Just thinking about three long nights playing poker with the prettiest lawyer west of the Mississippi made Clayton Black’s skin tingle.
There were some things about Irene Hardisson he’d give his eyeteeth to know—like what she thought about at night. What she wanted in life. What she looked like underneath all those flounces.
That settled it. He’d stay. For a while. A short while. Might do him good to hang his hat somewhere he was actually wanted for a change. But she was no rambling rose. She was a lady and he wouldn’t compromise her. And he’d work damn hard to keep her from sticking in his memory when he rode away.
Praise for Lynna Banning’s previous titles
PLUM CREEK BRIDE
“…pathos and humor blend in a plot that glows with perception and dignity.”
—Affaire de Coeur
WILDWOOD
“5 *s.”
—Heartland Critiques
WESTERN ROSE
“…warm, wonderful and witty—a winning combination from a bright new talent.”
—Award-winning author Theresa Michaels
The Law and Miss Hardisson
Harlequin Historical #537
#535 THE STOLEN BRIDE
Susan Spencer Paul
#536 SILK AND STEEL
Theresa Michaels
#538 MONTANA MAN
Jillian Hart
The Law and Miss Hardisson
Lynna Banning
Available from Harlequin Historicals and LYNNA BANNING
Harlequin Historicals
Western Rose #310
Wildwood #374
Lost Acres Bride #437
Plum Creek Bride #474
The Law and Miss Hardisson #537
To my aunt, Jean Banning Strickland
With special thanks to Suzanne Barrett, Ida Hills, Norma Pulle and Leslie Yarnes Sugai.
Contents
Prologue
All he could remember was there were cherries on her hat. Bright, shiny, red cherries, nodding over her forehead. Nothing else penetrated the fog of pain and nausea while they’d loaded him into the stagecoach. He slumped into the corner seat and set himself to endure the thirty-mile trip across the eastern Oregon plains to Cedarville, where the driver claimed there was a doctor.
Early that morning he’d been full of beans and vinegar, anxious to get this job over with and head back to Texas, anxious for a meal he didn’t have to cook over a fire he built himself. That ended when someone shot him off his horse and the gelding dragged him a quarter of a mile before he could get his boot out of the stirrup.
“He’s probably broke some ribs and maybe busted his arm in a couple places,” the stage driver had said. Someone sloshed whiskey down his throat and the cherry hat lady sniffed.
There were other passengers, but the one he vaguely remembered was the one who was dressed Eastern and acted mighty prim and proper. The driver suggested she might care to wait for another stage, but she gave him a frosty look and in a tone like flint said, “I am expected in Crazy Creek, and I intend to get there.” After a pause, she added, “Is he more drunk, or more hurt?”
“Oh, Lordy, ma’am. He ain’t a drinkin’ man. But he shore is hurt. Somebody musta bushwacked him, cuz he’s good with a gun, bein’ a Texas Ranger, y’see. He ain’t likely to lose a fair fight. He’s hurt, sure enough.”
“Very well. He is as anxious as I am to get to town. Why delay further?”
The driver grunted.
When the coach started up, his head slid forward against the siding. Then something soft and warm cushioned his cheek and he vaguely remembered a wet, cool cloth against his face and a not-to-be-denied voice saying crisply, “Drink this,” and the burn of straight whiskey from a tilted bottle.
When they pulled into the dusty town, he remembered that she climbed out and started giving orders. “Watch his head. If the doctor is nearby, you men can carry him.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver said.
“Wait!” she commanded. “Should he have more whiskey if the pain gets worse?”
“We ain’t got more, ma’am. Only had one bottle.”
She looked up and down