Welcome To Wyoming
Welcome To Wyoming
Kate Bridges
WHAT KIND OF SITUATION HAS SHE WALKED INTO?Seeking justice for his murdered colleagues, Detective Simon Garr has gone undercover as infamous jewel thief Jarrod Ledbetter. All is going to plan until he finds out that Jarrod’s mail-order bride is on her way to Wyoming! Simon can’t afford to jeopardise his cover, which gives him only one option – he must marry the woman!When his poor bride Natasha O’Sullivan arrives she doesn’t have a clue what she is walking into – but Simon finds there is more to her than first meets the eye. Because Natasha has brought along secrets aplenty of her own…Mail-Order Weddings - From blushing bride to Wild West wife!
Suddenly their kiss became so much more.
It was as if they’d been standing in a calm, sunny field, and suddenly a tornado had swept in and blasted around them. The wind caught, the weather shifted, and he and his emotions were whipped into a furious storm. The pressure of their mouths mounted, their lips pressed firmer and deeper, and their tongues brushed. He wanted her.
Their bodies pressed closer. His hand dropped from her ribcage to her waist and down lower as he gripped her buttock and imagined what it might be like to throw her onto the bed and truly do everything he fantasised.
Break it up…he must break it….
With a shudder, he tore himself away.
Cool air rushed into the space between them. He gazed down at her shocked expression. Perhaps it had been too much for her, too, the unexpected jolt of passion and desire that had seized them.
“Welcome to Wyoming,” he whispered.
“What a welcoming,” she said softly.
Kate Bridges invites you to her
MAIL-ORDER WEDDINGS
From blushing bride to Wild West wife!
The Great Fire of Chicago might have changed best friends Cassandra Hamilton’s and Natasha O’Sullivan’s lives for ever, but they’re determined to carve a new future for themselves as mail-order brides in the West.
Then along come their gun-slinging, horse-riding, breathtaking new husbands—it seems Cassandra and Natasha have got a whole lot more than they signed up for!
RANCHER WANTS A WIFE
Already available
WELCOME TO WYOMING
April 2014
Welcome
to Wyoming
Kate Bridges
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DEDICATION
For Greg, who loves a good adventure.
Award-winning and multi-published author KATE BRIDGES was raised in rural Canada, and her stories reflect her love for wide-open spaces, country sunshine and the Rocky Mountains. She loves writing adventurous tales of the men and women who tamed the West. Prior to becoming a full-time writer, Kate worked as a paediatric intensive care nurse. She often includes compelling medical situations in her novels. Later in her education she studied architecture, and worked as a researcher on a television design programme. She has taken postgraduate studies in comedy screenwriting, and in her spare time writes screenplays. Kate’s novels have been translated into nine languages, studied in over a dozen colleges on their commercial fiction courses, and are sold worldwide. She lives in the beautiful cosmopolitan city of Toronto with her family. To find out more about Kate’s books and to sign up for her free online newsletter please visit www.katebridges.com (http://www.katebridges.com)
Previous novels by the author:
THE DOCTOR’S HOMECOMING
THE SURGEON
THE ENGAGEMENT
THE PROPOSITION
THE CHRISTMAS GIFTS
THE BACHELOR
THE COMMANDER
KLONDIKE DOCTOR
SHOTGUN VOWS
KLONDIKE WEDDING
KLONDIKE FEVER
WANTED IN ALASKA
HER ALASKAN GROOM
ALASKAN RENEGADE
RANCHER WANTS A WIFE* (#ulink_71bf6c2e-e91c-55bc-9b41-6ada9ac8a58c)
* (#ulink_db8bc73d-3043-5133-b930-0a2a8959c09f)Mail-Order Weddings
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Chapter One (#u6204594f-540f-5c0a-bd41-8d937a73c593)
Chapter Two (#u86e14fe4-ce76-55e3-8425-30d0ee25a059)
Chapter Three (#u503719c4-248e-56fc-9937-b45373afc91d)
Chapter Four (#u5aa49777-4ee4-5762-b14d-dd369ef98806)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, August 1873
Simon Garr adjusted his hat, peered down the railroad tracks to the train chugging its way up the gulley and damn well hoped his bride-to-be wasn’t on it.
They’d never be right for each other.
He was a liar and imposter.
She wasn’t.
Other folks waiting on the platform jostled to look down the tracks. Simon bristled in his itchy wool suit. He’d feel more comfortable in denim jeans. He’d always worn charity-donated jeans while growing up barefoot on the plains, having to fend for himself since the age of eight.
No matter what he wore, it was hard to conceal his gritty determination, the need to be able to control everything around him, especially in dangerous situations like these. He enjoyed the weight and feel of his concealed weapons—the revolver in his shoulder holster, derringer pressed into his back, knife strapped to his ankle. He’d taught himself how to shoot when he was a kid. The first living thing he’d ever shot was a raging bear that’d mauled a friend. The second living thing, years later, was a man who’d murdered innocent villagers for three gold coins.
The checkered suit wasn’t his usual style, but it was the attire that jewelers wore.
And that was what he was supposed to be. A jeweler. He was working undercover, impersonating a man named Jarrod Ledbetter, leader of the Ledbetter gang.
Ledbetter and his pack were not only jewelers, but clandestine train robbers. The real Ledbetter was dead. He and two other scum from their filthy group had been fatally shot last week in an undercover stakeout by Simon and other lawmen of the district. Word of their deaths was being closely guarded by authorities. The railroad bigwigs didn’t want to release the information until they recovered the goods stolen days before the shoot-out, worth three hundred thousand dollars.
They’d hired Simon, a detective, to find it.
Simon cared less about the missing gold and jewels, and more about his two closest friends, also detectives, who were killed in the shoot-out. Simon winced at the awful memory of being unable to save his friends, of seeing the blood on their bodies. He looked at the faces of the people strolling by, sadly reminded that he’d never see Clay Holborne or Eli Remington again. He vowed to get even.
His mission now was to gain the confidence of the remaining two Ledbetter gang members, who hadn’t been at the shoot-out, and uncover the stolen property.
Two days ago, Simon had made contact. The two remaining murderers had said they would be “honored” to finally meet Ledbetter in person to get their next assignment.
But the big surprise came when Simon had discovered that Ledbetter, before his death, had mailed away for a wife!
It was during a casual poker game last night that the two men had asked Simon if he was ready for her arrival this evening.
Hell no! But he’d bluffed his way through answering. He was deep undercover with no immediate means to inform his superiors. So, there was nothing he could do but stand here and wait. He’d brought a suitcase with him to add to the illusion that he did indeed expect her and wanted to whisk her away to the nearest hotel.
But who was to say she hadn’t called off the wedding? Maybe Ledbetter was supposed to send a telegram this week to confirm and, due to his untimely death, hadn’t.
What kind of woman traveled blindly to involve herself with an unknown man?
Maybe she was adventurous. Desperate. Or fleeing from something. Who the hell knew? All he knew was her name. Natasha O’Sullivan.
Women baffled him. Yet he had no problem lying to them. He’d done it countless times in the name of justice. He’d gone by more false names than truthful. The hardest thing about lying wasn’t the actual deception—for it was always done in the name of good—but keeping the facts straight in his head about who he was this week.
Jarrod Ledbetter, he repeated in his mind.
He also couldn’t control how some women would react to his lies. Men were more predictable. In his line of duty, being in command of everyone around him always had life-and-death consequences.
Hell. Just as they had for Clay and Eli.
Guilt consumed him again.
It overpowered his senses, made his throat constrict, his mouth run dry. He hadn’t been able to save them. If he’d been faster, or stronger, or, damn, more aware of the hidden gang members on the cliffs...
The train, still half a mile off, blew its whistle. It caused a rush of excited voices on the platform. The early-evening breeze wafted through Simon’s shoulder-length hair. It spun the leaves on the aspens and whispered through the tall pines and firs. Clay and Eli would never breathe air like this again. He tried to push the tragedy out of his mind. He needed his faculties clear and sharp.
The wheels of the locomotive screeched and the train roared past. It came to a rumbling halt and passengers disembarked. Simon peered up and down the platform, outwardly calm while trying to spot anyone who resembled a mail-order bride. He watched as folks were reunited, businessmen hired porters, cowboys slung their packs. No lone women so far.
Gratified that his bride wasn’t here, Simon turned to go. But then he noticed the edge of a scuffed, brown leather trunk being pushed out of a rear car. The trunk’s latch was busted. Clothing was visible through the cracked opening of the lid. A flurry of ropes held the thing together.
A female voice rang out from inside the car. “You ugly, uncooperative, good-for-nothing piece of trash...”
Then with a kick of her high-heeled black leather boot, the trunk flew out the door and landed with a thump on the wooden platform.
He raised an eyebrow in amusement. He’d hate to be the leather beneath that boot.
But when she stepped out, his whole body tensed.
God, no. That wouldn’t be her, would it?
The whistle blew again and the train rolled away.
He stood partially hidden by the posts around him and watched her.
She was the right age—twentysomething. And she was alone.
Dressed in a faded skirt and a formfitting bodice that was patched at her elbows, she brushed the shimmering brunette hair from her dark eyes and realigned her stuffy bonnet. It had fake fruit attached to the brim—cherries and grapes—and would appeal to a woman forty years her senior. Donated clothing, he thought. She glanced timidly down the tracks, head slightly bowed, and then adjusted her fussy white gloves in a prim fashion. Who was she kidding? She was no timid woman. She was a tiger in skirts.
The burly conductor in uniform called to her from the moving train. “Take care of yourself, Miss O’Sullivan!”
Simon cursed. So it was her.
“Bye, sir!”
He watched her wave. Her bright eyes flashed deep coffee-brown, and her expression rippled with warmth. Her skin was clear, her neckline plunged to a hint of cleavage and the cut to her suit bodice revealed tempting curves.
His jaw clenched.
She was innocent in all of this. That was what one of Ledbetter’s men, the more brutal one, Kale McKern, had implied in the poker game last night—that Ledbetter had fooled her. As he’d fooled lawmen for years, men much more experienced with criminals than she was.
All Simon had to do was walk up to her, tell her he’d had a change of heart and put her on the next train home.
Simple.
But it looked to him as if all her dreams were packed up in that battered old trunk. And now he was about to tell her he didn’t want her. He swore. He wasn’t here to cause trouble to any woman. He was here to find justice for his friends. No doubt Simon would cause her heartache and embarrassment by turning her away, but he couldn’t disclose he wasn’t the real Ledbetter, for there was no telling who she might talk to on the return journey home. Then his life would be in danger. Maybe even hers.
This way, they’d both be spared. Only her feelings would be hurt. Feelings healed a lot faster and better than gun wounds.
But damn...he was about to give her one big invisible bruise.
On the bright side, in a few weeks when this was over, she’d likely read in the papers that the lying and murdering Jarrod Ledbetter had died in a shoot-out, and she’d be relieved she never got involved with him. She’d be free to marry in a more normal sense.
Mail-order brides were common in parts of the West where there was a high ratio of men to women, but why would any female feel the need to marry by mail? Especially one as good-looking as Natasha O’Sullivan.
