Lucky Penny

Book 3: Coulter Family Historical

by Catherine Anderson

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Historical Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

From the author of Perfect Timing, Cheyenne Amber, and other beloved best sellers.

To support her orphaned niece, impoverished Brianna O'Keefe accepts work with a Colorado rancher. To guard herself from unwanted attention, she resorts to a harmless little lie: that she's married to a Denver gold miner named David Paxton. But when her "husband" shows up, Brianna is stunned - not the least by her desire.

Release date: January 31, 2012

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 432

Sample

Prologue

No Name, Colorado

Monday, April 6, 1891

David Paxton couldn’t quite credit that his little town had grown so quiet that he could rock back on his chair outside the jailhouse with nary a care to sour his mood. Over the past four months, since he’d changed his peacekeeping tactics, the barroom brawls and gunfights, common occurrences in the past, had become a rarity. At first he hadn’t felt confident that the change would last, but now he was finally starting to believe it would. No more tension, no need to keep an eye out for potential trouble. It had taken him a while to adjust to the change, but now that he had, his job as marshal seemed so easy it was almost boring.

In the early-morning breeze, his shoulder-length hair drifted across his face, making everything look limned in gold before he lazily pushed the strands back. How long had it been since he’d felt this relaxed? At least a year, damn it, or his eyes weren’t blue. Being tense and on guard all the time wasn’t good for a man’s constitution. Feeling certain he wouldn’t be awakened by the sound of gunfire last night, he had slumbered deeply. Hell, he felt so good he could swear he wasn’t a day more than twenty instead of the venerable thirty that he actually was. It was hard to believe he’d turn thirty-one in only a couple of months.

Old Mose Hepburn, the local drunk and David’s only prisoner, was sleeping it off in the cell block, as happy as a grub worm in a rotten log to be snoozing on a lumpy cot. Most times, he had to compete with rats for space in the hayloft of Chris Coffle’s livery stable. If the cantankerous old fart kept to his usual pattern, he wouldn’t come around until along about noon, and by then Billy Joe Roberts, one of David’s deputies, would be on duty to walk across the way to get Mose some breakfast. David sighed with contentment and flexed his shoulders, glad to be slothful for
a change and let his mind wander. No appointments, no meetings, and no rowdy cowpokes. His languorous mood was magnified by Sam, his fluffy gold and white dog, who lay beside him, snoring louder than a two-man crosscut saw.

It was a long-missed pleasure for David to watch the town of No Name awaken. And, oh, what a fine morning it was, putting him in mind of his early years, when he’d sometimes had nothing better to do than sit on the back stoop and watch the grass grow. The planks of the boardwalk creaked as he shifted his weight. A fly, the first David had seen since last autumn, buzzed in to cut circles in front of his nose. Sunlight spilled over the roof peaks at the opposite side of Main Street and slanted under the overhang. Butter yellow warmth bathed the lower half of his face where his hat brim didn’t cast a shadow and seeped through his leather duster and shirt to make him feel toasty despite the chill temperatures of early spring. Yep, and boy howdy, it was shaping up to be a great day.

Slumped on the tottery contraption of ancient wood he still called a chair, David extended his long legs and crossed his booted feet to study his spurs. He hated the damned things, would never use them on a horse, and felt silly wearing them, but his sister-in-law Caitlin insisted they were “necessary accoutrements” to his new marshal’s outfit. Trust her to come up with a big word for every little thing. Turning his ankles, he noted with grim satisfaction that the once-silver rowels were now pewter gray and specked with dry mud. Not so long ago, he would have rushed over to Gilpatrick’s general store for some polish to restore their sparkle. Not anymore. He’d learned the hard way that a town marshal who paraded about in a starched shirt, pressed blue jeans, and spit-shined boots was asking for trouble. Now, under the direction of his elder brother Ace, a renowned ex-gunslinger, David dressed more like a roughrider than a peacekeeper, and he sure did appreciate the results. No upstart fast guns had called him out into the street in well over three months.

