CHAPTER 2

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M ax scrawled his name, then shoved a handful of pages into an envelope and set aside the plank he'd been using as a writing desk. The floor of his tent was littered with earlier drafts of the hardest letter he'd ever written, evidence of a long and difficult night. Sitting on the side of his cot, he rubbed his eyes, then stared at the wadded paper balls.

Someone had been fated to draw the scratched marble, that was a given, but he hadn't believed it would be him. His life was planned. Searching for gold had satisfied a long-time curiosity, but largely it had been a last hurrah before settling down, a summer fling with adventure while he could still indulge such whimsy without affecting anyone else.

Digging his fingers into his scalp, he swore and kicked at the wadded balls.

Everything he wanted had been within his grasp.

Ironically, if the celebration at Olaf's cabin had taken place twenty-four hours later, he would have missed it. He would have been riding toward the front range and an assured future. He had delayed his departure for a day he really couldn't spare from a sense of obligation to toast the woman who had saved his life. That simple decision had led to his betrayal of Philadelphia and the destruction of their lives and happiness.

"McCord? Are you in there?" Preacher Jellison kicked at the tent flap.

He pulled a hand down his jaw, feeling stubble and the effects of no sleep on top of a belly full of rot-gut whiskey. The last person he wanted to see was Jellison.

"McCord?"

"What the hell do you want?"

"I can go inside or you can come outside. What'll it be?"

The air inside his small tent was close and sour, dense with oily smoke from the lantern next to his cot.

Swearing beneath his breath, he threw open the flap and stepped into the crisp mountain sunshine, blinking against the morning glare.

His tent sat atop a knoll above his diggings, about thirty feet from the creek bank. Last night he'd sold his claim to Coot Patterson for a jug of home brew, the worst stuff he'd ever swallowed. Holes burned in his stomach, and his head was filled with ricocheting cannonballs.

"If you weren't a preacher, I'd tear you apart piece by piece," he said on his way past Jellison.

Bending at the sandy edge of the creek, he scooped water into his hands and splashed his face and throat, letting icy drops roll down under the collar of his shirt. Then he rinsed the taste of rot-gut out of his mouth and spat.

"Would you feel any better if all you had to do was get Low Down with child and then abandon her?

You don't impress me as that kind of man."

Standing, he dried his hands on his shirt, gazing downstream at the men standing in water and whirling their pans or rocking their sluices.

"All right," Jellison said to his back. "Maybe everybody rushed into a situation instead of chewing it over first. But don't forget that you're alive because Low Down was the only person willing to care for you when you were throwing up your guts and raving out of your mind."

"The same could be said about three-quarters of the men left in Piney Creek. But it was me who had to marry her." The crazy injustice of it clawed at his chest. "We never agreed that one man would pay the price for everyone. That wasn't part of our decision."

"No, it wasn't. But it's done. Can't go back and change things now."

They stood beside the rushing water, listening to the calls and curses of the men working the creek banks. "I was going to be married in two weeks," Max said. "Two weeks later, I would have taken a lucrative position in the Fort Houser bank."

"Well." Jellison frowned down at his boots. "You can still be a banker, I guess."

"I doubt Mr. Houser will welcome me into his bank when he learns I've jilted his daughter."

The situation was unbelievable. Honor and duty were his guiding principles. This close to the wedding, he would have married Philadelphia if he had detested her because a man didn't renege on his promises, didn't humiliate a woman. In the time it took to draw a marble out of a hat, he had destroyed his good name, humiliated Philadelphia, shamed two families, and caused a scandal that would reverberate in Fort Houser for as long as he lived.

"In retrospect, maybe we should have let you stand with the married men," Jellison conceded.

Throughout the night, friends and acquaintances had stopped by his tent to state the same second thoughts. But no one had said it at the time, when it would have counted for something.

"Things don't always work out like we believe they ought to, son. The Lord works in mysterious ways."

