He cut through them with one sentence.
"You married me for my damned address."
He sounded absolutely calm, though his voice might have been a bit harsher than usual. But she didn't like the way he said that. Still, she was surprised into a flinch when he let loose with a string of uncharacteristic curses.
"I knew you'd think it was impulsive, but–"
"Impulsive? Matty Brennan you don't satisfy yourself with rushing in where angels fear to tread, you pass up even the fools who are hanging back because they can see this is a damned bad idea!"
He took a step toward her, then seemed to think that might be a bad idea, and swung away to face out the dark window.
"You don't have to be insulting, Currick. If it hadn't been the only hope I could see of saving the Flying W, I never would have..."
"Your only hope?" He had that mocking note back in his voice, which made her glad she'd stopped herself before saying that she never would have thrown herself on his mercy this way.
Despite that note, though, she believed his next words. That's why they bothered her. "I would have given you the money, Matty–"
"I told you, I don't want your money."
"Hell, I would have given you enough acres so you'd qualify for the grant. Why go through–" Two strides brought him back to her, he pulled her left hand away from the top of the couch and held it up in front of her face along with his left hand, so the pair of gold rings winked at her. "–all this?"
"I didn't want your charity, Currick. All I needed was a Clark County address, but I couldn't afford to wait, and the only way to avoid that was marrying a Clark County resident. It should have been simple."
"Simple," he repeated, flat, yet as sharp as a knife.
She defended herself against the cut of it. "You're the one who made it all this fancy stuff. I thought it could be quiet, between the two of us. I thought–"
"No you didn't. You didn't think at all."
"I did, too! And you said you supposed it was a good thing you didn't know what I was planning, and I thought that was a good idea, because then you couldn't be accused of having any part of it. Deniability–that's what Taylor said it was called when I asked her about a hypothetical situation sort of simi–"
He was not listening, and he was not cool or emotionless any more. "You saw what you wanted and you took the most direct path to it, and it didn't matter who you ran over on your way. The way you always have."
There was no protecting herself from the cut of that. But with an effort of will, Matty gathered her dignity. "I'm sorry, Dave. I regret involving you in this. I presumed on our old friendship. If you'll drive me to the Flying W...or I'll take a truck and return it in the morning."
"The hell you will. This is our wedding night–" He gave the words a twist that tightened the knot in her stomach. "And I'll be damned if I'm going to let you rush back home to the Flying W and raise all sorts of questions." He cursed again in the same deadly tone. "I'm in it now. We're committed to this farce, because if we don't make it look good, everyone will know it's a fraud."
"Fraud?" People went to jail for fraud. But she'd checked those papers Taylor had given her and all they mentioned was a fine. She'd never have exposed Dave to something that could get him put in jail.
Or maybe it wasn't the word fraud that cut so deep. Maybe it was farce.
"Take the west room for tonight. I'll figure out the details in the morning."
"You'll figure out–"
He whirled around to face her. Automatically, she straightened, bringing them almost nose to nose.
"Yes, dammit, I'll figure it out. In–The–Morning."
"I'm not staying here. I'm–"
He grabbed her wrist and jerked her toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. "You're not going anywhere. You're dead on your feet. You're going to the west room. And you're going to bed. I'm going to bed, too–in my own bed."
He released her wrist at the open door to the guest room where she'd spent a good number of nights in her girlhood. Without looking back, he strode down the hall and closed the door to the master bedroom.
Only he didn't go to bed. As she lay in the wide bed in the guest room, she could hear him pacing, the faint sounds reaching her until she finally dozed off as the sky started to lighten from pitch to smoke.
* * * *
The worst moment for Dave, even worse than the fighting or the long hours of mentally beating himself up for being fool enough to hope, was waking up to full sun late the next morning and finding her gone.
For long enough for it to hurt he held his breath and thought maybe he'd dreamt the whole thing. But his dreams were never quite as weird or wonderful as real life with Matty Brennan.
Or as painful.
He knew immediately that she was gone. Probably the quiet, he told himself.
Still, he rolled out of bed and methodically checked first the guest room, then the hall bathroom, then the kitchen.
She'd slept in the bed, and he saw signs she'd used the other two rooms, though she'd tidied up after herself. So, he hadn't dreamt this, and she surely was gone. But he wasn't going to do any wider searching in his all-together. He headed for a shower in the master bathroom, where, twenty-four hours earlier, he'd prepared for his wedding to Matty.
Considering the kick in the teeth his ego had taken last night, he supposed he should be glad he still had some teeth to brush, he told his reflection in the mirror.
He'd known from the start that she'd come to him only because she was in a bind of some kind. And it hadn't taken a genius to guess it had to do with the Flying W. Still, he'd been fool enough to let himself think her coming to him had something to do with him as a person. He'd never figured on it being what address his mail came to.
Or maybe he hadn't wanted to see. He'd known the Flying W was in trouble. He'd even wondered about her quick action in changing her address.
We need that money.
And the Flying W was her birthright. For damn sure it was her only inheritance.
The way it is now, I couldn't even sell it for enough to cover the debts.
