Tall, Dark, and Determined (10 page)

Wolfhounds were hunters, but most people didn't know they had a knack for herding as well. Decoy would help shepherd the woman safely back to town, and his massive height gave Miss Lyman a place to rest her arm so it didn't pull against her injured shoulder. Best of all, she wouldn't realize the dog was following Chase's orders—she'd just assume the mutt liked her.

With her arm seen to as best as he could arrange—suspicious woman still wouldn't let him close enough to tell whether the marks were skin scratches or deeper tears—Chase started walking. Turning allowed him to let loose a self-satisfied smile.
Miss Lyman might not want to stay close, but she'll follow my lead
.

“Wait just a moment, Mr. Dunstan.” She elected to talk rather than walk, as no sounds of shoes on rocks or twigs accompanied her suddenly sweet voice. Her
overly
sweet voice.

The prickle between Chase's shoulder blades expanded, raising his hackles. All the way back to a time before Christ, the Greeks wrote legends to warn of women with too-sweet voices luring good men to their doom. An ounce of sense warned that sugary tones were a womanly wile to be avoided at all costs. Especially when wielded by so skillful a warrior as Lacey Lyman.

“Since you already have a position”—she continued speaking to his back, since Chase refused to answer her Siren's call and turn around—”there's no reason for you to visit Hope Falls.”

“I disagree.” His own words emerged as though fighting through a pit of gravel—rough and sharp.
Good. Let her see I'm more man than manners. No amount of chitchat will sway me
.

“Of course.” She still sounded pleasant as she rattled on. “I rather thought you might prove difficult. It's my growing experience that most men do, you see. Prove difficult, I mean.”

“Men
prove difficult?” Disbelief blackened his echo. “I disagree again.” Partly because women, with all their emotions and mandates, were always far more difficult to deal with than men. And partly, though he'd never admit it to the pink fluff ball, because he suspected she usually managed to manipulate his gender with great ease. Beautiful women had that advantage, and Miss Lyman was nothing if not beautiful.
All the better reason not to turn around. Just start on and keep going
.

“Disagreeable is merely a minor case of being difficult.” Steel now underlay the sugary tones. “Which is precisely why we don't welcome men who don't wish to take part in building Hope Falls. They have no reason to follow the rules, you see, and that makes men with their own agendas far too troublesome to be allowed entry. Surely you can understand the logic?”

Something important lurked in that barrage of words, but it took Chase a moment to separate the bullet from the babble. When he did, he turned back to look at the small woman with big orders. “Are you, Miss Lyman”—he bit back his mirth—”by any chance telling me I'm not allowed to go back to Hope Falls?”

“As owner of the town, it's my responsibility to keep things orderly.” A sanctimonious nod bobbed blond curls loose from a few of their pins. “So it would be best if you and your hound—who is agreeable enough
he
can stay, but I presume loyal to his master—to keep on toward that position you spoke of.”

A simple admission that his position was in Hope Falls would clear this up, but first Chase wanted to punish her highhandedness. And see if he could uncover some information about just how she claimed ownership of her brother's town.

“I'll take up my position sooner than you imagine.” Relief slumped her shoulders, almost making him feel guilty for continuing. “But I'll enjoy your town's hospitality tonight.” Sure enough, that produced an immediate reaction—just not the anger or irritation he'd expected. That he could brush off.

Watching as her entire small frame tensed even more tightly, her eyes widening then closing in an expression of desperation … that, Chase couldn't brush off.
She's scared
.

    EIGHT    

O
f what?
What could scare a woman who doesn't mind walking through the woods alone, isn't fazed by a wolfhound the size of a small bear, and bounced back from a cougar attack?

The prickles of unease started up again. It looked more and more like Granger was right about these women needing protection. At the time, Chase assumed he meant that the women needed protection from the situation they put themselves in. Now it looked like maybe there was more to it. Something worse.

What was it Kane called Miss Lyman? “A
girl who didn't belong in the backwoods … All done up in bows and fluff, putting on airs as though she owned the place
.” And for once the oily good-for-nothing got it right. Miss Lacey Lyman belonged in high society. And Chase himself dubbed her a pink piece of fluff.

Now that's a new one. Thinking like Kane
. He shook his head to dismiss the uncomfortable idea and focus on a more important one. She called herself the owner of Hope Falls, but Kane said it was her brother, and that made more sense. Braden Lyman—if it's really Braden at all—would have already owned a good portion of the land after the mine collapsed. So why was this girl, who may or may not be Braden's sister, claiming to own his town?

And why doesn't she want me going near it?

He'll ruin everything!
Lacey closed her eyes and tried to think.

Strangely enough, her thoughts marched in more orderly fashion when not distracted by the sight of the unkempt man wearing a cougar carcass strung over his shoulders. Then again, that wasn't strange at all. It would have been far stranger if she could think properly with such a spectacle loping in her line of vision, heading toward Hope Falls to destroy her dreams.