Only the Bible dragging at the pocket of Jellison's frock coat saved the preacher's bones from taking a beating. Yesterday hadn't been the Lord's doing, it had been Jellison whipping everyone into a froth.

"Make no mistake, McCord, in the eyes of God, you and Low Down are married. That was a real wedding. It's a shame about that other young lady, but now you have a duty to do right by the wife you got."

Eyes glittering, Max leaned over the preacher, itching with the need to bloody his knuckles on Jellison's face. "Don't lecture me about duty." He started to walk away, but Jellison's sharp voice stopped him.

"There's something you need to know. Low Down ain't much to look at, and she's rough as a cob. But she's a good woman. Honest and hardworking. A lot of women with no family and no advantages might have taken to the cribs, but not her. She's made her way with her hands, not on her back."

Low Down rose in his mind as he'd last seen her, standing beside him whispering her vows. Wearing a saw-brimmed hat leaking dirty hair, dressed in layers of shapeless, musty-smelling men's clothing. Her face had needed a wash along with the rest of her.

And then Philadelphia shimmered into memory, his beautiful lost Philadelphia . The fire burned hotter in his stomach, and his throat closed on a rush of bile.

"Low Down ain't just your wife's name, it's her condition. That woman has never had a lucky break, never had anything good handed to her. In my opinion, she deserves better than life's given her." Jellison waited for Max to inquire about Low Down's background, but he didn't. "Anyway, I'm hoping the something better is going to be you."

"There won't be any happily-ever-after, Preacher. Not for Low Down and not for me. Not for anyone."

Nothing Jellison could say would make this situation any better.

Low Down hadn't figured in his thoughts throughout the long night, but maybe she'd had plans, too.

Plans that didn't include being shackled to a stranger. There was a noose on both ends of the tie that binds.

"I only got one more thing to say. This situation ain't Low Down's fault, so don't go blaming her. She didn't choose you. God put that marble in your hand. If you're fool enough to blame God and fight His plan, then good luck to you, son, because you're going to need it. Just don't go punishing someone else for something that isn't her fault."

Jellison didn't offer to shake hands before he strode away from Max's tent, and neither did Max. He lit his fire, hung a coffeepot over the flames, and stirred together a mess of biscuits.

The talk about fault went to the heart of the matter. He wanted someone to blame, someone he could pummel and punish for the catastrophe wreaked on him and Philadelphia and a future as sparkling as the sunshine striking diamonds off the surface of the creek.

But who? Granted, Billy Brown should have, halted the proceedings and called another meeting to discuss the twist their gratitude had taken. But Max couldn't imagine any man stating that he'd rather Low Down had let him die than poke her. In the end, they would have agreed that someone had to give her a baby.

Jellison made him the maddest because he'd introduced marriage. But naturally a preacher would insist on marriage. It could be argued that Jellison would have been derelict in his duty if he hadn't raised the specter of sin and damnation.

Low Down? She had set a train in motion, impossible to halt once the wheels began to grind. But everyone present, including himself, had urged her to name whatever she wanted most. No one had mentioned any restrictions. No one had added, "as long as what you want is reasonable."

Standing abruptly, Max ground his teeth together and glared down at the skillet of burning biscuits. A terrible wild darkness filled his chest with an intolerable pressure that would burst through his skin if he didn't do something. Losing control, he kicked the skillet off the flames, kicked it down the incline and kept kicking until the pan sailed hissing into the creek.

Then he jammed shaking hands into his pockets and discovered he still had the green marble. Holding it to the sunlight, he swore and ran his thumb over the scratched X that had made a jilted bride out of Philadelphia and a bastard out of him.

In the end, this small glass marble was all he had to blame. The utter ridiculousness of it struck him hard and stopped him from flinging the marble into the rushing creek. He rolled it between his fingers and finally decided he would keep it.

Whenever he was arrogant enough to believe that he was the master of his fate, or anytime he became so puffed up as to think he might deserve a little happiness in life, he would look at the green marble as a reminder that he was wrong.

