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  He mentally examined the two jail cells behind him. It had been more than a month since he stripped the bunks and took the linens to the laundry. But, hell, he'd only had a couple of drunks sleeping it off during that time. And he'd made the one who puked all over the cell clean up his own mess before he turned him loose the next morning. The drunk did a halfway decent job before Jake got tired of listening to his hangover moans and shoved him out the door.

  Besides the occasional drunk, the only other person in town he didn't really get along with was Saul Cravens. So far, though, the biggest problem he'd had with Cravens was the man's seeming lack of respect for Jake's badge. But as far as Jake knew, Cravens didn't carry that lack of respect far enough to allow any crooked games in his saloon. He knew damned well that Jake continued to keep an eye on him.

  And even Cravens' saloon was a tad more cheerful than the jailhouse. Jake had never paid much attention before to how dismal his office surroundings were; the town expected him to be visible on the streets, not holed up in the jailhouse office. His active presence made sure people like Cravens didn't get completely out of hand.

  What the town didn't expect was an outspoken woman sticking her nose into matters she had no business prying into. His lips curled in amusement. It might be fun watching her butt heads with the merchants. There hadn't been any entertainment in town since that medicine show put on a performance a couple of months ago while the blacksmith repaired its wagon.

  He'd just get back out there and claim his usual seat to observe, though it would be an hour or so yet before the town started stirring. His friend Charlie Duckworth would probably be by soon for his usual morning visit and cup of rank coffee.

  Sauntering over to the pegs lining the wall beside the door, he took down his extra hat. Though he'd never bothered to have the bullet hole in the crown repaired, it would do until the mud dried on his other one and he could brush it clean.

  Right before he walked out the door, a fleeting movement caught his eye. He glanced at the upper corner of the ceiling, where a huge brown spider was industriously repairing a web already hanging full of insect body husks. He didn't much care for spiders, but at least they kept the rest of the bug population down.

  He turned away, then quickly looked back. Nah, there was no way he could actually be hearing that spider spin its airy concoction. The tiny rasping noise must be his own breathing.

  #

  Liberty Flats woke up slightly earlier than usual that morning. Sunny Fannin made sure of that. She couldn't seem to muster the fortitude to rouse her Aunt Cassie after she lost patience with that hardheaded Texas Ranger and returned to the white clapboard house on the edge of town. Considering the lukewarm reception she had received from her aunt yesterday afternoon, it might be best to prepare the morning tea and biscuits herself, and keep something back for Aunt Cassie to eat when she rose.

  The only thing was, she couldn't find anything but coffee in the cupboards. She despised that bitter brew, and besides, just because she found herself in the wilds of the West didn't mean she couldn't maintain some semblance of civility.

  But did she have time to run back to the general store and pick up some tea before the biscuits baked, or should she wait until she got back before she made them? The town wasn't that large at all, as she'd been able to determine when she arrived yesterday at the stable and stage stop catty-corner and a little west across the street from her aunt's house. It didn't look like there were more than a dozen and a half buildings total, evenly divided on each side of the street.

  She'd had to cross the street and pass the stable this morning in order to talk to that darned Ranger, and she'd passed only a couple other buildings before she came to the jailhouse. She had noticed the general store on the opposite side of the street, however, the same side as her aunt's house sat on. There was an intersecting street between the house and the main street of the town, but she should have plenty of time to get to the store and back if she walked swiftly.

  Just then, her stomach growled, making the decision for her. She hurriedly mixed the biscuits and popped them in the oven. Leaving the house once again, she headed for the general store.

  As she neared the store, she could hear a wagon coming down the street behind her. The only other sign of life, except for the mangy hound raising its leg next to one of the hitching rails, was that Texas Ranger lazing in front of the jailhouse again. He definitely wasn't asleep, although she had no idea how she could be aware of him watching her when he was that far away. Her stomach clenched as she recalled how far back she'd had to crane her neck to meet those whiskey-hued eyes when he finally deigned to look at her a while ago. Had he been standing in the street, with the sun at his back, she would have been completely engulfed by the shadow of those broad shoulders.