She turned around to deal with her trunk. The glossy ring of curls she’d pinned up at the back of her head bobbed. Her bosom moved up and down, accentuating her slender waist. With a swallow, he glanced away and took a step closer to the ticket counter, annoyed that the train she’d pulled in on had just left. He glanced at the chalkboard and the schedule for the next one.
Today was Wednesday, almost seven in the evening. He scanned the departure times. The next one was Friday, then Sunday. There was no train leaving for two days?
He rubbed his bristly jaw. How was he supposed to get her out of here?
Stagecoach, he thought, or wagon train.
He turned around, steeled himself, adjusted his hat and strode toward her. There was no chance Ledbetter would’ve sent a photograph of himself—or even a description—for fear that his criminal face would be plastered across the country. So there was no way she’d know Simon was a liar.
A crazy thought hit him.
Nah. Couldn’t be.
Or could it? Could she have been more involved with Ledbetter than even McKern had suspected? Could she have been in cahoots with Ledbetter? Did she know anything at all about the stolen gold and jewels? She was a tiger in skirts. She had a temper she was trying to conceal. What else was in her character?
His cowboy boots thudded on the platform. She looked up in his direction, seemed to sense who he was and smiled. Loose strands of brown hair twirled across her face and over her freckles. Lips the color of sweet raspberries parted.
Hell, he nearly melted.
She might be a criminal, he repeated in his mind. Before he could respond to her, other footsteps shuffled to his right and she turned to look that way.
Simon frowned and turned his head to see who it was.
His muscles tightened in warning as he spotted the two men from Ledbetter’s gang—Kale McKern and Woody Fowler. Simon had told them to stay put, that he would pick up his bride alone and see to them in a couple of days. What were they doing here?
Then he recalled all the lewd remarks they’d made during the poker game—about what the mail-order bride might look like and how fast Simon could get her to bed.
They’d likely had a few drinks and came to see for themselves.
These weren’t stupid men; Ledbetter himself had gone to Harvard. In a time when few people were educated, Ledbetter’s wealthy grandparents had sent him to the best college in the country. He’d learned everything from books; Simon had learned everything he knew from the streets. Ledbetter had demanded that the men who worked for him be college educated, too, not only because he preferred the company of intelligent men, but as a cover. What sheriff would suspect a group of well-educated men to be cutthroats and train robbers? McKern and Fowler had gone to school in Upstate New York, violent thieves and scoundrels from an early age.
Simon kept walking toward the woman, firm and steady. He was reassured by the weight of his concealed guns and knife. But McKern and Fowler also carried hidden weapons. Simon tried to think fast. He couldn’t turn Natasha O’Sullivan away in the presence of Ledbetter’s men, for that would raise suspicion that Simon wasn’t who he said he was. Then both he and she might get a bullet to the skull.
So now he had to pretend to be the ever-lovin’ groom.
Damn. This mission just got a lot more complicated.
* * *
Three men were walking toward her, and suddenly Natasha O’Sullivan was no longer sure if one of them was her groom.
She had thought it was the tall, muscled one with shoulder-length dark blond hair, but it might be the thinner gentleman in the bowler hat or the heavyset one with the dark mustache. Her nerves took hold. It was one thing to write confidently to a complete stranger but quite another to be here in person. Surrounded by unfamiliar things and faces, she was scared and intimidated and lonely.
Evening light shimmered through the canopy of leaves above them and danced across the wooden platform. The breeze brought a heavenly relief to the back of her sticky neck and the perspiration that clung between her breasts. She’d worked up a sweat due to the blasted trunk that had nearly made her miss her stop.
The three men reached her at the same time.
The tall, handsome one in the checkered suit held out his hand and smiled. “You must be my lovely Natasha.”
Goodness. Relief washed through her, loosening her rigid shoulders, unlocking her knees and lifting the corners of her mouth in a very grateful smile. He was here. He’d come for her just as he’d written he would.
She slipped her gloved hand into his large palm. My, what a firm grip. She turned her face to look into the warmth of his green eyes. Her stomach clenched with the intensity of his gaze, the strength of his profile and the thought that he was hers.
For one thousand miles, she had hoped and prayed that she would feel some connection to him when they met. She’d felt that connection seconds ago, when they’d first locked eyes across the platform. She was blessed. Not only was he an educated man from Harvard, but about as sturdy and healthy as she could imagine.
“I’m Jarrod Ledbetter,” he said with a deep rumble. “I could hardly wait to meet you, darlin’.”
Her heart skittered at the endearment. “My pleasure, Mr. Ledbetter.”
“Jarrod, please.”
She inhaled a breath of fresh Wyoming air, laden with the scent of fir trees and pines. “Jarrod.”
The man was intimidating.
If she had to say, she’d say he was affected by her, too. She could see it in the heated manner of his gaze, the upturn of his silky lips, and how he slowly dropped his hand and rubbed the back of his neck. And yet he took a step away from her, his stance detached.
Jarrod cleared his throat and then introduced the other two men.
“These are my associates. Kale McKern and Woody Fowler.”
They were all roughly thirty years of age, give or take a couple. Neatly shaven, well dressed, inquisitive.
The thin man in the bowler hat stepped forward to shake her hand.
“Mr. Fowler, how do you do?” she asked.
“Welcome to Wyoming Territory, ma’am.”
Then to the other she added, “Mr. McKern.”
“You arrived on a right beautiful day.” His mustache wiggled as he chewed on a piece of grass. She thought she detected the scent of alcohol. Maybe they’d had dinner while they were waiting for her.
“You all work together in the jewelry business?” she asked politely.
The two men shoved their hands into their pockets and deferred to Jarrod. He was obviously the leader of the group. He likely employed them, judging by the respectful way they looked at him.
“Yes, we do,” Jarrod said boldly, half a head taller than his associates and much more muscled. Goodness, by his letters, she’d never realized he’d be so handsome. “Pay no attention to them,” Jarrod continued. “They just came to say hello. Now they’ll be on their way.” He seemed to give them some sort of signal. “As soon as they pick up your trunk and deliver it to the hotel across the street. Right, fellas?”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Fowler heaved on one end of the trunk, and his friend the other.
Jarrod was trying to get rid of them, she thought, likely so that he and she could be alone. It made her flush to think she would be alone with her future husband soon. There was only so much they could get across in letters. His had been rather formal and very proper. She was not expecting this bigger-than-life red-blooded male with rather long hair standing in front of her. She wondered what he had in mind for this evening, and when they would be talking to the minister. She had been expecting one final letter from him this week before she left Chicago to clarify those details, but it hadn’t come. He likely hadn’t had the time to write it.
As the men hoisted the trunk, she gripped her satchel. It contained her coin purse, travel documents and derringer.
Jarrod held out his elbow and she took it with an appreciative smile.
He was unexpectedly charming.
They strolled ahead of the other two, making their way down the platform toward the stone-built depot.
Jarrod patted her fingers that encircled his arm. Even though she was still wearing gloves, it was such a tender gesture and made her insides flutter.
Lord, she was going to be sharing her bed with this man. Sharing her body with his. Back home in Chicago at Mrs. Pepik’s Boardinghouse for Desolate Women, she’d met a lot of women from ragged backgrounds, some worse off than her, hearing all sorts of tales about men from different segments of society, rich and poor. All sorts of talk about the pleasures and dangers of intimacy. She hoped that Jarrod was what he appeared to be in his letters: well educated, finely bred, a gentleman in every regard.
She did admit, he looked wilder and more untamed than she’d imagined. Much more physically in shape than someone who spent a lot of time reading books and studying jewelry. And what was it about him that made him seem so distant from her?
“How was your trip?” he asked. “Not too tiresome, I hope.”
“It was a little rough, I’m afraid. We had problems with the locomotive.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t say.”
“Luckily, I took an earlier train from Chicago—one day earlier because train schedules can be so disruptive—so I had time to spare when we broke down yesterday morning outside Omaha. We had to wait an entire day for new parts. The railroad put us up for the night. I nearly didn’t get here.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How unfortunate.”
“Yes, it could have been. My friends in Chicago sometimes tell me I get too worried over fine details, that I’m always expecting trouble, but thank goodness I had the foresight to leave earlier this time. Otherwise you’d still be standing here, thinking I stood you up!”
Jarrod nodded. “Good thing you’re resourceful.”
“I try to be,” she said. “Thank you kindly for noticing.” Her skirts picked up as her enthusiasm bounded.
“Always expecting trouble, you say?” He peered at her oddly.
“It’s in my nature. I don’t trust easily. My friends in Chicago say it’s because I grew up with my grandfather, who was overprotective and worried about every little thing. You know how older folks are.”
He blinked. “Right. And yet here you are.”
“Oh, I know it must seem to you that it’s a contradiction. That I don’t trust easily and yet I traveled a thousand miles to marry a stranger. But as I said in our many letters, I had to get to know you first. That’s why I needed to ask you all those questions.”
“I guess I passed your test.”
“You most certainly did.” She rubbed away a fallen hair from her cheek. “And my friends, of course, helped me pick out the most eligible bachelor from all the responses I got from the ad.”
“And you trust your friends.”
She smiled. “Yes. We help each other. So far, six of us have placed ads as mail-order brides.” It was their way of escaping the tragedy of the Great Chicago Fire two years ago that had charred the city, leaving behind death and destruction and forcing them to make new lives for themselves all across the country. In her heart, it was also to get away from the loss of her grandfather, and the burden of feeling like a wild bird in a cage. She’d always wanted to travel and feel the ripple of adventure in her pulse.
He pulled in a breath that made her wonder what he was thinking.
She added in a whisper, “This is the most daring, craziest thing I’ve ever done, though. Coming to meet you. My grandfather would roll over in his grave.”
“Then I’ll have to take good care of you for the sake of your granddad.” He patted her hand again in a most detached, grandfatherly way, much to her puzzlement. “You likely missed dinner. Are you hungry, darlin’? I thought I might book you a room across the street. The Mountain Hotel has a beautiful view and a fine restaurant.”
She thought she heard a snicker behind her. With a frown, she spun to look, but the men behind her were straight-faced, shuffling the heavy trunk between them.
She tensed over the fact that he wished to book a room. One for her and one for himself? Surely not one for them together, for there didn’t appear to be enough time to wed first. As eager as she was to get to know him intimately, she wasn’t the type of woman to do it before marriage. She’d met lots of women like that at the boardinghouse, though, many who became dear friends. Ladies of a “certain kind” who taught her things about what pleased men in the bedroom—tips she would surely try out on Jarrod. Perhaps he would stay at his home tonight, although she didn’t know the particulars of where he stayed when he traveled. He’d written that he owned a few homes, modest homes little more than cabins that he wished to make bigger and brighter with her as his new bride.
“You didn’t have dinner yet?” she asked him.
“I was waiting for you.”
“How considerate.”
They stopped by the outer stone wall of the depot as he picked up a fine suitcase befitting of a jeweler. She gathered his things were inside. Perhaps they would marry quickly and honeymoon somewhere?
