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gave the beam one final shunt to roll it into place where a rotten one had already been removed. He turned to look. Victoria was striding up. She was wearing a pair of brown canvas overalls that stretched tight over her rounded bottom. Because the garment was a fraction too small, instead of covering her breasts, the flap at the front acted like a shelf that pushed them up. Her hair was gathered into an elaborate upsweep. Combined with her rough outfit, it created a contrast that would have made any man’s mouth water.
    She nodded a quick greeting and went into the cookhouse. Declan watched. She spoke a few words to Cookie, and then she turned around and came out again. Flaco moved closer to the entrance for a better look. Declan grabbed him by the collar and hauled him back.
    “You said it, amigo ,” he bent to whisper in the small man’s ear. “ My wife.”
    Rio’s black eyes glittered and his sharp features crumpled with laughter.
    Three days ago, when Declan rode with Victoria and her father to the ranch, Andrew Sinclair had taken him straight to the cookhouse and introduced him to the men who had already gathered for lunch. Sinclair had bluntly spelled out the reason for his daughter’s sudden marriage, and had made it clear that the marriage would remain in name only.
    Declan had confirmed every word, but the men had taken to teasing him, goading signs of possessiveness and jealousy out of him. It wouldn’t have been too bad, if Victoria had not been constantly dashing in and out of the yard, dressed in those tight overalls.
    When she was safely out of sight again, Declan left Flaco to finish the repairs on the cookhouse roof and went to the corrals on the other side of the yard to see how the teenage black cowboy, Johnston, was getting on with the horses.
    “Howdy, Mr. Beaulieu.”
    Johnston was tall and lanky, with a curious looseness to his joints. Despite the jerky way he moved, he did not appear clumsy. Watching him made Declan think of a cat’s tail—how it swished with tense little flicks when the animal was about to pounce.
    “You can call me Declan.”
    “Sure, Mr. Beaulieu.” Johnston wiped his face with the red cloth tied around his neck. He turned to Sinclair’s black stallion he’d been grooming. “I’m gonna buy me a horse juss like this one day,” he said, longing in his tone. “I puts money away from my pay.”
    Footsteps sounded behind them. Declan turned. Victoria sauntered past, carrying a rope bridle across her arm. She went to the next corral and called for her palomino. When the horse trotted up, Victoria slipped the bridle on it. Then she led Buttercup out and through the gravel yard to another corral farther away.
    “Why’s she do that?” Johnston asked.
    Declan shrugged, equally baffled. “To give the horse shade?”
    “There’s no more shade over there.” Johnston stared, then got bored with the mystery and went back to his daydreaming. “I got me saved twenny dollars. How much do you think a horse like this costs?”
    It dawned on Declan then. Something he’d never thought of before. Victoria and her father would not be the only ones hurt when the ranch was taken by the bank’s bailiffs. The hands might lose their jobs. And Abe and Cookie and Mrs. Flynn. The realization sent an uncomfortable sensation churning in his gut.
    He considered the ill-gotten gains he had stashed away. Two thousand dollars in gold. Seven cowboys. Blacksmith. Housekeeper. Cookie. Ten people in total. He would share the money between them. He had no idea how much a housekeeper earned, but for the rest of them the sum would represent six months’ wages. That should tide them over while they found new employment.
    Ill at ease, his mind rebelling at the idea of hurting innocent men, Declan turned back to Johnston. Five minutes later, his nerves got another jolt when Victoria came out again and moved Buttercup back to the corral from which she had a moment ago removed the horse.
    “Why’s she