A loud thump brought Sam’s snoring to a halt and caught David’s attention. Squinting against the light, he directed his gaze across the way to the source of the noise. Roxie Balloux, the buxom and ever-cheerful proprietress of No Name’s best restaurant, had just emerged from the establishment from a side service doorway with a five-gallon slop bucket in each hand. Reddish brown hair caught at her crown in a coiled braid, she looked fetching in a tidy, blue-checked gingham housedress with lacy shoulder caps and a fashionable new bustle that was supposedly more streamlined than its predecessors. To the delight of most men, the effect was lost on Roxie. She was plump in all the right places and needed no posterior enhancement. Hell, Roxie wearing a bustle was sort of like ladling whipped cream over apple pie à la mode, a bit too much of a good thing. Not that any man with blood still moving in his veins could think about food when he admired her backside. Sadly, she would turn thirty-five in August, making her a mite too long in the tooth for David, who still hoped to marry and raise a family.

As Roxie descended the porch steps, Old Jeb, a black dog belonging to Jesse Chandler, the chimney sweep, appeared out of nowhere, barking excitedly and circling at her feet as she upended the buckets over the trash barrel. She let loose with a sigh, audible even at a distance, and gingerly routed through the slop to find the shaggy beggar a treat. She tossed the canine a ham hock generously peppered with what looked like coffee grounds. Jeb wasn’t fussy and dropped onto his belly in a patch of grass, still yellow from winter, to gnaw happily on the bone.

Sam, who either heard Jeb chewing or caught the smell, jerked awake and whined. David lowered a hand to his pet’s head. “No way, you rascal. Every time you eat Roxie’s slop, you get the squirts.”

The shepherd grunted and went back to snoring. David rocked, shifted, and went back to lollygagging, his gaze idly scanning the businesses across the street. Next door to the eating establishment, Tobias Thompson, so thin he didn’t cast a shadow standing sideways, emerged from his dry-goods store with broom in hand. Same as always, he wore a blue bib apron over black trousers and a white shirt with a turned-down collar that sported a red necktie. Even in the shade of the boardwalk overhang, his bald pate gleamed like polished agate as he bent to the task of sweeping his doorstep.

Watching the man work, David reached under his hat to scratch, hoping to high heaven he’d never lose his hair. He guessed he’d just wear a hat all the time when he got old. He wore one most of the time, anyhow.

The batwing doors of the Golden Slipper saloon creaked open just then. David glanced to his left, expecting to see Mac, the owner of the establishment, stepping out for a breath of fresh morning air. Instead, Marcy May Jones, the newly hired upstairs girl, posed in the doorway. David damned near swallowed his tongue. She wore a pink wrapper—in a manner of speaking—with the sash looped carelessly at her waist, one slender shoulder and most of one breast artfully displayed. David was so taken aback that he couldn’t think what to do or say. He was the marshal, after all, responsible for law, order, and upholding the decency codes of the town, but how in the Sam Hill did a man tell a lady to get her pretty little ass back inside where it belonged?

David wasn’t the only male on the street who reacted with a start. Tobias froze with his broom in midswing, and his grown son, Brad, the town’s newly appointed garbage collector, almost took out an overhang post with the right rear wheel of his fully loaded wagon as he cut the corner from the alley onto Main. One of the mules brayed in protest as Brad jerked hard on the reins to stop.

“Good morning, Mr. Thompson,” Marcy crooned to Brad as she caressed one hip, smiled, and tipped her head so that the henna tint of her brown hair flashed in the morning light. “I keep hopin’ you might pay me a call one of these nights, and my little heart’s just broken that you never come.”

Trying to back up his team, Brad turned three shades of crimson and gripped the lines in one hand to tug at his shirt collar, which apparently had shrunk a size between one breath and the next. “I . . . um . . . Well, lands, Miss Marcy, I’m a happily married man.”

“I’m partial to happily married men, Mr. Thompson. They know how to treat a lady.”

Brad coughed and ran a hand over his face. “Well, um, my Bess—she wouldn’t like it if I visited you. No, ma’am, she wouldn’t cotton to that at all.”