They walked through the crowded station and came out on the other side at street level. The boardwalk was teeming with folks in all directions. Wagons loaded with ranching supplies rolled along the dirt street. Storefronts were strung with banners that read Shovels for Sale, Sandwiches Till Midnight, Gold Nuggets Weighed and Exchanged, Copper and Silver Bought and Sold.
Some of them had help-wanted signs tacked to their doors and windows. Natasha glanced across the street to the left, to the river valley lined with plush green trees. In the center of the greenery sat one outstanding hotel. It was built of stone and timber, and sprawled across an acreage. A wood-burnished sign hung over the entrance. The Mountain Hotel.
Gracious. It was massive and more luxurious than any building she’d ever spent time in.
The two men lugging the beat-up trunk weaved around two cowboys and planted the case behind her.
“Why don’t you fellas go on ahead to the front desk?” The brim of Jarrod’s black hat shielded the setting sun behind the mountains. “I’ll be in touch in the next few days.”
“Take your time getting back,” Mr. Fowler said. The other man nodded and they soon disappeared through the horses and pedestrians, carrying her trunk to the hotel.
She brightened, pleased that he would be spending a few days with her. She clutched her satchel to her waist. “Jarrod, have you had an opportunity to think more about what we discussed in our letters?”
“How’s that again?” He turned toward her with a twinge of concern. Did the question bother him?
“The letters,” she repeated softly. “What I asked you in my last one?”
“I’m...I’m still giving it some thought.”
“I see.” She puckered her lips.
Had they hit a little snag in their communication? She wished to make it clear how involved she wished to be in this marriage. And now, upon meeting him, she wondered again why he had replied to her advertisement for a bride. He seemed so attractive and intelligent and successful, her doubts rose again. She had asked him precisely this in one of her letters, and he had responded that he’d been engaged once but it hadn’t lasted due to her unfaithfulness, and that due to the nature of his business, he traveled so much that he didn’t have the opportunity to meet many women. Combined with the fact that the ratio of women to men was somewhere in the neighborhood of one to twenty.
Jarrod seemed distracted. His gaze moved over her bonnet to the other side of the street. She turned to see what held his dire attention.
A team of horses were rearing up at a water trough. An elderly man was holding tight to their lines, but he turned pale as one horse neighed, fell down hard on his front hooves and bucked.
Her body stiffened in fear for the man.
Jarrod muttered, “Excuse me,” and dashed to help.
Jarrod took control. He grasped the reins from the elderly man, calmly speaking to the horses as he pulled tight against the power of the beasts. He finally got close enough to pat the shoulder of one. The jittery white one settled first, then the chestnut mare. They were magnificent animals, muscles gleaming in the faded golden light, accentuating the muscled lines of Jarrod’s legs, the strength of his shoulders and width of his chest.
His tanned hands were utterly commanding, yet soothing at the same time. She wondered where he’d mastered his skill with animals.
When it was apparent that the mares were settling, other folks rushed in to help. Jarrod never released his hold. He kept control of the situation, even turning to the frightened elderly man to calm him, too. They talked, laughed some and kept talking low and serenely.
The picture was comforting to her, that she had chosen to marry a man with integrity and capability.
Yet oddly, the scene also caused a rush of homesickness.
She would likely never again see the dozen women she’d made friends with in the past two years at Mrs. Pepik’s Boardinghouse for Desolate Women.
They’d all suffered through the Great Fire. One-third of the city had lost their homes. One hundred thousand people homeless. Dozens had died. Natasha had been living with her grandfather at the time. They’d lost their house in the fire, and his jewelry shop with it. She had mistakenly assumed that because they weren’t physically hurt by the flames, they’d be fine.
However, three days later, her grandfather had suffered an apoplexy from the stress—a sudden paralysis of half his body, as well as slurred speech. The next day, she lost him.
It still misted her eyes.
Women with no other means to support themselves had turned to Mrs. Pepik. The kind widow hadn’t allowed anyone to feel sorry for herself. Her late husband, a policeman, had taught Mrs. Pepik how to shoot a gun, and she made sure every woman there knew how to handle one in self-defense. Then at the beginning of this year, the women had decided to place ads in the Western papers as mail-order brides. Suddenly their futures turned brighter, and no one could stop talking about where they wanted to live, which state, which man.
Natasha yearned for love, for intimacy, for family. She yearned to be free from what had always been expected of her in Chicago.
She’d had several men to choose from in the letters. In the end, she’d decided on Jarrod Ledbetter because he had replied to her ad that he was an educated man and a jeweler. She wished with all her heart to join her new husband in his ventures. Here in the West, she hoped to run her own jewelry shop—or a partnership with Jarrod—not only to prove herself, but in silent honor of Granddad. He had, after all, trained her in everything she knew, and she had become just as skilled in jewelry repair and knowledge as he had.
In the distance with the sun nearly set, Jarrod turned over the reins to the now-calm owner and made his way back to her.
“Where were we?” Jarrod asked when he reached her. Heavens, he was so rough and energized from his adventure with the horses. “Let’s move on to that hotel. We’ll enjoy a nice meal and get to know each other.”
Her throat welled with a lump when she thought of the tender friends she was leaving behind in Chicago. She tried to overcome it by reminding herself that she would write letters home to them and that she was with a good man, in a good place.
She’d never been in love before. Could she drop the shield of protectiveness that her grandfather had instilled as second nature to her heart, and fall in love with Jarrod Ledbetter?
Chapter Two
Simon pleasured in the way the candlelight from the restaurant tabletop shifted across Natasha’s face. The glow brought out her lively eyes, outlined the fine arch of her brown eyebrows and warmed the contour of her lips. It was late evening. Darkness engulfed the window next to them, dampening the view of the river below, but he was enjoying the view in front of him.
He’d hooked his hat on the wall behind him, but she was still wearing her bonnet with the fake grapes and cherries. They bobbed on her head as she ate her meal.
Remain in control, and never leave anything to chance. That was the simple rule he’d lived by ever since he’d turned eight. Those words had put food in his belly, kept him safe, protected his heart.
And it was why this situation made him bristle.
Don’t hurt her, he thought. If she’s innocent and not a criminal, she doesn’t deserve to be hurt. In order to find out, he had to ask more questions.
He planted one large elbow on the white tabletop and leaned in toward her bosomed silhouette. What exactly could he say that hadn’t been said by Ledbetter in his called letters? How could Simon now pretend to know what had been written between them, so that he wouldn’t alert her that he was an imposter?
He’d start with something tame. “Where are you from originally?”
She inhaled, and when she did, her chest moved up and down, accentuating the slimness of her waist. He noted how nicely she moved and the sensitive sweep of her dark lashes over her face as she answered.
“Chicago. And you?”
She brought the glass of ice-chip water to her lips and sipped, making him wish she’d do all sorts of devilish things to him with those lips. He swallowed hard, cursed himself silently for noticing her womanly charms and glanced away to the other customers in the crowded room to distract himself.
Waiters in black suits hustled to deliver wine and liquor, soups and main courses of roast venison and wild duck.
“I’m from the Midwest. Raised on a farm. Before I moved to Boston, of course.” He and Ledbetter had both been raised in the Midwest. Simon in southern Dakota Territory, Ledbetter in Nebraska very briefly till his parents had died and he was whisked away to Boston by his wealthy grandparents. The grandfather, apparently, had made his fortune from pirating ships in the Caribbean. The nasty streak was either in the bloodline or was taught to his grandson. Simon’s parents weren’t around long, either, but he’d had no one to whisk him away to safety.
“Natasha. That’s an awfully pretty name. Where’d that come from?”
She flushed at his attentiveness. “My father was Irish, but my mother was Russian. She named me.”
“Ah,” he said with humor. “Irish and Russian. That makes you a person with quite a hot temper.”
Her brown eyes lit with amusement.
“And,” he continued, pleasuring in her reaction, “your Russian blood would explain the high cheekbones. Very lovely.”
“How about you? What’s your family heritage?”
“We can trace our lineage all the way back,” he said, proudly speaking the truth, “to George Washington’s house.”
“Truly?” she said. “You’re related to George Washington?”
“Well...one of his servants.”
She smiled. “What made you want to go to Harvard?” She looked so nicely at him, he found it hard not to scoff at her curiosity. However, the question made him realize why he was here. Not to flirt with her, but to fool her. The closest he’d ever gotten to stepping foot inside any college was riding past one in a locomotive. He hoped his speech and mannerisms didn’t give him away. He tended to cuss more than he should, and he could never sit calmly in a suit.
“I always had the urge to study,” he lied smoothly. He shifted his too-wide-to-get-comfortable shoulders against his chair and tried to straighten his cramped leg under the table. There never seemed to be enough room for him in these fussy places.
She played with the stem of her water glass but gazed intently at him.
“Studying came naturally,” he lied some more. Ha. He had counted down the days in school when he wouldn’t have to pick up another pencil. Although he was excellent with numbers and calculations, and figuring out what sort of gun he’d need to shoot what distances, and how much gold bullion a two-foot-by-two-foot safe could hold.
She scooped the white napkin from her lap and dabbed her lips. “That’s incredible. Your parents must’ve been so proud.”
“I reckon.” He realized she was referring to Ledbetter’s departed parents, but Simon was thinking of his own. His mother would surely be proud, if it were true and if she were still alive. But his father—the no-good son of a bitch—wouldn’t give a cow’s scrapings. After all, the bastard had walked out on Simon and his mother when he was just a kid.
“And pray tell,” she said, returning the napkin to her lovely thighs, “what subjects did you study?”
He blinked at her. How the hell should he know?
She must’ve taken his hesitation to mean that the question needed clarification. “I know you studied economics, but do tell what precisely you covered.”
“Ah, I see.” His hair brushed against his shoulders. “Economics of the United States. Of our natural supplies, and the upticks and downticks of the market, and our trade with the richer countries of the world. For example, England and France.”
“France? Don’t tell me you speak French?” Her lashes fluttered. How engrossed she was with her imaginary, dearly departed Ledbetter.
To be frank, Simon was a little put off at how much she seemed to worship him. Who the hell cared about someone who’d studied at Harvard? The man had fleeced old women of their wedding rings and slashed the throats of railroad passengers who wouldn’t cooperate. Education was no substitute for character.
“Nah, no French.” He shifted his long arms as the waiter brought glasses of red wine that Simon had requested. He’d selected French wine from the Burgundy region. She’d been impressed by that, too.
“Cheers,” he toasted, “to us.”
“Oh, Mr. Ledbetter, yes, to us.”
“Please, it’s Jarrod.”
“Sorry, it slipped out. It’s just so strange to be thinking we’re to be married shortly when we’ve never met before. Jarrod,” she corrected herself, clicking her glass against his. “May we always be this happy.” She lifted the glass to her mouth.
“Hmm,” he said softly, thinking of her comment, then took a swig. Not bad stuff. He preferred wine from the new vineyards of California, but he’d had a sense he needed to show off by asking for an imported bottle. It was what Ledbetter would have done.
He schemed as he twisted in his prickly wool suit and stared at the enticing person seated mere inches away. How exactly was he going to get through to this woman without arousing her suspicions to get what he wanted?
* * *
Something was off between them.
