering the strength to step inside when a creaking groan sounded from the roof. She looked up just in time to see the snow pack on the eaves break loose and come crashing down over her head.
Chapter 2
After three hours of chasing through the numbing cold, Matthew Brady was calling off the search. The idea didn't sit well with him, but a winter storm was headed their way, and he wouldn’t risk the lives of his men—or himself—trying to track down quarry that had clearly gotten away. He'd failed, and it stuck tight in his craw; he hadn't become marshal only to fail four short months into the job.
He nudged his horse forward and tried one more time to spot the female bandit’s tracks through the fresh-falling snow. He should have guessed, when the trail he and his men had been following split into two, that Ned and Henry had given the money to their sister and sent her off in a different direction. It was a perfect plan, considering the average lawman would never believe they'd hand over that much cash into a woman's safekeeping. But Matthew Brady wasn't supposed to be an average man. He'd ridden with, gambled with, fought with some of the schemingest men to ever walk the earth, and he’d been hired to stay one step ahead of the criminals in Tranquility, not four crawls behind.
Fat fluffy snowflakes drifted down from the steely gray sky, covering everything in a sparkling blanket of crystal white. Matthew could just make out Larry Dover’s silhouette as the deputy maneuvered his horse through a distant copse of trees. The man was searching for clues. To the posse's credit, they'd eventually caught up with Ned and Henry, but the Rawlins brothers had only laughed and informed Matthew and his deputies that they no longer had the stolen money. Lucky for Ned and Henry Rawlins, two of Matthew’s men had volunteered to take the outlaws into town and lock them up in jail. If Matthew had escorted the outlaws, he would have been hard-pressed not to string up both brothers before even reaching the Tranquility city limits.
Matthew’s horse grunted beneath him, tossing his head at the cold blowing snow, and he gave the animal a reassuring pat on the neck. It was time to head back. Lorraine Rawlins wouldn’t get far in this weather, but that was little comfort. If the weather didn’t let up soon, all he’d have to show for his efforts was a pair of useless brothers taking up space in an eight by ten cell. The town council wasn’t going to like that one bit. If he wanted to keep his job, he had to find that money. Fast.
Something caught his eye, and, with a soft "Whoa" and a gentle tug on the reins, he brought his horse to a stop beside a fresh set of well-defined footprints in the snow. He leaned over his pommel for a better look. The tracks were deep, close together; whoever’d made them was moving slow and unsteady.
It had to be Lorraine Rawlins.
Hope warmed Matthew’s soul. Then he realized the direction the tracks were headed and an icy fist closed around his heart. The woman was making a beeline toward Sutter's Ridge—straight to the front door of George and Hazel Martin.
Matthew looked behind him, hoping to gauge where the tracks had come from, and frowned in confusion. He craned his neck, squinted hard, and tried to do the math. But no matter which way he looked, there seemed to be no matching tracks leading up to the ones he'd found—as if whoever’d made them had fallen clean outta the sky.
"Did you find sumpin’, boss?"
Matthew straightened as Larry rode up. "Take a look at these." He indicated the tracks below him.
Larry placed his hand on the crown of his hat
and bent forward to stare down at the footprints. Then he grinned up at Matthew. “Looks like we're back in business."
“Why is she on foot?" Matthew asked.
Larry shrugged. “Maybe her horse went lame."
"And now she's headed for the nearest shelter."
Larry stared off in the direction the tracks led and his eyes rounded. "Holy mother,” he muttered. “That girl is rumored to be twice as mean as her older brothers, Marshal. God only knows what she might do to two unsuspectin’ folks like George and Hazel Martin."
Matthew adjusted his Stetson to keep the blowing snow out of his eyes and squinted into the wind. His horse snorted and sidestepped, sensing that neither he nor his rider were quite finished for the day. “Let’s pray they didn't let her in."
"She-oot,” Larry countered. “The Martins’d take in the devil hisself if’n he looked pitiful enough."
"Then we better hope this is the devil, Larry. ‘Cause George and Hazel would be a whole lot better off with him.” He turned his horse toward Sutter’s Ridge. “Ride back toward Tranquility and round up Gene and Bill. Meet me at the Martin ranch."