Marcy sighed theatrically. “Too bad. Her bein’ in the family way and all, I bet you’re not gettin’ any at home. If you should start to feel cross and out of sorts, you come see me. I’ll cure what ails you. You have my personal guarantee.”

Tobias glared at Miss Jones and then at his son’s broad back. He was clearing his throat and about to speak when Brad’s wife, Bess, a petite and very pregnant blonde, emerged from the dry-goods store. Prior to having children, Bess had been the schoolteacher, and despite her diminutive stature, she still carried herself with an air of authority even though she now had the swaybacked posture common to so many women heavy with child. She stepped off the edge of the boardwalk into full sunlight, circled the wagon, and stood between her husband and the saloon as she met Marcy’s gaze. The sparks that shot from her green eyes could have set fire to stone. David realized her anger stemmed from jealousy, which baffled him. Miss Marcy was easy enough on the eyes, he guessed, but she didn’t hold a candle to Bess.

“Where is Mac?” she demanded of the prostitute. “I’m guessing he doesn’t know his upstairs girl is indecently exposing herself on the town boardwalk in broad daylight!” Bess had perfected the schoolmarm haughtiness that always snapped kids to attention. Chin up, eyebrows arched, she almost made David want to dive for cover. “You’ll kindly remove yourself from public view, Miss Jones, or I shall report you to the city council. We do have laws in this town to protect the innocent!” With a fling of her left arm, Bess gestured up the street at the schoolhouse. “Children are out and about, my good woman. I don’t believe that Charley and Eva Banks would be pleased to learn that their boy Ralph witnessed this indecent display on his way to school.” Bess fluttered her fingers in front of her chest and added with shrill accusation, “Your feminine protrusions are showing.”

“They’re called tits, honey,” Marcy replied drily. “You got so much starch in your petticoats, it’s a wonder you don’t crackle when you walk.”

David was greatly enjoying himself until Bess turned that fiery green gaze on him. He leaped to his feet as if he’d just been prodded with a pitchfork tine. “We do have a city ordinance about appropriate public attire, Miss Marcy,” he said loudly, so Bess would hear, hoping as he spoke that ordinance was the proper term. The city council had so many names for laws—appendages, bylaws, and all manner of other shit—that he could never keep them straight. Bottom line, he had been appointed marshal because he was halfway smart and fast with a gun, not because he had a gift with words. “Standing about on the boardwalk in nothing but a—” David glanced at Miss Marcy and, like Brad, had a sudden urge to loosen his collar. Even worse, he plumb forgot what that pink thingamajig she wore was called. It had slipped farther off her right shoulder, and the brown of her nipple was playing peekaboo with him every time the breeze shifted. “Well, ma’am, no offense, but parading about in one’s birthday suit, even if it’s sort of covered, is against the law. You need to go back inside.”

Wearing a jade dress that matched her eyes and sporting a belly as big as a Texas watermelon, Bess pointed a rigid finger at the prostitute. “Immediately!”

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Marcy replied with a seductive thrust of her hip as she turned away. “Don’t get your lacy little knickers in a twist. I ain’t never stole anybody’s husband yet and don’t plan to start. They come of their own free will.”

Bess’s face turned as red as her husband’s. She reached up to rest a fine-boned hand on Brad’s knee, and the man jerked as if he’d just been touched with a hot brand. David, who’d been courting Hazel Wright, the new schoolteacher, and was thinking about asking her to marry him, got an itchy feeling at the nape of his neck. If this was any indication, maybe wedded bliss wasn’t so blissful. Hell’s bells, all Brad had done was accidentally look, and as a result, he’d probably get burned biscuits for supper.

Bess abandoned her husband to march across the rutted street, which was still muddy in spots from a recent rain. As she approached David, he wondered how a perfectly wonderful morning had so quickly gone to hell.

“Marshal Paxton,” she said, using a tone that took David back in time to the classroom, when nuns had cracked rulers over the backs of his knuckles when he misbehaved. “We, the citizens of No Name, pay you well to keep this town respectable, yet you sat there on that dilapidated chair doing absolutely nothing while a harlot hawked her wares on Main Street at eight o’clock in the morning!”