Sell it. Sell it and leave.
To go back to the life she'd created away from Wyoming, away from him. But in order to do that, first she had to get the place into order and retire some of the debts. To do that, she needed this grant. And to get the grant, she needed a Clark County address.
Enter one David Edward Currick.
Not as the companion of her childhood. Not as the boy who'd courted her. Not as the young man she'd first loved and had been ready to marry. Not as the man who'd been more than ready to step back into her life.
But as a convenience with the necessary address, who was a big enough fool to agree to marry her. And as the tool she would use to open the door so she could walk out of his life for good.
The hell of it was, he couldn't deny her even that.
He'd help her get the Flying W back to where it was, with this marriage or with anything else that needed doing. Because he'd always looked out for Matty, and he always would.
Maybe he could argue she'd used him. But he'd more than cooperated.
That should teach him for having a big head about himself. Or for hoping there might be something between him and Matty again.
And none of that, not even all of it taken together, changed that he was still certifiable about her.
Just a lot more cautious.
* * * *
"Rider coming in."
Cal made the laconic announcement from where he stood propped against the doorframe of the lean-to where they kept shoeing supplies and salves, ointments, vaccines and medicines that didn't need special handling.
"Who?" She stopped packing the items she'd need for the afternoon's planned checkup on the head in the south section, and raised her head.
"Too far to tell."
She went to the doorway beside him, shading her eyes. Distance, sun glaring down, it made no difference. She instantly re
cognized the way Dave Currick sat a horse.
Cal, apparently divining the identity of the rider from her expression, said, "You don't have to see him. I'll get rid of him."
Without answering, she retreated into the shed. She could go from here, through the barn, out the corral, behind the string of buildings at its other side. In two minutes she could be as lost as she needed to be. She remained in the deep shadow, looking out.
Cal had moved beyond the doorway by the time Dave rode in on Brandeis.
"Currick," Cal said with little welcome in his voice.
"Ruskoff. Where's Matty?"
"Matty? You expecting her to be here?"
"You could say that," Dave drawled, dismounting.
Most men of her acquaintance would have stayed astride, preserving the body-language advantage of greater height. And she wouldn't be at all surprised if that show of "sportsmanship" was what prompted Cal to drop any pose of not knowing something was seriously wrong. Not that he'd asked her anything when she rode in. He'd looked at her and shook his head.
"What the hell's going on with you two, Currick?"
"The fact that you have to ask me means either you didn't want to ask Matty or you asked her and she told you it was none of your damned business. Either way, it's none of your damned business."
Dave said the words without heat, but Matty half expected Cal to fire up. Instead, when he responded, he sounded solemn.
"It's my business as far as caring about Matty goes. And it's my business as far as putting my name on that piece of paper as witness to you two getting married yesterday. I had my doubts, but in that judge's chambers, when he said the new couple could kiss–"
She stepped to the doorway. "I wish you two would break this habit of talking about me behind my back."
Dave turned toward her, unhurried and unsurprised. "My first choice, Matty, would be to talk to you, not about you."
Cal gave her a long, searching stare before grunting something and walking away.
She gestured toward a bench outside the lean-to. She and Dave took seats in heavy silence, leaving two feet of empty bench between them. Without turning her head, she cut a look at Dave, hoping for a clue to how to begin saying all the contradictory things whipping through her brain.
Trying to sort through them had been her reason for leaving at first light. She sure hadn't made any progress tossing and turning in that bed last night.
I'll figure out the details in the morning.
That's what he'd said last night, and that's probably what he intended now. Dave had always been the one who figured things out for the both of them. It had never bothered her when they were growing up; that's just the way things were. But when she'd fled Wyoming and heartbreak six years ago there'd been no one but her to figure things out. She'd been too determined at first to show Dave a thing or two to be scared. And then she discovered she wasn't half bad at this figuring out. She'd been out on her own, running her own life for six years now. She didn't think she could go back to how she used to be. She didn't want to.
On the other hand, she couldn't argue with his right to make this particular decision. She'd had her chance to back out of it before. It was only fair, now that he had all the information, that he should have a chance to back out.
He was working a piece of straw between the pads of his thumb and first finger. A fidgety sort of action for the most unfidgety person she'd ever known.
Odd. She'd forgotten this about Dave. He seldom got angry–long fuse on that one, Grams used to say–but when he did reach his boiling point, he didn't come down from it fast. And when he was done being angry he didn't know what to do with himself and the head of steam he'd built up.
"I'm sorry, Matty. I'm sorry I lit into you like that last night."
She hadn't expected that. Hadn't considered he'd apologize. Her first words came out strained and awkward. "Okay. You had reason. And..."
"And what?" he prodded.
She slanted a look at him. Her stumbling words had carried her toward one facet of honesty, she might as well go all the way. "It's kind of, uh, interesting to see that famed Dave Currick cool slip."
His mouth twisted. "That's how you saw it, huh?"
"Yeah, that's how I saw it."
Her smile at his wry discomfort over his reaction last night faded as she remembered its cause. She drew a deep breath.