Natasha had felt it ever since his two friends had left them alone, and she and Jarrod had headed here to the hotel. She was trying awfully hard to be congenial and friendly, but something was holding her back.
What was it?
She lifted a piece of grilled fish to her mouth and tried to enjoy the meal, the restaurant, the company.
Perhaps it was a reaction to his behavior.
She had a sense that Jarrod was sizing her up rather harshly. That now that he’d met her face-to-face she wasn’t perhaps what he’d been expecting?
She wasn’t as formally educated as he was, granted, but she was well aware of the world, very well-read and inquisitive about business and jewelry. Her grandfather had taught her much about the business world, about delivering fine goods, about keeping his word on delivery times and being honest in a business deal. She hadn’t gone to Harvard, but she would love to read some of his texts to learn the finer details of economics, to be privy to what men were educated on and perhaps the economic secrets of the world.
No...she didn’t sense that he was lording over her that he had a college education and she didn’t. It was something else.
In his letters, he’d been keen to list what he wanted from her, declaring his desire of starting a family together, of bonding as husband and wife, but now in person...she sensed none of that. Every time she caught his eye, he was the one who looked away first. He had seemed open and friendly at first glance, but only to a point, for any intimate talk she was hoping for—about weddings and ministers and how many children they’d like to have—was not materializing.
It chipped at her confidence.
Was she emitting involuntary signals that she herself was hesitant of this marriage? That now that she’d arrived and met him, perhaps they were doing this too quickly?
Nothing easy is ever worth having. That was what Granddad had always said.
Perhaps she should take in the evening more slowly, not let her nerves run away with her senses. She would strive to be observant, to ensure that now that they’d met, she still did truly wish to marry him for him, and not because a stranger had simply responded to her letter.
What were her alternatives if she chose not to marry Jarrod Ledbetter?
She knew a trade. Jewelry repair. She’d read in the newspapers that many women here in the West ran their own businesses. That they even had the right to vote.
She had little money in her pocket, which was frightening on its own, but outside the train depot, she’d spotted two signs in storefront windows saying Help Wanted. She could apply for one of those positions to make sandwiches, or for a jeweler’s shop assistant, or any number of small jobs until she decided how to open her own jewelry store.
But...she was being ridiculous. Things were going as planned. She was here and her fiancé across the table was prepared to marry her. How on earth had she allowed her mind to wander off in this manner?
Because she was seeing it through the eyes of her protective grandfather, who’d always warned her not to give her heart away too freely. Any man who came into the shop and gave her a second glance got a cold stare from him in return.
Not until you’re sure of his intentions, Natasha, he’d say, should you ever allow a man to court you.
But Jarrod had given her no reason to doubt that he still intended to marry her.
“Tell me something more about yourself.” He seemed to be enjoying his roast venison and took another bite.
“Such as?”
“Anything and everything. Start from the beginning.”
“But you already know so much from my letters. I have to apologize how much I poured onto those pages.”
“Nonsense. I liked that. And now that you’re here in person, I want to hear about you all over again.” His green eyes flashed with flecks of deeper colors. His gaze lowered to linger on her lips.
Her pulse rippled. “You sure I won’t be boring you?”
He shook his head. His dark blond hair shifted about his broad shoulders, and she very much enjoyed the absurd length of it. All the cultured men in Chicago trimmed theirs short. But this was the Wild West.
“I’m mesmerized,” he murmured.
She smiled. He was definitely more charming in person than he’d been in his letters. His letters had been intense and serious. She had detected no sense of humor in them, but then, what man showed his humorous side on a page? It wasn’t as if she was marrying Mark Twain, for heaven’s sake.
“Well, as I said, I was born in Chicago. My parents died early, sadly, both from tuberculosis.” When she was fourteen and had never even heard the word before. She’d become their caregiver for a solid month, getting instructions from the doctor and learning how to make chicken soup on her own, change bedsheets with a person still in them, and sit in the darkness night after night listening to their rattling breathing and praying they’d make it. God had never answered her prayers, and it had taken her years to forgive him.
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
She frowned gently. She’d already told him that in her letters. Didn’t he remember?
He seemed to, for he corrected himself. “I mean to say—sorry to hear it in person.” His mouth twitched in genuine sympathy.
“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “But I had a lovely upbringing with my grandfather. We didn’t have much, just each other. We lived above his jewelry shop.”
“His jewelry shop. Tell me more about that.”
“I thought you’d be interested in his business, seeing how much it is that you and I have in common.”
A line in his cheek flickered. “My thoughts exactly.”
“His shop wasn’t big, but he had a lot of customers. At first, I’d help him by working the counter. You know, taking in the cash, putting it in the drawer, making change. A couple of years later, I helped him with the watches.”
“The watches?”
“Pocket-watch repair. Cuckoo clocks. Grandfather clocks. He wouldn’t let me do much but hold the pieces for him. But I studied what he did. Sometimes if we were behind, he’d let me do an order. Then we expanded to repair gold rings. To reset loose stones in other pieces of fine jewelry. The business got bigger and bigger.”
He frowned. “And then you must’ve...you lost it in the Great Fire?”
She nodded.
“And your grandfather passed away....” He prodded for more.
She promised herself she wouldn’t get weepy. His death was more painful to her than her parents’. “That he did, unfortunately. A few days after the fire, when things had cooled down and it was safe, we were sweeping the streets of charred debris. One minute he was teasing me that I looked like a chimney sweep, and the next he was clutching his heart and falling to the ground. Apoplexy. His speech was so slurred I couldn’t understand him. We never got a chance for another conversation.”
“That is a shame.” He reached over the tablecloth and touched her hand. His large, warm fingers pressed against her slender ones. Such a difference in size. Such pleasure in his touch.
“Then I placed the ad,” she said on a brighter note. “And here we are.”
“Yes, indeed.” He pulled his hand away. “Tell me again why you chose my letter,” he said, “above everyone else’s.”
“But I’ve already told you.”
“Tell me again. A man likes to hear in person what his bride thinks of him.”
“There were dozens of respondents, as I mentioned, but yours stood out. It was so well worded. Your education truly does you justice with the written word. When I discovered you were putting your business education to good use in your jewelry enterprise, I thought I could be very supportive to you.”
“Supportive. Hmm.”
“And that’s why I posed the question. The one you’re still thinking on.”
“Ask me again,” he said softly. “Tell me more directly so I get a true sense of what’s on your mind.”
She inhaled. “Well, it’s just that I believe that you and I could build quite a business establishment as a couple. We could do this together, Jarrod. We’d be twice as good, twice as big, twice as profitable. I know the jewelry business.”
“And so...?”
“I’m asking you if you’d please consider letting me join you in your travels. You know, do whatever needs to be done?”
She sipped another smooth mouthful of red wine as he leaned back in his chair and stared at her so intensely that she thought he would shatter his wine goblet.
* * *
She was in on it, thought Simon with rising anger. Sure as thunder came before lightning, Natasha O’Sullivan was devoted to helping Ledbetter’s criminal jewelry business. How much more obvious could she be?
He tried not to moan. He tried not to flinch as he sat watching her. He tried not to move a muscle in his face to indicate in any manner that he was affected by her request to join him. She knew about jewelry repair and was quite willing to indulge her would-be husband by jumping in with 100 percent enthusiasm.
How could a man from Harvard accomplish so much and yet now be so dead?
Why did Simon feel such disappointment in her?
She had many positive attributes. Why did she wish to become a criminal herself?
Greed?
All right, he’d play along. After all, she might know the whereabouts of the missing three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cash and jewels and lead him directly to it. In fact, if she was guilty, that would let him off the hook for how he should treat her. He’d met criminal women before, and they were just as vicious and deadly as men. Didn’t he owe it to Eli and Clay to put her behind bars? Some of her cohorts had shot them in cold blood! They’d made Simon go mad at the scene, trying to stifle the flow of blood from Clay’s neck where a gunshot had severed the artery. And poor Eli with a bullet straight through the heart.
If this woman was involved in any manner, she deserved what was coming.
Simon could only pray that she wasn’t too bright and wouldn’t pick up on the fact that he wasn’t really her beloved partner in crime, Ledbetter.
But maybe he was jumping the gun. Maybe he was assuming too much, assuming that she knew what she was getting involved with, that it was a criminal enterprise with Ledbetter.
Slow down, he told himself. Let’s not pull the trigger yet. Give her the benefit of the doubt.
How much, thought Simon as his pensive gaze swept over the caring eyes and the pursed feminine lips, did she know about Ledbetter’s business? The lawmen were still looking, but as far as they could gather so far, they hadn’t been able to uncover any stores that Ledbetter had actually opened in any town. Yet he’d claimed he had several. The man knew a lot about jewelry, but maybe only because he’d been a thief.
But surely the man hadn’t written too much in his letters for fear of incriminating himself. Or maybe he had. Maybe the braggart couldn’t help himself. All he had to do, once he’d trusted her and revealed his hand, was tell her to burn his letters.
“Well?” she prodded. “What do you say? Shall we run this business together, Jarrod?”
In all the years he’d been chasing criminals, he’d arrested only two women. He’d never injured one before, for neither had resisted arrest. Laws were laws and whoever broke them would come to justice.
“Before I answer that,” he said, bringing the French Burgundy to his lips once more, “I need to ask if you’ve kept any of our correspondence.”
She frowned at the question and lowered her voice. The grapes on her bonnet flashed in the candle’s flicker of light. “I did as you asked. However, I don’t see why I needed to burn them all,” she whispered, “even though I do understand your need for privacy and security, seeing how many jewelry shops you intend to open. And how you’ve been robbed yourself just recently.”
He quirked an eyebrow. So he’d been right. Ledbetter had asked her to get rid of all his letters. “Thank you kindly for understanding.”
“I admit, I thought it odd at first. But the more you explained, the clearer it became.”
Clearer? His side was getting murkier. They were speaking in riddles. How much did she know? Was she a criminal or simply in over her head?
Hellfire. He couldn’t send her home on the next train or stagecoach yet. He had to find out how much she knew and whether she could lead him to the jackpot. It was what his superiors at the detective agency would expect him to do. To follow through on every lead, and certainly not to feel sympathetic toward a possible criminal only because she was a head-turning female.
He pushed away his plate and tried to act civil and calm, as Ledbetter would do in this situation. All in a day’s work for that bastard. “Would you care for anything sweet? I saw raspberry pie on the menu.”
She leaned her pretty frame back against the chair rails, smiled down at her empty dinner plate and sighed in contentment. “I don’t think I can fit another morsel. Thank you for the wonderful meal and the wonderful company.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Natasha.”
She kept flushing at the mention of her name. It did feel rather intimate to him, too, sitting here across from a seemingly lovely lady who soon expected to be his bride.
If these were normal circumstances, if he was allowed to be himself as Simon Garr and she was his mail-order bride, he’d be as nervous as a trapped cougar. He’d seen what sort of marriage his parents had had: his father walking out, his mother drinking herself to death. No way on this earth he ever wanted that.
She lifted the white napkin from her lap and folded it across the table. She looked rather nervous, pursing her lips as though straining to find the right words. “What—what did you have in mind for the wedding ceremony? How soon would you like to do this?” The smooth muscles in her throat moved up and down with her delicate question.
