Helena didn’t rise to his bait, though. “No, I probably wouldn’t.” She swung the gun left. Toward Abby. “But I might—just might—shoot your sister,” she said in the most scarily calm tone he’d ever heard.

He drew in a sharp breath. Had it all been too much for her? Had his rejection, compounded by her guardian’s insistence she marry Joshua, Brendan’s childhood friend, caused her mind to surrender to the strain? “Have ya lost your mind?” Brendan asked. He’d meant to sound demanding, hoping to snap her out of her reckless behavior, but even he heard concern leak into his tone. Question was, had Helena heard it?

He glanced at Ab. She stared at him, her eyes sparkling with delight and not worry as Helena held the gun steadily on her. She’d clearly seen his worry and his love for Helena. “I do believe she means it, Bren,” Abby said.

“Father Rafferty won’t marry us this way,” Brendan stated, trying to interject some sense into the conversation.

“Actually, after I explained how you’d trifled with me, then rejected me, he was happy to agree. It’s his gun.”

Abby coughed, but only to cover a laugh. Then her eyes flashed with temper when she realized Helena spoke the truth. “After what happened to me, you did the same thing to Miss Conwell?”

“This was different. I only broke it off because she’s an heiress.”

Abby glared.

“I lost my head?” Brendan added.

“I’d say Miss Conwell lost something a bit less metaphoric. Her virginity,” his sister declared. “We’d best get on with this ceremony. You’ll be losing one form of freedom this night, brother mine, or so help me I’ll geld you myself. And I’ll be holding that pistol. Now that you’ll be my sister, I’ll be looking after your interests, Miss Conwell. A bride shouldn’t have to hold a gun on her groom. And don’t worry, if he refuses, I’ll shoot him where he sits. I suspect that’s near to where his brains have been of late.” She glared. “I wouldn’t kill my own brother, but just now, I wouldn’t mind a bit of maiming and knowing his ride out West will be mighty uncomfortable.”

Brendan sighed. He had to try one more time, for Helena’s sake. He had nothing to offer her. Not even his good name. “Sweetlin’, if we marry, you’ll be married to and travelin’ with an accused criminal. You could go to prison for aidin’ and abettin’. Gowery lied and put my name on the list of conspirators. Ab says the Pinkertons manufactured proof I blew Destiny to hell and gone. I wouldn’t do that to Joshua. I saved his life, didn’t I?”

“I know. Joshua and I have been spying on them to keep you safe. Joshua will see your name is cleared, but if you don’t want to get caught and see me swept up with you, we’d better get to it.” Helena looked toward the altar and raised her voice. “We’re ready, Father.”

“Enough stalling, brother mine,” Abby said. “Take her hand, walk down that aisle and say the words.”

Helena looked up at him, her eyes so full of love it made his heart ache. “It’ll be fine. We’ll go West and buy that ranch you want so badly. We’ll call it Shamrock and raise our children there.”

Brendan stared at Helena. All night he’d been in agony, thinking her and Joshua’s engagement was to be announced at her birthday party. Would leaving her behind to marry Joshua or any other man be easier for the distance? Out of options, and running out of time to think about that or catch the westward train, he did as Abby ordered and walked toward the altar.

“You can buy the ranch,” he told Helena as he walked at her side toward her doom. “You can call it whatever ya please. I’ll never lower myself to take your charity.”

“What’s mine will be yours in moments, so it won’t be charity,” Helena said. She didn’t wait for a rebuttal, but turned toward the priest and nodded.

“Dearly beloved,” Father Rafferty began.

It looked as if Brendan’s goose was well and truly cooked. But so was Helena’s. He wouldn’t touch her and they’d have this farce annulled.

All he had to do was keep his hands to himself. He glanced at his bride. God had better help him or he was a goner.

Chapter One

Heavy hoofbeats resounded through the house, sending spirals of fear shooting through Helena. Her heart started to race. Had the Ghost Warriors finally decided to move on Shamrock? She stood and dropped her needlework as her housekeeper rushed in, her eyes wide with fear.

The horses thundered by along the ranch road, but one rider advanced rapidly on the house. Helena grabbed the loaded shotgun she kept leaning against the fireplace, then moved to the front window. Cautiously, she nudged the curtain aside with the double barrel and peered out.

Anger flooded through her. Or was it really desperate, foolish hope? In the blink of an eye her emotions flipped back to anger.

“Brendan?” she whispered. He’d said he would never set foot on Shamrock. Typical. His word meant everything to him except with her.

He seemed to hesitate, one foot on the step up to the porch.

So, he remembers his vow. “Never is a very long time, isn’t it, Brendan?” she whispered, then cursed his contrary soul. She liked to relax on the porch in the evenings, and didn’t want to picture him there. Before he decided to go ahead and invade that special space, Helena threw open the door and marched toward her estranged husband.

He slowly eased his booted foot back to the ground. His emerald eyes were unreadable in the shadow cast by the wide brim of his black Stetson. He glanced down at the shotgun as he pushed the hat back on his head. His left eyebrow arched annoyingly as he looked up, snaring her gaze with the power he still held over her.

He stared for a long, uncomfortable moment, opened his mouth, then closed it, as if unsure what to say.

She managed to look away from his eyes. Oh, how he could make her want him—make her care. Even after he’d left her alone during the darkest days of her life.

When she forced herself to look back, those eyes that had captured her heart and made it his, sparkled with mischief and flicked for a split second back to her shotgun. “And here I was thinkin’ you might be glad to see me,” he quipped in his slight, musical Irish accent.

She might be glad. She was glad, damn him. But she’d had three years of pain and practice at hiding her feelings. She had her pride, too. She stiffened her spine. He’d never know what she still felt for him. Never.

“W-why? Why would you think I’d be glad to see you?” she asked, and looked down at the gun in her hands. No matter how many times she’d threatened it, she would never want to shoot him. Accidentally or otherwise. She took a moment to break the gun open and gather her composure.

Steadier now, she said, “I seem to recall you telling me you’d never set foot on Shamrock. I believe it was outside the title office, after we signed the papers for the ranch.”

Helena turned to her housekeeper, who’d followed her to the porch. “It’s all right, Maria. You can go back inside.”

Maria shot a black look Brendan’s way, “You are sure?”

Helena nodded, then glanced back at her husband. “Is there something other than rejection and scorn I’m to read from what you said that day, and what you’ve done the last three years?”

“Things change.” He looked suspiciously as if he was choosing his words as carefully as she was. Then his whole countenance changed. He looked...serious suddenly. Weighed down, even. “I’ve bad news. The raiders struck again. Belleza this time. Don Alejandro, the shepherds and their wives were all killed. Señora Varga and her daughter brought the don’s body to town for burial.”

Helena swayed and grabbed a porch column. “How on earth did Farrah and Elizabeth survive? The renegades don’t leave survivors, do they?”

“They’d been in town,” he explained. “They heard the commotion in time for Miss Varga to get off their ranch road. She hid her mother and the carriage, but Miss Varga, bein’ who she is, snuck to the hilltop overlookin’ the homestead. Thinkin’ she could help, apparently.”