"I shouldn't have taken off this morning without letting you know. But I needed to think, and I do my best thinking working." She thought he tensed, but looking at him she saw no sign of added tension. "Dave, I truly didn't mean for this to cause you harm. If there's really fraud to be dealt with, I'll be sure it comes on me and not you. But I swear I looked over those papers, and it said nothing about that. I know I'm not a lawyer, but... Well, I'd understand if you back out–I hope you won't, but I'd understand. And if there's trouble–"
"Our deal on trouble still holds, Matty."
"Deal?" She didn't remember negotiating about trouble when they concocted this agreement. But he sounded so solemn, there must have been something...
"If one of us is going to get in trouble, we both get in trouble. I'd hold you to that bargain, so my honor requires I live up to it now."
A spurt of laughter escaped her, and she spotted the answering twinkle in his eyes. "That was when we were kids–six years old. That's fine for having to answer to Grams or your mom and dad for mischief. This is a lot more serious, even though I'm sure fraud's not involved."
He looked at her then, searching, serious.
"It's that bad, Matty?"
She met his gaze long enough for him to see the truth, but had to look away before admitting, "It's that bad."
He slowly surveyed the area around them. He would see where Cal had used old timber to repair a break in the corral. He'd see the rutted road that cried out for grading and gravel. He'd see the flaking paint on the barn. If he got up and walked a few feet, he'd see they'd used up all their back stock of hay this past winter.
He'd see it, and draw the right conclusions.
Oh, he'd no doubt heard rumors of hard times at the Flying W, but, being Dave, he wouldn't have relied on rumors to make a judgment. And he hadn't been on Flying W land to see for himself before now, except for Monday when he'd come to get her stuff and yesterday when he'd picked her up for the trip to Jefferson. But if he'd been half as nervous as she'd been, he'd been in no state to notice things like peeling paint.
"You could let the creditors take it over, Matty. You could walk away. You wouldn't have anything out of the ranch, but it would save you a lot of work."
It was like a kick to her gut. Dave thought she would walk away from the Flying W? She'd figured he was the one person who'd understand, and now to hear him suggest she sell like it was worth seriously considering felt like someone had yanked a good hunk of the earth out from under her feet.
"Have you ever known me to be afraid of hard work?"
"A lot can change in six years."
"Not that. Besides, I owe the Flying W more than that. I owe Grams and Gramps more than that." Her voice sounded as if she'd swallowed something that now blocked her throat–maybe the same something that had suddenly stuck a pole down her backbone. "I'm going to get it back to where it was if it's the last thing I do."
He stuck the twist of straw in his mouth and chewed on it before saying, "If you're planning to stick around to do that, that's all the more reason to stick to our tried and true deal."
The pole down her back collapsed abruptly. He might not understand her, but he was willing to stick by her. She twisted to stare at his profile, to be certain she hadn't misunderstood him. "You'd still go through with this?"
"If you think this grant will make the difference."
"It can make all the difference, Dave. That money will let us drill a well and keep it operating in the Dry Creek section, and that will mean I can increase the herd by six percent, maybe do more selective breeding–when I have the capital, of course. An
d, with better irrigation I can plant hay on the flat behind the Three Widows hills, which would cut my winter feed bills by up to twenty percent. Twenty percent!"
She'd started cautiously, but as she went on her enthusiasm took over. She even loosened up enough to tell him her opinion of the boneheaded eligibility restrictions the grant carried.
"I truly did try every other way Taylor and I combined could think of," she continued. "And don't think I'm taking it away from anyone else. They've got enough money to give away four more grants than they've got applications for. So, it would go to waste otherwise. And marrying you was the only way I could see to get that grant. If there'd been any other way, believe me, I never would have married you or–"
"You wouldn't have let the villain tie you to the railroad track."
"What? What are you laughing at?"
"Trying to see you in the role of Sweet Young Thing in this melodrama, willing to sacrifice herself in marriage to save the old homestead."
The echo of her own words came back to her: If there'd been any other way, believe me, I never would have married you–
If he'd said those words, she doubted she'd be laughing. But Dave had always had the ability to laugh at himself. Of course, it was easy to laugh if the words held no sting for him.
"I never meant to imply–" she started stiffly. But, with Dave laughing beside her, stiffness gave way to a chuckle. "I wouldn't exactly call it getting tied to the railroad track."
"Worse, much worse. You're going to be living with me. What do they say about a fate worse than death?"
"You know, I was thinking about that–that living together stuff."
"Oh?"
"I don't have to move to the Slash-C. I could stay here and go over to the Slash-C now and then. It would be a lot less disruptive for you."
"Don't you think people would wonder why my bride was always driving up to the front door of her supposed new home?"
"I wouldn't drive, I'd ride–the back way like I always used to. Just like this morning. Nobody'd ever see me, especially if I did it at night."
"That can be a dangerous ride at night."
She snorted. "I can do that ride in my sleep."
"Setting that issue aside for a moment, and even setting aside the blow to my ego when it got out that my bride preferred to ride back to her old bed each night instead of staying under my roof–"