Everything about her was a trap. Her smooth voice, the soulful brown eyes, the scattered freckles on her face that made her seem so innocent.
He silently cursed. There’d be no damn wedding.
He was saved from answering by their waiter.
“May I offer you some coffee?” the man asked as he gathered plates. “Perhaps some pastries, miss?”
She shook her head and nervously brushed her sleeves. Pastry was the last thing on her mind, he guessed, for she had a marriage to pursue.
“Please send the bill to the front desk,” said Simon, pushing his long legs back from the table. “I’ll settle up when I pay for Miss O’Sullivan’s room.”
“My room?” Those cinnamon-and-brown-sugar eyes flashed at him again as if to add, Not our room? We won’t be married tonight?
“I thought you might like to settle in. Find your way around town, rest up a few days before we plunge into this.”
She might be beautiful and tempting, but he was not Jarrod Ledbetter. Fortunately, she was not his mail-order bride and it was not truly him who needed to make decisions about an upcoming wedding.
He wanted no part of wives and obligations and possible children who’d grow attached to him and...and detective agents who’d deliver the news, as they had to Clay’s widow and Eli’s mother, that their loved ones had been killed in gunfire in the line of duty. God almighty, Clay even had a young boy, Tucker, who’d been left behind. Simon knew all too well how it felt to be deserted by a father.
He reminded himself again.
Natasha O’Sullivan was poison.
Chapter Three
He wasn’t that taken with her. The hurtful thought rippled through Natasha’s mind at dinner and became even more apparent as Jarrod walked her to her room.
Her high-heeled boots padded along the carpet runner behind him as her disappointment grew.
At dinner, there had been moments when he’d looked across the table and she had sensed that he was drawn to her. He’d waited for her to answer some of his questions as though there was nothing more important to him in the world. But at the end of their meal, she had noticed a slight hesitation, an almost-imperceptible coolness that seemed to blanch his heart. It was almost as though he’d been testing her in some way, and she had failed his qualifications.
Why? What could it be about her that he disapproved of?
She couldn’t help it, but she was also ruffled by the fact that he took charge without much discussion with her—he’d told the front-desk clerk that he’d like one room with a pretty view for an unspecified period. Why not discuss the waiting period with her? Why did he think she wished to rest up before “plunging” into this? The bellboy had left to deliver her trunk to the room, while she and Jarrod remained to fill out the guest register.
She stepped beside him and decided to voice her opinion. “Jarrod, it’s not that I wish to rush into a wedding, but it’s not precisely rushing into it when we’ve been thinking and anticipating it for three months, now is it?”
“Huh?” He rubbed his bristly neck. “It’s just that I wish to give you time to settle in.”
“Perhaps it’s a silly notion, but I fantasized that upon meeting you, you might lift me in your arms and tell me how you couldn’t wait to be with me. That you had a minister waiting this minute.”
“Ah. I see.” He gulped. Why was this conversation making him nervous? “This way,” he said, motioning with his hand and making a sharp left.
She followed in the narrow corridor. Why was he so controlled with his feelings when all she wanted was to be encircled by his arms and held for a little while?
She hadn’t been held for a very long time.
But perhaps she should be happy that he wasn’t rushing her into marriage. That he wished them both to take their time. Perhaps she should learn to temper her loneliness and her desire to connect with another person. It would come in due course. Impatience on her part wouldn’t help.
Her folks had never talked to her about boys. They’d had a loving relationship with each other, and with her, but the pain of losing them made her wary of getting close to a boy and possibly losing him, too. The last man who’d kissed her had been a young man who’d come from an upstanding family her grandfather had known. Granddad had rarely introduced her to potential suitors, had never rushed her nor tried to force her to marry young.
Wait for the right one, he’d often say. Be guarded like your grandmother, dear Elizabeth, was until we knew each other well.
Natasha had liked her last suitor well enough, but there’d been no mad rush to see him, no quivering in the pit of her stomach when they kissed. It had been more brotherly—playing checkers and strolling along the river together. Before him, she’d known several boys while growing up, but none she’d dreamed of with wild intensity. She had wondered if there’d ever come a time when she would meet a man who would turn her heart and soul upside down. She’d wondered it on the entire train journey here. She wondered it now as she watched Jarrod’s thigh muscles flex beneath his wool trousers, as she watched his shoulder blades move beneath the shadows of his jacket.
“I think we’re close,” he said, turning his cheek slightly as he looked at the numbers on the hotel doors to match the one on the key.
They passed the bellboy. “Folks, it’s straight ahead and to the right.” He pointed that way.
Jarrod tipped him some coins, and they continued down the hall.
What had Jarrod thought when he’d first read her advertisement in the paper?
Looking for a man of solid worth. I am a hardworking young woman of good moral standing and excellent health. I adore children. I also have skills in jewelry repair, can handle a revolver and a horse, and would dearly love the adventure of living west of the Mississippi. Please write to Miss Natasha O’Sullivan...
Now that she’d left Chicago, however, she felt an ache in her heart she couldn’t suppress. Her friends were left behind, and she hadn’t realized how much she had relied on them. They were trusted souls who gave her straight answers.
She thought she would find all of that and more with Jarrod. His letters had been cordial and, although a bit detached, had filled her with an intense desire to join him in his travels on the railway, tending to his jewelry shops across the West and scattered over the Rockies, and creating an empire of prosperity.
Yet why was there such a chasm between them?
Granddad would never approve of her becoming a mail-order bride.
Perhaps that was why she’d done it. That thought burned inside her. But there were extenuating circumstances, she reasoned, trying to push away her shameful feelings that she wasn’t quite good enough for her grandfather’s standards.
She’d always tried to be such a good girl, abiding by his rules, listening to all of her elders with politeness, being ever so demure. It was her time now, wasn’t it? Time to do as she pleased with whom she pleased. Time to follow her heart and any desire to fulfill her life with her own dreams, no matter how silly or outlandish they might appear to any onlooker.
She had that right.
“Ah, here we are. Room 208.” Jarrod inserted the key into the door at the end of the corridor.
He turned the knob, swung the door open and stepped aside for her to enter.
“Is that it, then, Jarrod? No more talk of wedding plans?” Why was he elusive?
“Only until tomorrow. It’s been a long day for both of us.”
“Long day?” she snapped. “That’s how you think of this? Of me?”
“Of course not, darlin’.” He swooped in to brush his lips against her cheek.
The light kiss was unexpected. A sexual current rippled between them, hot and fierce, as she wavered past his looming body, inches close to his chest and his firm, square jaw.
His skin, bristling with unshaven shadows, held the scent of fresh outdoor air mingled with leather. She inhaled sharp and quick, and his gaze snapped down to hers. A moment of fire burned between them. Who were they to each other? Soon-to-be husband and wife?
The thought that they would soon share a bed made her tremulous. Heat shot through her chest, flushing her skin and heating her limbs.
She was so inexperienced yet so lonely that she couldn’t wait to share her nights with Jarrod.
Her nostrils flared with the heady scent of his masculine presence, and she stepped past him, desperate to breathe neutral-scented air. It was almost as though she couldn’t think straight when he came too close.
And she had to think straight to surmise her next step. What would be the proper requirements to set her mind at ease that he was indeed the man she should spend the rest of her days with?
“Jarrod, I don’t wish to be one of those couples who pretend for appearances that we are happily wed, when beneath the surface we might live in separate homes in separate towns in separate beds.”
“You have given this a lot of thought.”
She frowned. “Haven’t you?”
He seemed to be getting exasperated. He tugged at the collar of his shirt as if it were too tight. “Yes, it’s all I’ve been thinking about. For days.”
“Only days?”
“Weeks. Three months.” He groaned. “What do you want me to say?”
She opened her mouth in disbelief. “How can you be so...so detached?”
Still looming at the doorway, he held up his palm in a sign of forgiveness. He seemed sincere as his voice softened. “I’m sorry. Let me rephrase this. Since the moment you stepped off that train, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off your beauty. Since the moment you kicked that trunk halfway down the platform, I thought there’s no other woman in the world for me.”
“You truly mean that?”
“And every word I said in my letters.”
At his bright expression, she felt buoyed. Then somewhat embarrassed. “You saw me kick the trunk?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh.” So much for appearing ladylike.
She stepped into the large room, her skirts and petticoats swirling about her ankles. It was a fine room. Large and airy, decorated in clean white linens with fresh-cut flowers on the nightstand and a lantern lit on the wall above the bed.
Her trunk had been placed at the foot by the closet door, and the bed had been turned down. The pillows had been fluffed and patted and looked inviting after her long, tiresome journey. Comfortable feathers awaited her.
She tossed her satchel onto the bed, lifted her arms to unfasten the pin holding down her bonnet, removed it from her head and turned to face Jarrod.
Staring at her from several paces away, he pressed a bulging shoulder against the door opening, one massive cowboy boot crossed over the other. He studied her as she patted down the unruly hairs that followed her bonnet, and mistakenly knocked out a pin from her hair.
One side of her curls fell to her shoulder, so she quickly unfastened the pin on the other side till it tumbled down, too. The weight of her hair fell onto her collar and spine.
He was watching it all, as if he’d never seen a woman fix her hair before.
The lapels of his suit jacket opened. She got a glimpse of the shoulder holster crossing his chest and swallowed hard at how intimidating he looked. The men in Chicago rarely displayed their weapons. She wasn’t naive enough to think the men in the East didn’t carry any, but this vision of Jarrod made her realize how rough and crude and lacking in the law the West was. She’d observed it on the train ride here. Every man had the right and duty to defend himself, and most carried guns.
She placed her bonnet and hairpins on a stand.
His posture stiffened, as if watching her made him uncomfortable in some way, as if being here in her room made him uncertain how to proceed. But, Lord, he hadn’t even crossed the threshold of the door. How tense would it make him if he moved closer?
“I trust you’ll be comfortable tonight, Natasha. I’ll swing by in the early morning.”
Startled that he was leaving, she asked, “Where will you be tonight?”
“Right next door.”
Her eyes widened. “Next door? In this hotel?”
“I thought it would be more convenient if we could spend more time together. No sense going back to the cabins with McKern and Fowler. I’m here to spend time with you.”
Her pulse hammered in her throat. So he did care.
Her lashes lifted as she walked closer, experimenting with this new relationship, this new man. What did he want to know about her?
And what did she wish to know about him?
The answer was quite simple, really.
She wanted to know what he truly thought of her as a potential bride, beyond their cordial first greeting and the predictable words of How was your trip? and How do you do? There was one quick way to find out, and he seemed to be too shy, or too much of a gentleman, to make the first move.
Her lady friends of a certain kind back at the boardinghouse had often told her that some men, especially upstanding gentlemen, often needed a nudge to know when a woman wanted to be touched. And where she wanted to be touched.
Natasha stepped close, craned her neck to stare up at him and tangled her slender fingers into his. An invisible current shot through her at the contact. She tugged in a breath of air. He froze.
Kiss me on the lips, she thought. Show me what you truly feel and kiss me properly.