*

When he could finally bring himself to do it, he went in search of his new bride. The men he passed gave him a thumb's up sign or a nod of sympathy but none met his eye directly. He understood. In their shoes, he would have felt uncomfortable, too, that one man bore the burden for all. There was some satisfaction in knowing the men recognized the injustice that had been done him.

He might have walked past Low Down's claim, mistaking her for a man, if he hadn't recognized the clothing she'd worn yesterday. Halting at the top of the rise, he crossed his arms over his chest and silently took stock of the stranger who was now his wife.

First, she gave no indication that she knew he was present, indicating she was neither observant nor cautious. A kinder viewpoint might have been to grant her a high level of concentration and intent focus.

She stood at the edge of the creek, squatting over the water, swirling her pan just beneath the surface to wash away dirt and loose matter. When she raised the pan to pick out rocks and gravel, he saw that her hands were red from the icy water and rough-looking even from a distance.

Philadelphia 's small hands were white and soft, the nails beautifully shaped and buffed to a pink sheen.

Low Down's ugly hat shaded her neck and face from the sun and a cloud of mosquitoes, but one long coil of gray-brown hair swung down the back of her wool vest. With something of a shock, Max realized the grayish color was mud and dirt. Heaven only knew what color her hair might be when it was clean.

The night before he'd left for the mountains, he had stood on Philadelphia 's steps and watched the light from the porch lamp cast a golden halo around her curls. Her skin and hair had smelled like roses.

Blinking, he watched Low Down examine her pan and poke a finger at the sandy residue. With a sound of disgust, she tossed it out, then stood, stretched, and reached for a shovel to refill the pan with a new load of hope.

She was tall, something he hadn't really noticed yesterday, only three or four inches shorter than he, which made her about five foot eight. Not small and delicate like Philadelphia .

"How long you going to stand there gawking? I thought you were leaving today," Low Down said. She hadn't looked at him once and didn't now.

So she wasn't as unobservant as he'd supposed. He also noticed the Colt strapped to her waist and realized she wasn't incautious either. Dropping his arms to his sides, he walked down to the water's edge and inspected her sluice. She'd set it up efficiently, but he didn't notice much color glittering along the ridges. A little dust maybe, but no nuggets.

"We'll leave in the morning." He wanted his letter to reach Fort Houser before they arrived. "I figure we'll ride out at sunup."

She squatted over the water again and plunged her pan beneath the surface. "We? Come on, McCord.

You ain't taking this marriage seriously, are you?" She made a derisive sound at the back of her throat.

"Everybody knows the ceremony was a sham." She concentrated on swirling her pan as if the matter was closed and there was no more to say.

"The wedding was real, and you know it," he stated in a flat voice. "Like it or not, you and I are married."

She didn't look up immediately, but she stopped circling the pan and she lifted her hands out of the icy water, making sure he noticed that she wasn't wearing the ring Billy Brown had provided. "Go home to Miss Houser," she said in a low voice. "Just ride out of here. Neither of us wants to be married, so just go."

He leaned against a granite boulder facing the willows and cottonwoods crowding the opposite bank, and he wished to Christ that he could do what she suggested.

"And do what? Marry Miss Houser and make a bigamist out of myself?" And then spend the rest of his life living in fear of exposure and dreading what the truth would do to Philadelphia and their families and any children they might have if the marriage to Low Down ever came back to bite him.

She rocked back on her heels, dipping her butt in the cold water, and she glared up at him with hazel eyes that were an odd mixture of green and brown.

"We're married," he said again. Maybe if he said it enough times, he'd start to actually believe it. "We have to decide where we go from here."

"For starters, I'm not going anywhere with you." Standing up, she slapped at the water dripping off the butt of her trousers, then she picked up her shovel and leaned on the handle. "Don't get me wrong, McCord, I've got nothing against you. I just don't want the aggravation of a husband, not you or any other man. Plus, you already have a wife lined up and waiting. She doesn't have to ever know what happened yesterday." She waved one red-cold hand. "Or, if you think you need to, ride up to Wyoming and petition for a divorce."