  His narrow hips had seemed barely wide enough to hold up the gunbelt with two deadly-looking pistols riding low on his thighs. But when he had nonchalantly strolled down into the street to retrieve his hat, she'd realized the bulk of the weight rested on a well-formed rear. The skin-tight denims outlined every curve, hugging the long expanse of his legs and fitting like an extra layer of leather over his boot tops.

  Chastising herself for even the memory of that outlandish sight — and her extremely unladylike reaction to it — she could barely keep from waving a hand in front of her flushed cheeks. Land sakes, it was hot in this town, even on the shaded boardwalk. She should have picked up her parasol before she left the house. Then she could have shifted it sideways to block the gaze from the other side of the street.

  He'd used those whiskey-brown eyes to try to intimidate her in his office, but she'd been distracted by the shining blackness of his hair and the rugged planes of his face. It should be against the law for a man that good-looking to have such an obnoxious personality. But then, he was the only law available here, from what her aunt said.

  And to be honest — which she prided herself on being — part of her indignation had been because of his rude attitude, fostered by his apparent indifference toward her. Why, from what she'd read, she expected Western men to exhibit a more reverent manner toward women. She was no slouch in the looks department, and she'd certainly had her share of beaus back in St. Louis. However, Jake Cameron had stared down at her as though she were a pesky fly buzzing around that run-down office.

  Just then, he raised his hand and very deliberately tilted his hat up just a tad. Land sakes, had he put that muddy hat back on over his clean hair? Didn't the man have any pride? Oh, he must have another hat, because that one was a couple of shades darker than the one she'd knocked off his head.

  An older man emerged from the doorway behind the Ranger, blowing on the rim of a cup in his hand. The Ranger kept his gaze on her, though, instead of turning away to speak to his companion. She guessed he was practicing ignoring people once again. She very deliberately lifted her nose a trifle and stared straight ahead, telling her mind to concentrate on tea, not whiskey-colored eyes.

  The wagon reached the general store at the same time she did, and the woman driving it pulled to a stop. Sunny nodded a brief greeting, then tugged on the door of the store. It refused to budge, and she stepped back a pace, frowning at the closed sign in the window.

  "Fred doesn't usually open for another hour yet," the woman in the wagon called to her. "But I'm fixing to pick up some supplies I ordered, so I can let him know you're down here. He lives above the store."

  Sunny stifled a horrified gasp as the woman climbed down from the wagon. She wore . . . pants. And they were every bit as skintight as those denims on the Ranger. Embarrassed, she quickly focused her gaze on the woman's face, feeling a surge of pity for her that was not entirely due to her plainness.

  She couldn't have been more than ten years older than Sunny. The sun had frizzed her dark-brown locks, and lighter streaks filtered through them. She'd cut her hair so short that it barely swung down to her shoulders. A man's hat hung down her back, probably more often there than on her head.


  Tiny wrinkle lines had already settled in the outer corners of her brown eyes. And such sad eyes. Shadows filled them for an instant before the woman visibly straightened her shoulders with an effort and spoke again.

  "I'm Mary Lassiter."

  "Sunny Fannin," Sunny responded. "And I suppose I could wait until the owner decides to open, but my aunt appears to be out of tea. I wanted to have breakfast ready for her when she woke."

  "Tea?" Mary chuckled wryly. "I doubt you'll find any tea in Fred's store. You can ask him to order some, but since his new order just came in, you'll probably have to wait a month or two."

  "Oh, for pity's sake. I could get it quicker by writing to one of my friends back East and having her mail it to me."

  "That would be faster," Mary agreed. "Well, it was nice meeting you. But I need to get my supplies and hurry back to the ranch. We're de-horning the yearlings today, and cas . . . uh . . . taking care of that other nasty job with them."

  "Other job?" Sunny unfortunately asked.

