Tall, Dark, and Determined (21 page)

At least this dress stands a better chance than yesterday's pink
, she consoled herself as Decoy sniffed about her bonnet in a show of canine concern. Green blended better with forest mishaps.
All to the good, as I seem doomed to plummet toward the ground whenever I'm in Mr. Dunstan's company
. Once might be an error, but twice bore the unmistakable markings of a pattern—a pattern Lacey was loath to sacrifice any more fabric toward.

“Miss?” His hesitant query made her aware she'd not spoken since her ignominious return to the ground. Also, he'd stopped chuckling and moved from her feet to the vicinity of her head.

Now that she gave the matter some attention, Lacey rather thought he'd stopped laughing the moment she'd winged backward. Dunstan even sounded … concerned.
As well he should be, dumping a lady on the ground after scandalously groping her ankle
.

Lacey gave an indignant sniff, but it didn't sound at all impressive from her current position. So she tried again, making her second attempt louder.
There. That's more impressive
.

“Don't cry.” Dunstan certainly sounded impressed, if for the wrong reason. A bit aghast, too, as though crying females rarely crossed his path and he didn't know what to do with one.

Lacey gave another great sniff to cover up the urge to smile and again held out her hand in silent request to be helped up. This time he responded by helping her sit up.

Then she felt a rough square of fabric thrust into her hand. She rubbed the bandanna between her fingertips, testing its texture. Roughly woven for sturdy construction, made for long wear. Time and use softened the surprisingly clean blue square.

A mountain man's handkerchief
. The gesture touched her more than she expected. Lacey slid it between her fingertips for a moment, considering why he'd decided to be kind. Wondering what changed since he'd laughed at her moments before.
He stopped laughing when I fell backward
, she thought again.

“Why were you laughing?” Lacey kept her gaze fixed on the soft blue square, bunching and unbunching it in her hands. She didn't know why, but that bandanna seemed the equivalent of a peace flag if she could just understand this one other thing.

“What?” Astonishment wrapped the word. “You're about to go weepy, not because you're hurt but because I laughed at you?”

His answer, or rather lack of it, made it clear she'd never understand him.
Foolish to think I might. Maybe he doesn't want me to?
Lacey folded the square and proffered it back to Dunstan. “Thank you. I almost never cry, so you keep it.”

“It's clean.” His lips compressed into a tight line.

“I know.” Surprise made her add, “It was a very civilized thing to do, offer a lady in distress your handkerchief.”

He looked at her a long moment before tucking the cloth into one of his pockets. “It's a bandanna. And I already told you, Miss Lyman. I'm many things, but I'm not civilized.”

“Of course you aren't.” It seemed Miss Lyman, in another of her quicksilver changes, decided to be agreeable. “The question then becomes, Mr. Dunstan, what are you? More specifically, why are you in Hope Falls? And why, if you cannot behave in civilized fashion yourself, have we hired you on to oversee the behavior of a town full of unruly lumbermen?”

For his part, Chase far preferred her when he caught her off guard and she was all flailing and ridiculous protestations. He hadn't admitted to it, but it was her melodramatic demand that he unhand her to give him one of the best laughs he'd enjoyed in several years. There'd been no artifice or scheming behind the overblown order—just female foolishness at its most endearing. Right until she fell over.

Then she'd hurt her shoulder. He felt guilt over mishandling his attempt to ensure she hadn't broken one of those tantalizingly trim ankles. Overtaxed, she looked ready to cry, and he handled that even worse and provoked her back to poking after his reasons and qualifications for coming to Hope Falls.

Having said her piece, she sat in the middle of dirt and dappled sunshine, blinking up at him as though she hadn't just tossed a series of shrewd questions designed to undo him. When angry, she'd been dangerous. When logical, she became deadly.

Her first question was easiest and most convenient to answer and gave him time to consider the other two. “I'm a hunter, guide, and best left on my own without interference.”

A cursory examination told him he'd be a fool to tackle the second, so he moved on to the third. “Bullets know no manners. Brawls aren't stopped by polite requests. Lumbermen find their work an escape from the limitations of civilization. That goes without saying for most folks, but you're new to the sawmill business, so I'm laying it out as plain as possible.” While he spoke he held out his hand and helped her back to her feet.

From the way she'd wriggled and kicked earlier, he figured she hadn't sprained or broken one of her delicate ankles. Despite a burgeoning tendency to lose her balance, Miss Lyman proved far sturdier than she looked.
More intelligent, too
.

Watching her, a man could be fooled into thinking her pretty little head held nothing but concern for her rumpled dress. Chase waited while she shook her skirts, smoothed them, then set about picking off bits of grass and pine needles. His amusement gave way to impatience when she began methodically removing her hatpins and tucking them into an unseen pocket before she took off her bonnet and looked about for a place on which to set it.