"Are you sure you wanna be headin’ out there by yerself?" Larry called after him. "If it is Lorraine Rawlins, you’re gonna need more than just that six-shooter.”
The tracks were slowly filling in with fresh snow. Tranquility was in for one of the worst storms they’d seen in years. If the tracks did belong to Lorraine Rawlins, then Matthew wasn't about to wait around and risk the chance of losing her again. "Just round ‘em up, Larry," he called back. “I can take care of myself.”
Matthew rode off toward the Martins' homestead, following the tracks until they finally disappeared beneath the accumulating snow. But he didn’t need to see them to know where their owner was going.
The wind began to pick up. He felt it clear to his bones. His horse stumbled a few times and he was relieved when he finally spotted the faint yellow glow of light coming from the Martins' windows. The weather was quickly changing from a heavy snowfall to an all-out blizzard; he could barely see four feet in front of him as he walked his horse to the barn.
Once he had the animal settled into a clean, warm stall. He knocked the snow from his hat and tugged off his gloves, stuffing them into the back pocket of his jeans. He rubbed his hands together to work the circulation back into his fingers, and then slipped his gun out of the leather holster at his hip to check the cylinder. Satisfied it was fully loaded, he tucked the colt into the front pocket of his fleece-lined coat and moved to the door of the barn. Matthew had never shot a woman before. He hoped Lorraine Rawlins wasn’t about to volunteer to be his first.
He peered out across the yard, at the outline of the house. He could just make out the steady plume of dark smoke rising up from the chimney. The place looked quiet enough; the only sound was the howling wind. He considered waiting for his deputies, but the Martins could be trussed up and stuffed in the root cellar for all he knew. It might be hours before his men could make it out to the ranch in this wintery mess.
Making his decision, Matthew steeled himself against the biting wind and dashed from the barn. He immediately found himself assaulted by cold, slashing snow that stole his breath and blurred his vision. He pulled his coat tight at the collar, trying to keep his body heat in, and pushed his way across the yard through the bracing blizzard. By the time he reached the porch his exposed face had gone numb.
He forced his sluggish legs to climb to the porch. He had to circumvent a large pile of snow that had fallen from the roof to get to the front door. He took his gun from his pocket, pulled open the screen door, and gave the solid door a few good whacks with the butt. Then he waited. And waited some more.
Matthew was about to barge into the house, gun blazing, when Hazel Martin finally opened the door. A stark look of surprise crossed her face when she saw him standing there on her porch with his gun drawn. "Matthew?"
“E-evening, H-Hazel,” he stammered in the cold. He would have tugged the brim of his hat at her if he hadn’t thought his cold fingers might snap off with the effort.
Not one to mince words—or actions—Hazel Martin took him by the front of his jacket, and yanked him inside her house. She closed the door tight behind him. The heat pressed up against Matthew’s face and shot pinpricks through his cold hands.
"We've got company, George!" Hazel called out. She began stripping off Matthew's heavy coat. Matthew was grateful for the help, but he was more interested in knowing that she and George were all right.
"Who is it this—“ George Martin stopped short in the archway leading in from the drawing room. "Matthew? What in God's name are you doing out in this storm?"
"L-looking f-for Lorraine Rawlins," Matthew’s body was reacting violently to his exposure to the cold; he couldn’t seem to stop shaking.
"In this weather?" Hazel demanded. “The girl’s bound to freeze to death before you catch her—if you don't freeze to death first, mister fresh-off-the-boat-from-California."
Hazel tried to lead Matthew toward the drawing room, where he could hear the popping and snapping of a roaring fire, but he planted his feet and resisted her tug on his arm. The Martins were either alone in the house, or blissfully unaware of what was happening around them, and the last thing he needed was to walk into a situation unprepared.
Hazel scowled at him. “What’s the matter with you? You got frostbite in your toes?"
George, on the other hand, sensed something was up. “What's going' on, son?"