  "Um . . . you know." A brief flash of amusement lit Mary's eyes. "Making them into steers instead of bulls, so they're not so randy they fight with each other all the time when they should be grazing and putting on weight."

  "Oh!" When she understood the meaning of Mary's words, a giggle erupted from Sunny's mouth. She tried to smother it with a hand over her lips, but Mary laughed too, and Sunny immediately forgot her embarrassment and joined her.

  "I don't suppose that works on human males," Sunny found herself daring to say when she could speak. "At least not your Western males. Why, every one of them I've seen since I left St. Louis has carried a gun and just bristled with the urge to draw it and protect himself."

  She wrinkled her nose and cast a disparaging look across the street. "Well, at least almost every one. That Ranger over there acts like it would be an effort to flick a fly off his nose."

  "Never underestimate Jake," Mary said in a warning voice. "He's the reason I can come into town alone, without wearing my own pistol and having to bring half my crew with me. I still carry my rifle under the wagon seat, but it's more habit than because I really need it."

  "You . . . you wear a pistol?"

  "I can hit what I aim at, too," Mary informed her. "And with the rifle. Nowadays, though, I usually only shoot a rattlesnake once in a while. Or a coyote that thinks my henhouse holds a free meal."

  "Hmm," Sunny mused. "Since I'm going to be a Western woman, at least for a while, maybe I should learn how to shoot a gun."

  "Tell you what. Give me a week or so to get the cattle taken care of, then ride on out to my ranch and I'll give you a lesson. I've got a stash of tea, too. I still had plenty left, so I didn't order any this time, or I'd give you some before I leave. But if you get desperate for a pot, maybe I could send one of my hands into town in a couple of days."

  "That's so nice of you," Sunny said, beaming to herself at the stir of beginning friendship she felt for this plain woman. "Please don't bother, though. And I'd love to come visit you, but it will depend on whether I can rent a buggy at the stables. Besides never having shot a gun, I've never learned to ride a horse either."

  "My, my," Mary said with a gentle smile, which made Sunny completely disregard her ordinary features. "We've got lots to do to turn you into a Western woman."

  A flash of movement drew Sunny's attention across the street as the Ranger surged to his feet.

  "Mary!" he shouted. "Ring the fire bell! Miss Foster's house is on fire!"

  Sunny froze for a second as Mary whirled away. Miss Foster's house? Her aunt's house was on fire?

  Heart pounding, Sunny whirled and stared back down the walkway, but she could only see the front of her aunt's house from her position. Picking up her skirts, she raced out into the street, where she would have a better view, like the Ranger had from the other side.

  Oh, my Lord! Smoke drifted from the rear of the house!

  ***

  Chapter 2

  Burned biscuit smell permeated the interior of Aunt Cassie's house, and Sunny waited inside the front door while her aunt thanked the townspeople and sent them on their way, explaining that there had been no fire — only a pan of biscuits left uncared for in the oven by Sunny. By the time Jake had arrived, the odor had already woken Cassie, who took care of the matter. The other townspeople who came in response to the fire bell were also unneeded.

  Sunny would have bet her newest ball gown — the one she had yet to wear — that Aunt Cassie abhorred having to face the entire town dressed in her night clothes and with her gray hair rolled up in those rag scraps. But how the heck was Sunny supposed to know her aunt's stove cooked faster than the one she and her mother had used in St. Louis?

  Aunt Cassie stepped inside and closed the door very deliberately behind her. Her pale blue eyes scanned Sunny, centering on her niece's hands, which were clasped in front of her. Sunny unclenched her fingers, smoothing her palms against her skirt.

  "I'm sorry, Aunt Cassie. I was just trying to do my share. I thought I'd have breakfast ready for you."

  "It's a poor cook who doesn't watch her dishes," Cassie said with a sniff of disdain. "Samantha should have taught you better."

  Sunny immediately bristled. "Let's leave my mother out of this! I burned the biscuits, and I'll take care of cleaning up the mess."

  Cassie shrugged and headed for her bedroom. "The smell's already set into the kitchen curtains. They'll need to be hung out to air as soon as possible."