If it weren't for the cougar, it wouldn't be so bad
. Some part of her mind couldn't help but notice that, beneath the dust and displeasing lack of manners, Mr. Dunstan cut a fine figure. The icy depths behind his brown eyes alone gave her shivers.

No. Not shivers. Shudders
. Lacey resolved to look over a few editions of
Harper's Bazaar
to remind her what a fine male figure actually was. The very notion that such a wild and woolly mountain man held any points of attraction at all just went to show how far Lacey had come from civilization—and how much she'd compromised her standards of an acceptable suitor.

Although obviously Mr. Dunstan isn't a suitor
. A deep sigh let loose some remorse.
Not because I want him as a suitor—although I suppose I might be offended by his lack of interest, if I had the time or inclination for trivial pettiness—but because if he were a suitor, he'd be easier to manage
.

Because, truly, she could think of no way to manage the man. She couldn't very well threaten to shoot him if he walked into town—he'd most likely call her bluff. So she'd have to shoot him.
And of course I wouldn't, as no matter how disagreeable the man is, he doesn't deserve to be shot—or let him go into town with something even more ridiculous to add to his story of how I traipsed out alone and got mauled by a cat
.

She opened her eyes to find him still staring at her in that disconcerting manner and realized she'd been lost in her wandering thoughts far too long. Even worse, they hadn't brought her to any plan. Which meant, short of threatening him with her pistol, Lacey didn't have any recourse but to accept the fact Mr. Chase Dunstan fully intended to stroll into town, cougar slung across those broad shoulders, and show the world she'd gotten herself into more trouble than she could handle. Again.

Except it wasn't true. She'd killed the cat and come this far, after all. Therefore the cougar could be used as proof that she, Lacey Lyman, could look after herself. A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.
And Mr. Dunstan will attest to it
.

Why, if one looked properly, this could be a godsend!

“Very well, Mr. Dunstan. Wait just a moment.” She darted back toward the scene of the incident, stooping to retrieve her shawl. Lacey knew she'd need it to conceal her injuries—those would only distract from her triumphant portrayal as huntress.

Oh, well now
. A wave of wooziness, punctuated with streaks of pain shooting from her shoulder, halted her when she straightened up.
I'll just take it more slowly then. No rush
. After all, she'd endured a difficult day—after yesterday, she really had been due for a pleasant one, but no matter—without the benefit of breakfast. Come to think of it, she'd been too overset to choke down any supper the night before either.

“What are you doing?” Dunstan's thunderous voice rumbled directly behind her. He'd followed when she left then.

“Fetching my shawl.” Slowly, hoping he took her snail's pace for nonchalance, she folded it about her shoulders.

“You'd be plenty warm if you'd walked. By now you'd be snug in town in front of a fireplace with a doctor taking a look at that shoulder.” The flurry of words seemed to exhaust his speaking abilities as he subsided into a fierce glower.

“Yes, let's go back. I'm certain the men will enjoy hearing your tale about how I shot and killed a rampaging wildcat.”

He blinked at her smile, but for once Lacey doubted her beauty caused a man's bemusement. Her hair, straggling loose of its pins since her bonnet was knocked askew, tickled her neck. Smudges of dirt did little to enhance the once-cheery stripes of her shawl. By now Lacey knew her nose, too long exposed to sun and wind, matched the pink of her walking dress. Not her most attractive moment, to be certain. No, Mr. Dunstan's momentary confusion was caused by her sudden shift toward pleasantry.

All told, this day did little to bolster her womanly pride.
Luckily, I had womanly pride to spare
, Lacey soothed herself.
What I need is to maintain my position as acting owner of Hope Falls. And for that, I need the respect of men—not admiration
.

“I don't spin stories.” His dismissal stung almost as much as her shoulder. Dunstan turned away again. “Now stay close.”

He shifted the great cat as he spoke, making an awkward gesture with his arm as though to shoo his dog away. The dog obeyed.

Having been shooed away from his master, Decoy butted against her skirts once again, shoving his massive head beneath her arm. A gentle giant, the dog's motions didn't jostle her arm much to set it atop his skull—a convenient resting place.

If, of course, Lacey wanted to rest her arm atop the dog's head and follow his master at a docile pace. Which she did not.

“I'll thank you to put down my cougar first.” She quelled a spurt of triumph as the man froze midstep with an odd sound.

“Your cougar?” Strangled, that's how the words sounded. As though squeezing through the tight vocal chords of an angry man.

“Yes.” She brushed around him to stand directly in his path. “My cougar. It attacked me, then I shot and killed it.” Lacey made a show of tucking her gun into the hidden pocket in her skirts then holding out her arms. “Give it to me.”