Finding none, she tied its ribbons and looped it about her arm before she set about tidying those lustrous golden curls. Patting her coiffure, she apparently considered the job satisfactory because she returned her attention to the bonnet. This time she cradled it in the crook of one arm and began fussing with the bows along its brim as though this were the most important thing in the world. The woman was
humming
.

    SEVENTEEN    

S
o practical to accomplish two things at once
, Lacey marveled. First: her ensemble sorely needed tending before she ventured back to town, else others would notice her uncharacteristically shabby state and ask uncomfortable, nosy questions.

Second: as she'd once confided to Cora, tending to the tiny details of her appearance was one of the few ways she could avoid speaking too soon and allow time to gather her thoughts. Why this worked, Lacey didn't know. It wasn't, as Braden suggested, a by-product of vanity. So long as something kept her hands busy, be it making bread or learning to shoot or any old thing at all, she found it much easier to concentrate.

Thus, when Lacey stood up after hearing Mr. Dunstan's answers, she found both outfit and thoughts quite disordered. So she shook out her skirts and reordered her concerns; brushed off bits of grass and picked out some key issues; straightened her seams and realized she was ready to give her opinion.

But she rather fancied the idea of making him wait to hear it. Lacey hadn't forgotten the way Mr. Dunstan abruptly abandoned her atop the hillside. Nor, as she set her dress and mind to rights, had it escaped her notice that he'd yet to give any reason or even an apology for his behavior. Lacking manners might explain poor conversation; it didn't explain walking away from one entirely.
Turnabout
, she decided,
is fair play
.

She didn't walk away, as returning to Hope Falls just yet wouldn't suit her purposes.
It's time Mr. Dunstan learns that a woman doesn't need to leave to make a man follow her wishes
.

She relished every moment he stood there, waiting on her every tiny move the way Decoy waited on his. The biggest challenge, Lacey found, was keeping her smile from showing through. To prevent that from ruining her little lesson, she fussed more than necessary with her bonnet so she could keep more of her face hidden. Finally, just when it seemed as though he'd never break the silence and declare her the victor, he spoke.

“Miss Lyman?” The man sounded hesitant, but also curious. “Are you, by chance, trying to teach me better manners?”

Smile or no smile, the fleeting rigidity in her shoulders as she stifled a laugh probably gave her away. Still, Lacey played it out. “Why, Mr. Dunstan. Whatever gives you that idea?”

“Something in the way you withdrew midconversation and abandoned the topic at hand in favor of primping.” The words came out flat, as though he'd stepped on them before speaking.

“If I
happened
“—she lingered on the word overlong before continuing—”to lose track of the conversation in such a way as to convey disinterest or even disregard, that would have been unforgivably
rude
. Particularly were the conversation a matter of business. In such a case, my partner would immediately deem me flighty and unworthy of continued association, don't you think?” She ended the lecture—which she'd planned so precisely—with a challenge so he couldn't wriggle out of responding.

“Maybe.” The one-word answer wasn't the apologetic revelation she hoped for. Worse, he'd gone steely-gazed again. “Maybe the person you're talking to would think your high opinion of yourself is undeserved, and you shouldn't try giving out lessons in manners until you've learned some virtue.”

SMACK!
The sound of her palm striking his cheek ripped through the forest before Lacey even decided to slap him. Iron bands closed around her wrist in an unbreakable grip, their pressure forcing her to turn or let her wrist be snapped in two.

“Down!” It sounded more like a bark than a word, given alongside a sinister growl, but Lacey rebelled at the order.

“No!” She flailed, jabbing back with her elbow and almost connecting with something. No. It was his hand, releasing her wrist but catching her elbow and pushing her away in a spin.

“Not you.” His terse dismissal registered after she came to a stop and got her bearings. Dunstan crouched over Decoy, one hand behind the dog's neck, now murmuring low, soothing sounds.

When Lacey moved forward, Decoy tensed. So did Dunstan, changing his hold and saying, “No.” Lacey froze at the scene, trying to fit the pieces together. A vague suspicion began to take form, solidifying when Dunstan extended a hand back to her.

“Come forward. Slowly now.” He guided her to his right, away from Decoy's head. The dog's eyes followed her, but he didn't move as Lacey lowered to her knees. Dunstan kept his hand over hers, reaching forward to stroke the coarse but somehow soft brindled fur, still making those soothing sounds.

In time, Dunstan removed his hand from Decoy's neck, and slowly his tail began to wag. When he rolled onto his stomach, sphinx-like, Dunstan took his hand from hers and backed slightly away. He kept close, very close, as Lacey made friends again with the dog whose master she'd attacked and who'd tried to defend him in turn. Only after the fact did Lacey understand how Dunstan protected her from the loyalty of this massive beast.