* * *
Her touch was unexpected.
Simon’s initial response was to pull back. He wasn’t here for this; he was here to get into her mind and motivations, and not be affected by her damn presence.
She pressed her soft lips together as she stood assessing him, their fingers entwined. The warm light from the lantern danced across the bridge of her nose and lit the soft details of her cheek. Her dark chestnut hair, slightly ruffled from the hairpins she’d removed, swirled about her creamy throat.
Why did she have to be so luscious?
She slid her hand into the nook of his firm waist, her light touch caressing his skin, sending a jolt riveting through his gut. She stood so close he could breathe in the scent of her fresh skin and the lemony rinse she’d used on her hair. His pulse drummed hard beneath her touch, and when their eyes met, hers were clear and sharp and inquisitive. No woman, no innocent woman, had ever offered herself to him in such a tender manner.
She was poison, he reminded himself.
And yet he needed this, needed her. He needed tenderness and warmth and gentle understanding. Lord knew he’d had none of this on the road for the past ten years, only hard work, distance and no attachment to any upstanding woman he might have met in his line of duty. There had been saloon girls and hard-core drinkers who could guzzle a bottle of whiskey as fast as any man, but no one with any lick of sensitivity or class.
He swallowed hard at what he could not have.
A night with her would be filled with a hell of a lot more consequences than with a pretty barmaid. This woman would demand things from him he wasn’t willing or capable of giving. Just as his father hadn’t been able to give to the woman he’d married, and to the son they’d had.
Maybe that made Simon selfish. So what.
He was protecting her by not giving in, by not succumbing to her charms. He was also protecting the soreness in his heart that would surely rise if he ever became involved with a decent woman.
Huh, he thought, realizing for the first time in his life that he’d never been with a decent woman.
He’d slept with painted ladies, barmaids and drinkers. No one like Natasha O’Sullivan.
His jaw muscles tightened.
He should have broken free of her grasp then, for when she slid her other hand along the other side of his waist, his sexuality awakened, and the lonely boy who’d grown into a lonely man could not resist her.
With a firm grip, he anchored his hands at the sides of her face and lowered his lips to hers. It began as a graze, a soft, teasing pleasure, warm and delicious. His mouth slid across hers, tasting and pleasuring in the feel of her femininity, marveling at how lightly she could kiss, and yet how firmly his body responded. It was instant arousal. He had an immediate need to take it further.
Expertly, he moved her, stepping into the room just enough so that he could kick the door closed with his big cowboy boot and press her against the slab. Her hands slid up over his ribs, making him burn with a palpable need. He cupped the back of her neck, twirling the silky strands of her hair beneath his fingertips, gasping at the sound of her soft moan and then boldly shifting his palm to cup her breast.
He could feel the rib cage of her corset, the shallow waist, the whalebone strips that tilted her breasts upward. The cup of her breast was large and firm beneath his hand, a wondrous mound of beauty. The bud of her firm nipple arched beneath the fabric into his palm.
And suddenly their kiss became so much more. It was as if they’d been standing in a calm, sunny field, and suddenly a tornado had swept in and blasted around them. The wind caught, the weather shifted, and he and his emotions were whipped into a furious storm. The pressure of their mouths mounted, their lips pressed firmer and deeper and their tongues brushed. He wanted her.
Their bodies pressed closer, his hand dropped from her rib cage to her waist and down lower as he gripped her buttock and imagined what it might be like to throw her onto the bed and truly do everything he fantasized.
Break it up...I must break it...
With a shudder, he tore himself away.
Cool air rushed into the space between them. He gazed down at her shocked expression. Perhaps it had been too much for her, too, the unexpected jolt of passion and desire that seized them.
She slid the back of her palm against her red and swollen lips. She stared at him in amazement. Or was it shock?
He couldn’t apologize! He was supposed to be her beloved groom, so how could he say he was sorry for his display of obvious desire?
“Are you all right?” he managed to gasp.
“Yes,” she murmured, her brown eyes as round as chestnuts, her nostrils flaring as she caught her breath. Her fingers trembled as she lowered her hand to her waist.
“Welcome to Wyoming,” he whispered.
“What a welcoming,” she said softly.
“You’ve had a long journey. I’ll leave you to rest. I’ll be back in the morning and we can have breakfast.”
She nodded, stepping out of the way to allow him to open the door. Her hair was totally disheveled, buckling in waves along her shoulders. Her skin was flushed and she herself was as breathless as though she’d been riding a galloping horse for hours and had been abruptly pulled off.
“Good night.” He strode out of the room and wondered what on earth had just happened between them.
What the hell did he think he was doing?
Chapter Four
Jarrod was definitely attracted to her, thought Natasha with a combination of pleasure and confusion an hour later. Judging by the kiss that still had her stomach in knots every time she thought about his handsome face and his roaming hands, there was no doubt about his physical attraction to her. She pulled her thin robe tighter to her damp, bare skin. She’d just bathed in the hotel’s Spring Room for Ladies and had returned to her room to unpack.
So the hesitation she’d felt from him at dinner was not a physical one. That left her to wonder what precisely it was.
Wasn’t he pleased with their friendship and looking forward to a much deeper relationship? Falling in love? Having children?
Then what in blazes was wrong? One minute he was keeping her at arm’s length as though he didn’t know what to do with her, and the next, he was grabbing her by the behind and making it very obvious what he’d like to do with her.
“I don’t understand,” she grumbled, tossing aside the ropes from her trunk and lifting the monstrous lid. She didn’t know a lot about men from personal experience, but she was ready and willing to learn about Jarrod.
Rummaging through its contents, she tossed aside the worn blanket, then the patched dresses.
She reached for her jewelry box. She didn’t have an overabundance of jewelry, but there were some fine pieces given to her by her grandfather, and others that she’d taken a shine to at his shop. She had saved for some of it herself, investing her hard-earned wages into precious metals, gemstones and pearls. Sadly, over half of her items had been destroyed in the Great Fire. And she’d had to sell most of the few remaining pieces from his shop over the past two years as she struggled to make ends meet.
She spotted the exquisite wedding gown she’d tucked in the middle of the trunk, between the other clothing for protection.
Gingerly, she slid it out and stood up to assess it.
The gown was more beautiful than anything she’d ever owned. It had been bought just for her and graciously sent by train to Chicago by her dear friend Cassandra Hamilton in California. Cassandra had also been a mail-order bride from Mrs. Pepik’s Boardinghouse, the first one in fact, and was now happily living with her husband in the vineyards of Napa Valley. Cassandra and her husband were doing very well to be able to afford such an extravagant gown for Natasha.
“Oh, Cassandra, thank you.”
The billowing white satin wasn’t too wrinkled; nothing that hanging in the closet couldn’t solve.
Natasha spread the gown onto her bed and smoothed the front. The bodice was tailored and beautifully fitted along her bosom and waistline. The square neckline swept low. Mounds of bustling white satin formed the lower half. And, Lord, the train! Who would’ve thought she’d be wearing a ten-foot train? It was embedded with lace and pearls and cut-glass crystals. There were jewels of red glass sewn into the hem and trim around her long sleeves.
She vowed she’d be a good wife. She’d be respectful of Jarrod’s wishes and dreams, work hard to better both their lives, and the lives of their children when that time came. She’d fall into step beside him as his equal partner and lover.
Her pulse bounded again at the thought of that fabulous kiss. And the heart-pounding love affair they might start.
Could she allow herself the freedom of trusting Jarrod? If she couldn’t trust her husband-to-be, then whom could she trust? She’d never relied on a man before, not a suitor. She supposed she did follow by her grandfather’s example of never being able to fully trust someone who wasn’t family. The older he’d gotten, the more protective he was. Near the end of his life, he’d turned everyone away. She tried not to be like him in that regard, but it was difficult to peel away that layer of self-protectiveness that had been ingrained in her since she’d been fourteen and faced with the loss of both parents.
What if Jarrod’s indecision in setting a date was a hint of a deeper problem? Why didn’t he wish to talk about any details of the wedding? Was she being stupid in ignoring the signals that he didn’t want to marry her?
Don’t be a fool, girl. If a man doesn’t wish to marry, walk away quickly and find yourself another. That was what her friend Valentina Babbs, in her fifties and a former lady of the night, used to tell her at the boardinghouse.
“But when do I walk away, Valentina?” Natasha asked aloud. “How do I know if it’s time?”
You can tell how they really feel about you if you ask them about their mother. If they open up, it means they trust you more than they do her. Valentina gave a lot of odd advice.
Sighing, Natasha brushed at the creases of her lovely gown and wondered when or if she’d get the opportunity to wear it. She tried to ignore the feeling in the pit of her stomach, that troublesome anxiety that was building every time she thought of Jarrod.
She reminded herself that she had options here. She had to ask herself whether he would be a great choice for her. She wanted an incredible partner, someone to watch out for her as much as she would for him. If he wasn’t committed to that loyalty and to her in every way, then perhaps she shouldn’t select him.
It wasn’t too late for her to back out. A feeling of remorse lodged in her throat. Surely it would not come to that.
She was ashamed to think of what her grandfather would say, to know she’d come all this way in a bid to marry a stranger—only to be sorrowfully disillusioned. Not to mention embarrassed, unprepared, broke and indescribably hurt.
* * *
Simon hadn’t slept well. After rolling for hours, he was relieved when the sun finally came up and he could rise out of the damn bed. He tried not to think about her. She was the reason for his tossing and twisting last night.
He thought about his jewelry assignment. For the past few years as a detective, jewelry missions had become his specialty. Some detectives knew all about livestock, others the construction and valuation of houses, and for him, it was gems and gold. He’d had an early interest in the field since he was kid, bartering and selling watches and gold chains in train stations with other runaways. Some became pickpockets. He’d picked a few fine pockets himself, but it had always left him with too much guilt, so he’d stuck to lawful trade.
He shoved aside the covers and planted one hard foot on the soft rug. Naked, he stood up, walked to the windows and peered through the sliver of curtains to the street below. The cool air in the room ruffled the hairs on his torso. He assessed the hustle of the street vendors and listened to the clomp of horses as strangers went about their business.
He felt nothing.
Just as every other morning when he rose and wondered what town he was in, there was no stirring in his heart that he might belong here, that there might be someone important waiting for him and binding him to this place.
No one was waiting for him. No friends, no work colleagues, no woman, no wife.
He wondered how it could be possible to meet as many people as he did in his line of work as a detective, traversing the country on covert missions, yet still be unconnected to everything and everyone.
Except there’d been Clay and Eli. They’d been his close friends. And look where that had gotten them. Knowing Simon meant death and destruction. Don’t depend on Simon Garr as a friend. He’ll watch you get killed, then brush off his trousers and walk away.
He sighed.
Lately, it was hard to know who he was anymore and where he wanted to go from here.
“Oh, don’t be stupid,” he mumbled to himself. All this soul-searching because he’d met Natasha O’Sullivan? When it came to women, it had taken him years to get his life to this point where he liked it. No attachments, no responsibilities, no damn obligations, no one to live up to or to possibly disappoint when they truly got to know him.
He veered away from the window to dress.