The muscles in Matthew's body were pulled as tight as a banjo string, but adrenaline was slowly beginning to warm him up. "Is she here?" he demanded in a harsh whisper.
Hazel blinked in confusion. "Is who here?" she whispered. "And why are we whisperin'?"
George's eyes narrowed. "There is a young lady here. I take it you think you've got some business with her?" George was a member of the city council. He’d attended the emergency meeting held that morning after the bank robbery. He knew exactly what Matthew was getting at.
Matthew nodded at the older man. He took his pistol into his left hand and flexed the stiffness out of his gun fingers. "Is she armed?" he asked quietly.
"Armed?!" Hazel echoed.
George arched his brows. “Son, she was barely dressed."
Matthew frowned at that response. "Is she in there?" He gestured toward the drawing room beyond George.
George nodded slowly. "Uh-huh."
"What is goin' on here?" Hazel demanded.
"Matthew thinks our guest is Lorraine Rawlins. She and her brothers robbed the city bank this mornin'."
Hazel's eyes rounded. “Lorraine Rawlins?” She laughed. “Why, that’s ridiculous.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Matthew replied. He took a step toward the drawing room.
Hazel moved in front of him and set her hands on her ample hips. “Now hold on a minute. Why would a desperate outlaw on the run be wanderin' around in a snowstorm without a horse or even a coat, for cryin' out loud?"
Matthew scowled. “She wasn't wearing a coat?"
"She showed up on our doorstep claimin' she was lost and demandin' to know what year it was,” George explained. “She, uh, she was knocked a bit silly when the snow from the eaves dropped on her head."
“What year?” Matthew repeated.
“I told her it was November 10th, 1878, and she went white as a sheet in daylight. I tried gettin’ more out of her, but after that she bottled up so tight a fistful of axle grease couldn't loosen her lips."
"The girl's just shy," Hazel defended. "And embarrassed to be feelin' so confused. Who wouldn't be disoriented after wanderin' around in that storm?” She gave Matthew a pointed look. "And I don't believe for one minute that sweet girl is associated with that low-down Rawlins family.”
"Was she carrying anything with her?" Matthew asked. Dare he hope she had the money with her? “Saddlebags, maybe?”
George shook his head. "Just a small handbag."
M
atthew grimaced. Lorraine must have stashed the money somewhere in the storm. He needed to find out where. "You two stay here."
Hazel took hold of his arm. “Now you hold on just one stinkin’ minute, Matthew Brady. I am not convinced that young woman in there is who you claim she is. And until I am, she is a guest in my house. You and your Colt pistol best remember that.”
Matthew looked at George. The man shrugged, acquiescing to his wife.
Not wanting to insult Hazel, Matthew nodded reluctantly, but there was no doubt in his mind that he was about to come face to face with the notorious Lorraine Rawlins.
He strode into the drawing room and found it alight with hurricane lanterns. At first glance the room appeared empty, but then he caught movement in the dark leather chair by the large stone fireplace.
He edged his way past the sofa and around the coffee table, then crossed the tightly woven, circular rug. The fire in the grate raged; he felt the heat on his face as he moved around the side of the chair and stuck his gun in his prisoner’s face.
A startled gasp broke free from a pair of full, tawny lips and Matthew froze. This was not what he’d expected at all. Wide, golden eyes stared back at him in surprise from a face as smooth and flawless as a sculpted piece of porcelain. He nearly dropped his gun. Lorraine Rawlins was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
Lacey had been ushered into a rustic-looking home, shoved into a bedroom, unceremoniously stripped naked by a woman she didn't know—who'd clucked and chided her for being too pale and too thin—and wrapped in a warm blanket from head to toe. She'd been given a large mug of hot coffee—a tad on the bitter side—and was then plopped down in front of a warm fire.
And now what was this? Some sort of Old West greeting custom that involved a man with a gun shooting the new arrival?
She stared hard at the man in front of her. Her first instinct was to try to intimidate him into lowering his weapon. But then a tiny warm shiver slid over her body and she blinked in confusion. Somehow, some way…she felt like she knew this guy.
DESTINY'S EMBRACE Page 3