Work had slowed all along the creek, and the men found reason to face in the direction of Low Down's claim. Those down wind made no pretense about straining to overhear the conversation. The noise of shovels and voices had ceased.

Max drew a breath. "It's not easy to obtain a divorce; very few are granted." He waited, then said the rest. "There's also a matter of duty." When she frowned, he realized he had to spell it out. "The men's gratitude. Their expectations."

"Oh. That." Her laugh was so false that he scowled. "Having a baby was a dumb idea." She smiled down at layers of men's clothing then tugged at the neck of the faded long johns bunched above her shirt collar.

"Can you imagine me as a mother? Now that I've had time to think about it, neither can I."

Considering that he didn't know her at all, it impressed him as odd that he knew she was lying. But he'd watched her as she struggled to decide whether to ask for the one thing she wanted most. She wanted a baby and had wanted one for a long time.

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Unbelievably, not only had he been forced to marry this woman, but now he found himself in the ludicrous position of having to persuade her to honor their vows.

"Low Down…" He let the words trail, wondering if she had a real name. "I'll go to my grave resenting what happened yesterday. But I agreed that you deserved whatever you wanted as a token of our gratitude. And I put myself in the group of men who would draw a marble out of the hat." In retrospect, stepping forward had been the deciding act of his life. And the stupidest. "It's important to the men you saved that you have that baby. And they expect me, as a man of honor, to do what I agreed to do." He flat could not believe he was saying this. His voice hardened. "If you've changed your mind about a baby, or if it was a frivolous choice, then damn you." He stared at her. "Your foolishness wrecked several lives."

Her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut, and she studied him intently. "Are you saying you intend to give me a baby?"

"That's my duty." Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he curled his fingers around the green marble and gripped it so hard that he felt the curve bruise the bones of his palm. "A McCord does not shirk his duty."

"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch!" Rubbing her cheek, she considered him with a thoughtful expression.

Once the idea took hold, she flicked a hopeful glance toward her tent, and Max hastily raised a hand.

"Not right this minute," he said quickly in case that's what she was thinking. At the moment, he couldn't imagine ever desiring this scruffy woman. But even if she'd been beautiful and perfumed, a sloe-eyed temptress, he couldn't conceive of bedding her at noon-day with sixty-plus men watching and listening.

Frowning at the men lining the creek banks, he imagined a slump of disappointment rippled through the ranks, and wondered uneasily how much of this discussion they could overhear.

"Well, then when?"

"When the time is right," he hedged, having no idea when that might be. But it wasn't now.

She nodded slowly, thinking it over. "All right. I guess we're stuck anyway, so I might as well get a baby out of the deal. What I said earlier—" she waved a hand "—I was just jawing. I really do want that baby.

But I don't want a husband. Could we agree to this? Once I get pregnant, we're both off the hook. You go your way then, and I go mine. We're quits."

The baby was the crux of the matter for both of them, not the marriage which neither wanted. Already Max's mind had leapt ahead, feverish with hope that Philadelphia would understand the circumstances and wait for him to arrange a divorce.

No, she wouldn't.

Low Down lifted the shovel handle and poked the bucket at the ground. A pink flush traveled up her throat. "How long do you think it will take to get me pregnant?"

Philadelphia would have chosen a euphemism instead of saying pregnant straight out. But Philadelphia was a refined lady. Low Down was about as refined as her muddy, shapeless gum-rubber boots.

Uncomfortable with the question, Max rubbed his chin, fingering the pox marks along his jaw in a gesture that was becoming habitual. "I don't know."

"I mean, how many times does it take?" From the corner of his eye, he noticed her cheeks had caught fire and were now as scarlet as her hands. "How many times do we have to, you know, do it?" Throwing down the shovel, she planted her fists on her hips and swung away from him. "I'm trying to ask if we can get this done before you leave so I don't have to leave with you."