The full-length mirror tacked to the armoire reflected his nakedness as he got into his trousers. He buttoned them, the muscles of his torso flexing in the coolness of the morning. He took out a neatly pressed white shirt, shoved his arms into it and repositioned his concealed weapons. Derringer behind his back, dagger to his ankle, shoulder holster across his chest.
Even a sauna last night in the Gent’s Spring Room and Sauna hadn’t been able to calm him. What the hell had he been thinking, kissing her like that?
Blazes. He was an idiot.
Did he want to sabotage his own assignment?
Sure, no one had told him a mail-order wife was on her way, but he’d dodged plenty of women before, hadn’t he?
She was no different from the dozens of others he’d come across in his years of travel, he tried to tell himself. Some women had thrown themselves at him, depending on who he was supposed to be while undercover. Posing as a rich and powerful man always seemed to make him the biggest magnet. Other women preferred him when he was impersonating a drifter, whom they thought needed love and attention. Once he pretended to be a schoolteacher, and that had uncovered a woman twenty years his senior who kept surfacing every time he was alone, putting her hands all over him and trying to woo him to her place for dinner.
He’d never taken pleasure or spent the night with any of the women in his line of duty, only the tougher ones he met in saloons, the ones he knew could handle his leaving and didn’t expect much in terms of settling down or his making false promises. There’d been some humor in the delicate situations he’d sometimes find himself in while undercover, but he’d never been truly distracted to the point of losing control.
He’d come awfully close with Natasha O’Sullivan last night.
Yes, she was different from all the rest, he admitted. What was it about her?
Something in her eyes. A glimmer of vulnerability.
He reached into his armoire and pulled out a black suede jacket that had fringes hanging from its sleeves. He tugged into it, donned his black hat and told himself that he knew exactly what he found attractive about her. Why he’d kissed the hell out of her last night.
Because he’d sensed the same thing in her that lately seemed to be engulfing him.
Loneliness.
That deep, throbbing ache in the pit of his soul that always came out late at night to whisper, Hello, I’m here again to keep you company.
He swore and pushed the ache from his heart. He’d been alone since he was eight years old. He was tough and impenetrable and didn’t need anyone. To hell with everyone who might think differently.
He wouldn’t get close enough to the O’Sullivan woman to kiss her again. In fact, he would try to physically avoid her so there was no opportunity for him to be drawn in. If he kept his cool and stayed his distance, he’d get the information he damn well needed to get from her—the location of the railroad’s stolen property—and be on his way to the next assignment.
It was simple. And simple plans always worked the best.
* * *
At the sound of the firm knock on her hotel-room door, Natasha’s pulse leaped. It rattled her composure. She reached to open the pine door and found Jarrod Ledbetter on the other side.
He was dressed more casually today, in a black suede coat and hat that might belong to a cowboy, but a crisp white shirt and tailored wool trousers that a businessman might wear. In the light of day, he seemed more alive and intimidating than ever. Good heavens, she thought, her mind racing with sensual thoughts of what it might be like to disrobe him of those fancy clothes.
“Good morning.” He gave her a charming smile that in no way alluded to any uncomfortable regrets he might have about the intimate kiss they’d shared last night. Her face, however, flushed with heat at the searing memory.
“Morning, Jarrod.”
His gaze sharpened over her plain calico dress. It had been a hand-me-down gift from one of her friends at the boardinghouse. It was a size smaller than she usually wore and therefore too snug in the bodice. However, she would take her shawl with her and drape it over her shoulders for modesty. She’d leave her hair loose, too, in the manner she’d noticed other younger women wearing last night at dinner.
“How did you sleep, Natasha?”
“As deep as an ogre. Utterly wiped-out. You?”
He shrugged. “I never seem to sleep well.”
“That’s a shame. Perhaps it’s because of all the traveling that you do. Have you ever tried camomile tea or—”
“That’s a lovely cameo,” he said, glancing at her throat.
She wondered if he’d purposely changed the subject. “Thank you.”
“Made of pink shell,” he said, “mounted on a black velvet ribbon. The scene depicts ‘Rebecca at the Well.’”
Her hand sprung to the nicely weighted oval above her cleavage. She was pleased he knew so much about jewelry and that she could share this love of the craft with him. “I thought the length of the ribbon nicely balanced the size of the cameo.”
“Very becoming. And cameo earrings to match.”
“Do you like them? They were originally mounted on posts. I converted them to fish hooks so they dangle, more in keeping with the length of the velvet ribbon.”
His penetrating eyes flashed. “Very simple, yet very elegant.”
The heated manner in which he said it made her feel as though he was appraising her, not her jewelry. Either way, she was flattered. His opinion meant a lot, since he was such a fine and experienced jeweler. He didn’t wear much jewelry himself, besides the handsome silver buckle on his belt that was engraved with his initials, J. L., and encrusted with studs. Most men did not wear a lot of jewelry, but she truly enjoyed seeing the occasional lapel pin or watch fob on a well-suited man.
“Ready to go?” he asked. “I thought we might take a stroll and have breakfast outside in one of the cafés. The food’s not fancy, but the sightseeing is grand.”
She was relieved to take the focus from herself and happy to explore the town.
She took her white shawl and exited the room. He tugged the door closed for her, and she turned to lock it with her key. Their fingers brushed accidentally. Her belly rippled with sensations, but he removed his hand so quickly from hers that she felt the space between them rather cold. When she turned around and placed the key in her beaded handbag, he was already standing several feet away.
Oh.
Such an abrupt parting.
He seemed more relaxed when they got outdoors. He smiled at her and motioned her to pass first along the crowded boardwalk and shops, all with the good manners of a schoolboy.
This man was no schoolboy.
She swallowed hard at the glint of metal in his eyes. There was something hardened in him, something she feared might be impenetrable.
Valentina from the boardinghouse popped into Natasha’s head, reminding her to ask about his mother.
“Jarrod, I—I was wondering if you might tell me more about your family. I realize your parents passed away when you were rather young. Six, right?”
He nodded, his expression remaining hard. “Barn fire.”
“I’m awfully sorry. Do you recall anything about your mother?”
He shook his head.
Nothing? Six was old enough to have some memories, wasn’t it? Valentina wouldn’t want Natasha to give up on the line of questioning. “How about your grandmother? What was she like?”
“A nice lady.” Jarrod ushered her through a crowd of people coming at them at the boardwalk, then changed the subject. “That’s an unusual clasp in your hair.”
The signs were not good. He wasn’t letting her into his world.
“Something my grandfather gave me,” Natasha answered sadly due to Jarrod’s refusal to confide in her. “My most valuable piece, actually.” The stones were modest in size, but beautifully set, and she recalled how delighted her granddad had been when he’d presented it to her. “It contains four precious stones, set in eighteen-karat gold from the new mines in California. The brooch means the world to me, not because of its monetary value but its meaning.”
“Of course. The gems are arranged in a secret code to spell out a message from your granddad to you.”
My, she thought as he continued to elaborate, Jarrod Ledbetter was very keen to notice details, wasn’t he? She tried to understand that it might take some time for him to open up about his family. His mother’s passing must’ve been tragic for him.
That’s all it is, Valentina.
Jarrod elaborated on the one topic he seemed quite pleased to pursue. “The first letter of each gemstone spells out the word DEAR. There’s a diamond, emerald, amethyst and ruby.”
“He was sentimental,” she explained. “An excellent goldsmith and gem setter. He made it himself.”
Many people from many different countries used gemstones to spell out words in their jewelry. It was a common practice, and if the message was written in a different language, extremely difficult to decipher.
“I once repaired a ring that I secretly deciphered,” she recalled. “It spelled out FOREVER. And a lapel pin that spelled APOLOGY.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Did you share the information with the owners?”
She shook her head. “That would have been indiscreet. They more than likely already knew the messages, and I was simply the hired help.”
“Ah, the ethics of jewelry repair. You must keep your eyes and ears closed to the secrets of others.”
He was teasing her. A rush of excitement coursed through her at the possibility of what the day might bring.
It was interesting to discuss jewelry with him. She had always been thrilled in learning and practicing what she’d learned with her grandfather. Intimate messages and meanings in jewelry were also represented with symbols, not only spelled out with words. Shamrocks were symbols of luck, for instance, and mistletoe represented a desire for a kiss.
Jarrod strode beside her. It seemed that he was being very careful to leave several inches between them as they walked. She could understand his desire to be a gentleman, but she wouldn’t be put off if he were a bit bolder. She might not be very experienced about what exactly would happen on the wedding night, but she did yearn for a display of affection, to be romanced.
The August sky was clear and sunny. The day was already warming, and the bustle of cattlemen and miners and shoppers enthralled her. There were so many different types of people here. Most were men, but occasional women passed by, too, dressed in various tastes ranging from simple country fashions to elegant coiffures and wealthy dresses.
Soldiers from nearby Fort Russell strode by, dressed in uniform and headed toward the livery stable across the street. A church sat nestled next to it, and a gambling hall next to that. What a mix of affluence and attitude.
Two men in shiny jackets and cravats mused at a jewelry-store window. She glanced at the gold chains that draped across their ruffled shirts, the diamond lapel pins, the silver-tipped watch fobs, the ruby cuff links and golden rings. She’d never seen any men wear so much jewelry.
“Heavens,” she whispered in surprise, trying to fathom who these flashy men were.
“Gamblers,” Jarrod whispered back.
“Ah.” She glanced at the jewelry-store window as they passed. George’s Fine Gold, the swinging sign above them read. When she turned the corner, she realized there was an entire row of jewelry shops on this street.
“Oh, my.” Such wealth.
Close by, near the Union Pacific Railroad Depot, where she’d arrived yesterday, tents were slapped up with makeshift bakeries, coffeehouses and cafés. There were market stalls of all sorts of merchandise being sold from coffeepots to snowshoes to hammers and mining equipment. One man specialized in ropes, and all sorts of these fibers, in various thicknesses and colors, dangled from the top of his awnings.
What interested her most were the jewelry stores ahead of her.
“How on earth do you compete, Jarrod, with all these shops?”
He had a ready answer. “My stores have been around longer than most and I’ve got established customers. I give them expertise in the field. Honesty and value in transactions. Half of these shops are nothing but fronts for dishonest thieves.”
She frowned in surprise and scrutinized the customers going in and out. Many were what seemed like hardworking folks dressed in everyday work clothes, some were travelers with luggage, others were more wealthy folks dressed in finer clothes. It was disappointing to know that some of them were being hustled and cheated.
“There’s a nice café around the corner, but if you’re appetite’s not burning yet, I thought we could investigate one of the larger shops.”
“I’d like that.” She was curious to see how the shops and the jewelry compared with Chicago’s.
“After you,” he said, flagging her into the wide storefront ahead. The sign read Wyoming Jewelry Exchange. “It’s the busiest exchange in the territory.”