David rubbed his whiskery jaw and repositioned his hat. “You heard me tell her to go back inside, Bess. What else can you expect me to do, get her in a headlock and drag her back in?”

“That is not the point!” Bess’s lips drew back over her teeth in a snarl so fierce that David cringed. Sam whined and crossed his snow-white paws over his eyes. “The point is that you gawked at her for a full three minutes before you said a single word.”

“Gawked? I didn’t gawk.” Well, he guessed he had, but not on purpose. “I was just taken aback, Bess, and as the marshal, I can’t go off half-cocked. I needed to think of an appropriate way to handle the situation.”

Judging by the flare of pink on her cheeks, Bess was less than mollified by his explanation. “Mark my word, I will attend the next city council meeting and lodge a complaint. You never hesitate to arrest a man who disturbs the peace, yet you fail to act when the perpetrator is a half-dressed female of ill repute!”

David scratched beside his nose. “That isn’t fair. It’s different with a woman.”

“How so?”

David scuffed his heel on a plank. “Well, when a man breaks the law, I can go to fisticuffs with him if it becomes necessary—or shoot him if all else fails. It’s a whole different story with a lady.”

“Marcy May Jones is not a lady!” Bess ran a molten gaze from the top of David’s head to the toes of his dusty boots. “Not that I’m certain you’d recognize the difference anymore. You used to be a fine, upstanding marshal. Now just look at you! A saddle tramp has better personal hygiene.” She jabbed a dainty finger at his duster. “That thing is absolutely filthy! And just look at your face. I’ll bet you haven’t shaved for the better part of a week.”

David put a blade to his jaw every three days now, usually right before bedtime so he could sprout a new crop of whiskers before sunrise. “My duster isn’t dirty. I just greased it up to make it look that way.”

Bess held up a staying hand. “I’ve heard all about your reasons for changing your appearance, and it’s a bunch of stuff and nonsense, if you ask me. Looking mean and disreputable to keep the peace? Ha. There’s more to the job than just dispensing with the riffraff. A marshal should represent our community in fine fashion and set a good example for our children! He should be clean shaven and keep his hair cropped short. He should change clothes every single day! He should—”

“Hold on just one minute,” David protested. “I change clothes every blessed morning. And just because I look dirty doesn’t mean I am. I bathe regular, and I brush my teeth morning and night.” He gestured at his duster, which Ace’s wife, Caitlin, had designed and made from soft leather purchased at the cobbler’s shop. “You have to admit that there’s been no trouble around here for almost four months now. Say what you want about how I look, but it scares off the rowdies.”

Bess rolled her eyes. “You have become a disgrace! Your poor mother must be embarrassed half to death.”

In truth, David’s mother slept better at night now that no upstarts were calling him out. That said, she tolerated no slovenliness in anyone, so she did try to sneak up behind David with her scissors now and again to trim his hair. But he wasn’t about to mention that to Bess. “How my mother feels about my changed appearance is none of your business, Mrs. Thompson.”

“My husband and I help pay your wages, Marshal Paxton! I guess I have some say.”

Bess waddled back across the street. Damn. He’d heard tell that pregnancy made women emotional, but this particular female had become downright ornery. Normally Bess was mild tempered. Didn’t she realize that Miss Marcy was no threat? Brad wouldn’t look at another woman if he was paid to do it, not willingly, anyhow. He’d been taken by surprise this morning, but that didn’t mean he’d liked what he saw. Not enough to be unfaithful to Bess, anyhow.

Sam whined again. David glanced down and saw that the dog had finally uncovered his eyes. “Coward. You kill rattlers without blinking, yet you quake and hide from a pregnant female? Explain that to me.”

Sam groaned and rolled over on his back, legs sprawled for a belly rub. David gave him a scratch with the toe of his boot. “You worthless mutt. Bess wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s just out of sorts right now. While carrying Dory Sue, Caitlin took offense at every imagined slight and cried all during her last month. Remember that? Everybody had to carry an extra handkerchief to help mop her up.”