  The smell's already set into the kitchen curtains, Sunny mentally mocked. They'll need to be hung out to air as soon as possible.

  Good grief, didn't she have any rights around here? Granted, Aunt Cassie obviously spent a lot of time keeping her house in such immaculate condition, but it wouldn't hurt to leave the curtains until she at least had a bite to eat. Her stomach rumbled, agreeing with her. The house belonged to her too, she reminded herself — a full half of it. After her mother's untimely death, the lawyer had made sure Sunny was fully apprised of what the estate entailed.

  As always when she thought of her beautiful, loving mother and the wonderful relationship they'd shared, her eyes filled with tears. She missed her so terribly.

  The painful memories continued to intrude on her conscious thoughts. How suddenly her mother had been ripped from her life just over three months ago by the drunken carriage driver. Ten other people leaving the opera house were injured when the driver lost control of his horses, but only her mother — who was in the direct path of the horses' deadly hooves — had been killed.

  She probably would have been right there beside her mother that evening had it not been for a slight case of sniffles. Ever protective, her mother had insisted that she sit out the opening night of the opera, to which she'd so looked forward. Did she want to risk a full-blown case of pneumonia by exposure to the night air and miss the rest of the season? Sunny recalled her mother asking. Or would she rather be healthy enough to enjoy the never-ending round of galas, which was just beginning?

  Before the debilitating grief could take full hold of her, Sunny blinked away her tears and started for the kitchen. Had she made the wrong decision in coming to Liberty Flats? Her only other relative was Aunt Cassie, but her mother had hardly ever spoken of her sister. Since her arrival in Liberty Flats, she'd already had more than one occasion to wish she knew more about the reason for the rift between the two sisters, but it had never seemed that important back in St. Louis. At least they'd shared Christmas letters, so she had Aunt Cassie's address.

  Barely one month after her mother's death, she realized she would never be able to come to terms with her grief in St. Louis. The house echoed her mother's presence, and every building in town reminded her of shopping trips or nights out — always shared with her mother. They had been more like sisters than mother and daughter. Aching for a change and never dreaming her aunt would be the total opposite of her mother, Sunny had made plans to travel West. She had sent only a brief telegram warning her aunt of t
he impending visit.

  She could always return home, she guessed as she opened the kitchen windows to allow the smell to dissipate. Rather than selling the St. Louis house, she'd rented it to one of her newly married friends.

  Shaking off her morose mood, she walked out onto the back porch to retrieve the metal biscuit pan Aunt Cassie said she'd thrown out the kitchen door. Halfway across the porch, she stopped in shock when a small, grubby figure sprang into view. After a split-second, frightened glance, the figure scrambled away, clasping an armful of burned biscuits to her chest.

  At least Sunny assumed it was a her. Matted curls of indeterminate color snarled down the child's back, and the ragged gown looked as though it might originally have been fashioned for a little girl. Although it could be a child of either gender running around in a nightshirt, she guessed as her heart wrenched with pity.

  "Wait!" she called. "Please! If you're hungry, I'll fix you some breakfast!"

  The child skidded to a stop, then whirled with wide eyes. "Huh? You . . . you'd really feed me?"

  "Of course," Sunny called back. "Why, it's inhuman to let a child go hungry. Where are your parents?"

  "You ain't Miz Foster," the child replied warily. "You's too pretty for her. How comes you's in her house?"

  "I just arrived yesterday, and Miss Foster is my aunt. Now, why don't you throw those biscuits down and leave them for the birds? I'll mix up a batch of flapjacks, and I saw some maple syrup in Aunt Cassie's pantry."

  "Flapjacks?" It didn't seem possible, but the child's eyes widened even further. Sunny could even make out the bright blue color from where she stood. "And . . . and syrup?"

  "Butter, too," Sunny said with a nod. "And how about some buttermilk? But you'll have to agree to wash up a little first. Want to come into the kitchen and do that while I mix up the flapjack batter?"