Oh Lord. Feeling inadequate for this conversation, he covered his eyes, then dragged his fingers down his face. It hadn't occurred to him that she'd be an innocent. As if she'd guessed his thoughts, she whirled around and narrowed her eyes into slits.

"I've been with a man, and I'm not as stupid as you're probably thinking. But it was a long time ago, and I didn't ask about babies or how many times it took to get one. And I've never known a woman well enough to ask such a thing."

He hadn't believed her face could get redder, but she suddenly looked as if she had a severe sunburn.

Feeling the heat in his own throat, he suspected he looked the same. Standing away from the boulder, he hooked his thumbs in his back pockets and focused hard on the water rushing past his feet.

He cleared his throat loudly. "Do you know how to tell if you're pregnant?"

"Well, of course," she snapped. "I do know that much."

"Getting pregnant has nothing to do with how many times two people, ah, do it." He cleared his throat again. "Sometimes it only takes once. Sometimes months and months can pass." He didn't want to consider that possibility.

Hopefully, she'd be more appealing after a bath and a hair wash, and when she was dressed in a clean, frilly nightshift. Sliding a sidelong glance toward the spot where she was pacing along the creek, he tried to peer past the baggy loose clothing she wore. Then he swore between his teeth. He couldn't believe he was even thinking about taking her to bed. "In fact," he muttered, hating it, "most of the time getting pregnant takes a while."

"Damn," she said unhappily. "So there's no choice, I have to leave with you. Well, hell." She kicked the side of her sluice. "I had plans."

The sour burn of bitterness squelched any reply he might have made.

"So. Where are we going? South, I hope?"

"West."

"That doesn't tell me anything."

" Fort Houser is about a four-hour trip by wagon out of Denver ." The town had never been a fort, actually. Joseph Houser, Philadelphia 's grandfather, had bestowed the name in hopes the army would take notice, build a stockade on the site, and protect his interests and holdings. The army had bypassed Fort Houser but so had marauding Indians. In the ensuing years, Joseph Houser's dream had blossomed into a growing, prosperous town.

"The winters get cold out there on the plains," Low Down commented sourly.

Now that he'd covered the basics, Max couldn't think of much more to say. He instructed her to be packed and ready to leave Piney Creek by six the next morning. She mentioned that she'd use the rest of the day trying to sell her claim, but she doubted anyone would buy it. He inquired if she needed assistance packing, and she stared at him as if he'd lost his senses.

"Well," he said after a minute. Pulling his watch out of his pocket, he consulted the time as if he had somewhere to go and something to do. "I guess I'll…"

She picked up her pan and carried it into the water, slapped at a mosquito on her throat, then squatted.

"I caught a trout this morning, and I've got some wild onions to cook with it. You want to come to supper?"

Her back was to him, and her hat brim covered the nape of her neck and the sides of her face.

"I've already made plans," he said hastily, the lie stiff on his lips.

A shrug adjusted the long coil of dirty hair. "Suit yourself."

He'd climbed the incline before she glared over her shoulder and called up to him.

"McCord? Remember yesterday when I promised to obey? Well, I lied. I won't obey any man." She turned back to the creek and plunged her pan into the swiftly flowing cold water. "The other vows were lies, too."

Standing in the tall grass at the top of the bank, he watched for a moment, thinking what a strange creature she was.

Years ago when he'd been young enough to believe such matters lay within his control, he had described his future wife to his brother. She would be small and dainty and beautiful, blond and blue-eyed. Her nature would be as sweet as the scent of her hair and skin. She would be accomplished in the womanly arts and would entertain him in the evenings with music and song. Together they would make strong, handsome children.

He hadn't known it then, he thought, gripping the marble, or maybe he had, but he'd been describing Philadelphia .

Instead, he had married a woman as far from his ideal as it was possible to get.

Right now, "low down" described his condition, too.