David had lost his yen for whiling away the morning, but as he started into the office to catch up on paperwork, someone shouted his name. He turned to see a man riding up Main on a sorrel gelding.

“Yes?” David called.

The man guided his horse over to the boardwalk. “You the marshal?”

“That’s right.” David tucked the left side of his duster behind the butt of his Colt .45 to expose his badge and softly shushed Sam, who growled in warning because the fellow was a stranger. “What can I do for you?”

“If your name’s David Paxton, I brung you a heap of mail.”

“That’s my moniker, but I get all my mail here at the No Name post office.”

“Not all of it, I reckon.” The fellow had a canvas tote on the saddle in front of him. He tossed it at David’s feet. “The Denver postmaster’s been holdin’ these here letters for goin’ on six years. He returned a few of ’em, but mostly he just tucked ’em away, hopin’ David Paxton would show up someday to get his mail.”

David’s brows snapped together in bewilderment. Who would send him letters in Denver? He visited the larger town every now and then, mostly by train to get his cattle to market, but he had never lived there.

“Anyhow,” the man continued, inclining his head at the bag, “as you can see, the amount of unclaimed mail is substantial and was takin’ up a lot of needed space. Postmaster was about to dispose of it when the sheriff told him the marshal down here goes by the name of David Paxton.”

“There must be a mistake,” David replied. “You sure there’s not another man with the same name up that way?”

“Not so far as I know. And if there is, he ain’t never gone to the post office to collect his mail.” He nodded at the bag again. “The sender must think you live there. All the letters is addressed to you, general delivery.”

David had to admit, if only to himself, that he’d never met anyone outside his family with the surname Paxton, let alone another Paxton with the same first name. “Strange.”

“Yeah, well.” The other man shrugged. “If you figure the letters ain’t meant for you, throw ’em out.”

David watched the fellow turn his horse and ride away. Then, after tossing the dregs of his coffee into the street, he bent to pick up the bag, which was weighty with mail. Whistling for Sam to follow him, he carried it inside and emptied the contents on his desk. The letters had been grouped in small bundles and bound together with twine. The return address on one of them sported the name of a gal named Brianna Paxton who lived in Glory Ridge, Colorado, a place David believed was southeast of No Name.

As Sam settled in his favorite spot behind the wood box, David lifted the blue speckled pot simmering on the rusty stove to refill his mug. Then he sat at his battered old desk, drew his knife from his trouser pocket, and sliced the twine on a bundle of envelopes. After cutting the first seal, he settled in to read a missive picked at random, which was dated only a few weeks ago and written in an elegant feminine hand. He was barely aware of the rumbling snores that vibrated through the wall that separated the cell block from the front office.

 

Darling David:

I hope this finds you well and that you have finally struck it rich in the Denver gold fields.

David frowned. Nobody had done any gold mining to speak of in the immediate area of Denver for many years.

I write again, as I have many times before, to plead with you to come for me and our little girl, only this time I do so with more urgency. My employer, Charles Ricker, wishes to marry, and when he takes a wife, he will no longer have need of a housekeeper, cook, or tutor for his sons. In Glory Ridge, there is very little by way of respectable employment for a lady. Our daughter and I will shortly be in dire straits. I miss you dreadfully, especially at night when I recall our brief but delightful times together. If you come for us, I promise that I will be a loving wife and more supportive of your dreams.

Forever yours,

Brianna

 

David’s frown deepened. Who the hell was this lady? He knew no one named Brianna, sure as heck hadn’t married her, and had not sired her child. Or had he? Sweat beaded on his brow.

Just then a light tap came at the door and David glanced up to see Hazel Wright stepping into the office. As pretty as a spring morning in a yellow day dress and green shawl, with her honey-colored hair swept up in a fluff of curls atop her head, she smiled brightly as she closed the door, her blue eyes sparkling.

“I just wanted to stop by and say good morning before going to the schoolhouse,” she said, fingering the gold pendant that David had given her the previous evening. “We had such a lovely time last night. At least, I thought so.” A blush stole into her cheeks, telling David she was recalling their farewell kiss, which had been pleasant and stirring. “How is your day starting out?”

