Much Ado About Marshals (Hearts of Owyhee) (2011) by Jacquie Rogers Page B

And the way he felt, the longer and harder, the better.
     
    Daisy dragged herself out of bed, splashed cold water on her face and dried off, then threw on her clothes. The gray calico dress would be serviceable, yet presentable, even though it was a few years old and a little tight up top. But the freight wagon was due in that day, and with it, her fingerprinting kit. She sure didn’t want to mess up her newer clothes with black carbon dust.
    She had too much to do to prove that the stranger was not only an imposter, but the very man who’d shot the true Sidney Adler—her marshal and future husband. After tying her hair into a bun, she pinned on her oldest bonnet and worked out her strategy. Honey Beaulieu always did that. If the stranger still slept, she’d go through his things. Surely she would find some incriminating evidence. If not, she’d get some idea of his character like Honey did in The Cromby Murders: The Case of the Wooden Eyeball .
    Downstairs, her mother stood at the stove, flipping pancakes, and her dad sat at the table working on his accounts. Daisy poured herself a cup of coffee just as Forrest ran in and plopped in his place.
    “Go wash your hands, Forrest.” Her father looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “Wear something else today.”
    Daisy’s jaw sagged. He’d never said anything about her attire in her entire twenty-two years of existence.
    “The Dugans are in town today,” her mother informed her. “Patrick Dugan is in his late twenties and looking for a wife.” She scooped a stack of pancakes on Forrest’s plate. “He’s quite handsome, hard-working, and well set up.” She stared Daisy right in the eye. “Excellent husband material.”
    Daisy stiffened. She didn’t have time to flirt with some farmb oy today of all days! “But— ”
    Her father laid down his pencil and leaned back. “Daisy, you know very well that it’s high time you found yourself a man. Past time, as a matter of fact. Dugan’s a good prospect, and he owns his own spread.”
    Patrick Dugan was no prospect at all. She could just see herself, twenty miles from nowhere, sprinkling grain to the chickens with sixteen squalling brats hanging from her skirts. Lord have mercy on her soul!
    “The marshal’s not married,” Forrest offered.
    Her dad shook his head. “Marshals don’t make enough money to support a family. Besides, they’re likely to get killed and leave a passel of young ‘uns behind.”
    But marshals made very good husbands to lady detectives, Daisy protested silently.
    Her mother nodded in agreement. “Daisy, I want you gussied up by eleven o’clock. Patrick and his father will be here at noon for dinner. Grace will be here to help.”
    “For pity’s sake, Betsy,” her father groaned, “don’t let her cook anything. We don’t want to poison the boy before he’s had a chance to propose.”
    “Cyrus!” But her protest didn’t match her smiling eyes. Aunt Grace’s cooking, or attempts at cooking, were known far and wide. She turned her attention back to Daisy. “You will be dressed and ready to receive your guest at noon.”
    Daisy sighed. “Yes, Mom.” She’d be there, but she sure as squat wasn’t going to marry some dirt farmer no matter how well set up or handsome he was. He couldn’t possibly be more handsome than the marshal, anyway. Her breath caught just thinking about his broad shoulders and strong hands. She watched the butter melt on her pancake.
    Breakfast finally ended, her patience tried while her parents listed Patrick Dugan’s virtues. All the while she melted at the thought of the marshal’s beckoning brown eyes and strong shoulders. And other things that she couldn’t possibly think about while sitting at the table with her parents and little brother.
    Oh, but she did. Her thoughts wandered in the marshal’s direction no matter what she wanted to think about. Like solving the identity of the imposter, for instance. That would certainly impress him, maybe