It had started off great, but now David was getting a bitch of a headache, and Hazel, the woman he might marry, was the last person he wanted to see. “Fine.” I just found out I may have sired a daughter out of wedlock, but everything else is just dandy. Remembering his manners, he pushed erect, swept off his Stetson, and tossed it on the mail, hoping the hat would prevent Hazel from noticing that the sender of all the letters bore his surname. “Would you care for a cup of coffee? It’s fresh, not coffin varnish like Billy Joe always has on hand.”

She shook her head, curls bouncing. “I’d love to, but I need to go. The children will run wild if I’m late.”

“Well.” That was all David could think to say. “I’m pleased you stopped by to say hello.”

She pinned shimmery blue eyes on his, giving David the uncomfortable feeling that she wanted him to kiss her again. It bothered him that he felt no urge to hotfoot it around the desk. Hazel was lovely, a well-educated lady, and perfect for him. Her acceptance of the pendant last night also told him that she would be receptive to a proposal of marriage. It was inappropriate for a woman to welcome such an expensive gift from a gentleman otherwise.

David should have felt jubilant. He wasn’t the only man in No Name who’d tried to win Hazel’s affection. But something—David couldn’t pinpoint precisely what—was missing in his feelings for Hazel. He liked her and enjoyed her company. Practically speaking, he should have been as happy as a cow in a cabbage patch that she’d chosen him when others had tried so hard to gain her favor.

So why was he waffling? Maybe it was because he still harbored fanciful notions about finding his one true love. His older brothers, Ace and Joseph, had found the women of their dreams. Sadly, it hadn’t occurred for David yet. If he waited around much longer for something magical to happen, he might grow too old to raise a family. He wanted a brood of children. A practical man would tie the knot with Hazel before some other fellow beat him to it.

David circled the desk, grasped Hazel’s shoulders, and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. “Have a wonderful day. Maybe, if things are quiet around here this evening, I can take you to supper at Roxie’s. She serves roast beef on Mondays. As I recall, that’s one of your favorites.”

Hazel nodded, still searching his gaze as she fingered the pendant. “Last night when you gave me this, I—” She broke off, looked away, and moistened her lips. “Please tell me if I read something more into it than you intended.”

“No, of course you didn’t.” David chucked her gently under the chin. “My intentions are—” David hauled in a deep breath, feeling like he had as a kid when he’d been about to jump into a swimming hole. Crazy. He’d been thinking about proposing for weeks. Giving Hazel the pendant had been his way of testing the water. So why did he feel like a bear with its paw caught in a trap? “My intentions are honorable,” he settled for saying. “I, um—just need some time to think things through and do some planning before taking the next step.”

Her timorous expression suddenly grew radiant, her smile as sweet and warm as sorghum on hot flapjacks. Going up on her tiptoes, she kissed David on the mouth. Before he could respond, she drew back to leave.

“Supper at Roxie’s!” she said cheerfully. “I’ll look forward to it all day.”

David stared solemnly at the door after it closed. Was this how it felt when a man was in love? Maybe it didn’t get any better than this. Hazel stirred David physically. He felt confident that he’d enjoy the intimacies of marriage with her. They got along well, shared a few interests, and hadn’t thus far disagreed on any important moral issues. Maybe that combination of things was what constituted love, and he just had his head in the clouds, wishing for earthshaking emotions that would never come to him and possibly didn’t even exist.

David turned back to the letters piled on his desk, most of which were still unopened. Brianna. The name didn’t ring a bell, but there was no denying that he was the addressee on every envelope. He resumed his seat to continue reading. Because Brianna’s more recent letters made little sense—he might forget if he’d bedded a woman, but he sure as hell wouldn’t forget if he’d married one—he searched for letters written four or five years ago. Sadly, the content of those made little sense, either, more or less mirroring the more recent missives except that she failed to mention how much she missed him at night. David was frowning over this when he came across a newer envelope that included a note written by a child, the printing awkward and comprised of a few brief sentences. There were no misspellings or errors in pu