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Kate Bridges
WHAT KIND OF SITUATION HAS SHE WALKED INTO?Seeking justice for his murdered colleagues, Detective Simon Garr has gone undercover as infamous jewel thief Jarrod Ledbetter. All is going to plan until he finds out that Jarrod’s mail-order bride is on her way to Wyoming! Simon can’t afford to jeopardise his cover, which gives him only one option – he must marry the woman!When his poor bride Natasha O’Sullivan arrives she doesn’t have a clue what she is walking into – but Simon finds there is more to her than first meets the eye. Because Natasha has brought along secrets aplenty of her own…Mail-Order Weddings - From blushing bride to Wild West wife!
Suddenly their kiss became so much more.
It was as if they’d been standing in a calm, sunny field, and suddenly a tornado had swept in and blasted around them. The wind caught, the weather shifted, and he and his emotions were whipped into a furious storm. The pressure of their mouths mounted, their lips pressed firmer and deeper, and their tongues brushed. He wanted her.
Their bodies pressed closer. His hand dropped from her ribcage to her waist and down lower as he gripped her buttock and imagined what it might be like to throw her onto the bed and truly do everything he fantasised.
Break it up…he must break it….
With a shudder, he tore himself away.
Cool air rushed into the space between them. He gazed down at her shocked expression. Perhaps it had been too much for her, too, the unexpected jolt of passion and desire that had seized them.
“Welcome to Wyoming,” he whispered.
“What a welcoming,” she said softly.
Kate Bridges invites you to her
MAIL-ORDER WEDDINGS
From blushing bride to Wild West wife!
The Great Fire of Chicago might have changed best friends Cassandra Hamilton’s and Natasha O’Sullivan’s lives for ever, but they’re determined to carve a new future for themselves as mail-order brides in the West.
Then along come their gun-slinging, horse-riding, breathtaking new husbands—it seems Cassandra and Natasha have got a whole lot more than they signed up for!
RANCHER WANTS A WIFE
Already available
WELCOME TO WYOMING
April 2014
Welcome
to Wyoming
Kate Bridges
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DEDICATION
For Greg, who loves a good adventure.
Award-winning and multi-published author KATE BRIDGES was raised in rural Canada, and her stories reflect her love for wide-open spaces, country sunshine and the Rocky Mountains. She loves writing adventurous tales of the men and women who tamed the West. Prior to becoming a full-time writer, Kate worked as a paediatric intensive care nurse. She often includes compelling medical situations in her novels. Later in her education she studied architecture, and worked as a researcher on a television design programme. She has taken postgraduate studies in comedy screenwriting, and in her spare time writes screenplays. Kate’s novels have been translated into nine languages, studied in over a dozen colleges on their commercial fiction courses, and are sold worldwide. She lives in the beautiful cosmopolitan city of Toronto with her family. To find out more about Kate’s books and to sign up for her free online newsletter please visit www.katebridges.com (http://www.katebridges.com)
Previous novels by the author:
THE DOCTOR’S HOMECOMING
THE SURGEON
THE ENGAGEMENT
THE PROPOSITION
THE CHRISTMAS GIFTS
THE BACHELOR
THE COMMANDER
KLONDIKE DOCTOR
SHOTGUN VOWS
KLONDIKE WEDDING
KLONDIKE FEVER
WANTED IN ALASKA
HER ALASKAN GROOM
ALASKAN RENEGADE
RANCHER WANTS A WIFE* (#ulink_71bf6c2e-e91c-55bc-9b41-6ada9ac8a58c)
* (#ulink_db8bc73d-3043-5133-b930-0a2a8959c09f)Mail-Order Weddings
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Chapter One (#u6204594f-540f-5c0a-bd41-8d937a73c593)
Chapter Two (#u86e14fe4-ce76-55e3-8425-30d0ee25a059)
Chapter Three (#u503719c4-248e-56fc-9937-b45373afc91d)
Chapter Four (#u5aa49777-4ee4-5762-b14d-dd369ef98806)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, August 1873
Simon Garr adjusted his hat, peered down the railroad tracks to the train chugging its way up the gulley and damn well hoped his bride-to-be wasn’t on it.
They’d never be right for each other.
He was a liar and imposter.
She wasn’t.
Other folks waiting on the platform jostled to look down the tracks. Simon bristled in his itchy wool suit. He’d feel more comfortable in denim jeans. He’d always worn charity-donated jeans while growing up barefoot on the plains, having to fend for himself since the age of eight.
No matter what he wore, it was hard to conceal his gritty determination, the need to be able to control everything around him, especially in dangerous situations like these. He enjoyed the weight and feel of his concealed weapons—the revolver in his shoulder holster, derringer pressed into his back, knife strapped to his ankle. He’d taught himself how to shoot when he was a kid. The first living thing he’d ever shot was a raging bear that’d mauled a friend. The second living thing, years later, was a man who’d murdered innocent villagers for three gold coins.
The checkered suit wasn’t his usual style, but it was the attire that jewelers wore.
And that was what he was supposed to be. A jeweler. He was working undercover, impersonating a man named Jarrod Ledbetter, leader of the Ledbetter gang.
Ledbetter and his pack were not only jewelers, but clandestine train robbers. The real Ledbetter was dead. He and two other scum from their filthy group had been fatally shot last week in an undercover stakeout by Simon and other lawmen of the district. Word of their deaths was being closely guarded by authorities. The railroad bigwigs didn’t want to release the information until they recovered the goods stolen days before the shoot-out, worth three hundred thousand dollars.
They’d hired Simon, a detective, to find it.
Simon cared less about the missing gold and jewels, and more about his two closest friends, also detectives, who were killed in the shoot-out. Simon winced at the awful memory of being unable to save his friends, of seeing the blood on their bodies. He looked at the faces of the people strolling by, sadly reminded that he’d never see Clay Holborne or Eli Remington again. He vowed to get even.
His mission now was to gain the confidence of the remaining two Ledbetter gang members, who hadn’t been at the shoot-out, and uncover the stolen property.
Two days ago, Simon had made contact. The two remaining murderers had said they would be “honored” to finally meet Ledbetter in person to get their next assignment.
But the big surprise came when Simon had discovered that Ledbetter, before his death, had mailed away for a wife!
It was during a casual poker game last night that the two men had asked Simon if he was ready for her arrival this evening.
Hell no! But he’d bluffed his way through answering. He was deep undercover with no immediate means to inform his superiors. So, there was nothing he could do but stand here and wait. He’d brought a suitcase with him to add to the illusion that he did indeed expect her and wanted to whisk her away to the nearest hotel.
But who was to say she hadn’t called off the wedding? Maybe Ledbetter was supposed to send a telegram this week to confirm and, due to his untimely death, hadn’t.
What kind of woman traveled blindly to involve herself with an unknown man?
Maybe she was adventurous. Desperate. Or fleeing from something. Who the hell knew? All he knew was her name. Natasha O’Sullivan.
Women baffled him. Yet he had no problem lying to them. He’d done it countless times in the name of justice. He’d gone by more false names than truthful. The hardest thing about lying wasn’t the actual deception—for it was always done in the name of good—but keeping the facts straight in his head about who he was this week.
Jarrod Ledbetter, he repeated in his mind.
He also couldn’t control how some women would react to his lies. Men were more predictable. In his line of duty, being in command of everyone around him always had life-and-death consequences.
Hell. Just as they had for Clay and Eli.
Guilt consumed him again.
It overpowered his senses, made his throat constrict, his mouth run dry. He hadn’t been able to save them. If he’d been faster, or stronger, or, damn, more aware of the hidden gang members on the cliffs...
The train, still half a mile off, blew its whistle. It caused a rush of excited voices on the platform. The early-evening breeze wafted through Simon’s shoulder-length hair. It spun the leaves on the aspens and whispered through the tall pines and firs. Clay and Eli would never breathe air like this again. He tried to push the tragedy out of his mind. He needed his faculties clear and sharp.
The wheels of the locomotive screeched and the train roared past. It came to a rumbling halt and passengers disembarked. Simon peered up and down the platform, outwardly calm while trying to spot anyone who resembled a mail-order bride. He watched as folks were reunited, businessmen hired porters, cowboys slung their packs. No lone women so far.
Gratified that his bride wasn’t here, Simon turned to go. But then he noticed the edge of a scuffed, brown leather trunk being pushed out of a rear car. The trunk’s latch was busted. Clothing was visible through the cracked opening of the lid. A flurry of ropes held the thing together.
A female voice rang out from inside the car. “You ugly, uncooperative, good-for-nothing piece of trash...”
Then with a kick of her high-heeled black leather boot, the trunk flew out the door and landed with a thump on the wooden platform.
He raised an eyebrow in amusement. He’d hate to be the leather beneath that boot.
But when she stepped out, his whole body tensed.
God, no. That wouldn’t be her, would it?
The whistle blew again and the train rolled away.
He stood partially hidden by the posts around him and watched her.
She was the right age—twentysomething. And she was alone.
Dressed in a faded skirt and a formfitting bodice that was patched at her elbows, she brushed the shimmering brunette hair from her dark eyes and realigned her stuffy bonnet. It had fake fruit attached to the brim—cherries and grapes—and would appeal to a woman forty years her senior. Donated clothing, he thought. She glanced timidly down the tracks, head slightly bowed, and then adjusted her fussy white gloves in a prim fashion. Who was she kidding? She was no timid woman. She was a tiger in skirts.
The burly conductor in uniform called to her from the moving train. “Take care of yourself, Miss O’Sullivan!”
Simon cursed. So it was her.
“Bye, sir!”
He watched her wave. Her bright eyes flashed deep coffee-brown, and her expression rippled with warmth. Her skin was clear, her neckline plunged to a hint of cleavage and the cut to her suit bodice revealed tempting curves.
His jaw clenched.
She was innocent in all of this. That was what one of Ledbetter’s men, the more brutal one, Kale McKern, had implied in the poker game last night—that Ledbetter had fooled her. As he’d fooled lawmen for years, men much more experienced with criminals than she was.
All Simon had to do was walk up to her, tell her he’d had a change of heart and put her on the next train home.
Simple.
But it looked to him as if all her dreams were packed up in that battered old trunk. And now he was about to tell her he didn’t want her. He swore. He wasn’t here to cause trouble to any woman. He was here to find justice for his friends. No doubt Simon would cause her heartache and embarrassment by turning her away, but he couldn’t disclose he wasn’t the real Ledbetter, for there was no telling who she might talk to on the return journey home. Then his life would be in danger. Maybe even hers.
This way, they’d both be spared. Only her feelings would be hurt. Feelings healed a lot faster and better than gun wounds.
But damn...he was about to give her one big invisible bruise.
On the bright side, in a few weeks when this was over, she’d likely read in the papers that the lying and murdering Jarrod Ledbetter had died in a shoot-out, and she’d be relieved she never got involved with him. She’d be free to marry in a more normal sense.
Mail-order brides were common in parts of the West where there was a high ratio of men to women, but why would any female feel the need to marry by mail? Especially one as good-looking as Natasha O’Sullivan.
She turned around to deal with her trunk. The glossy ring of curls she’d pinned up at the back of her head bobbed. Her bosom moved up and down, accentuating her slender waist. With a swallow, he glanced away and took a step closer to the ticket counter, annoyed that the train she’d pulled in on had just left. He glanced at the chalkboard and the schedule for the next one.
Today was Wednesday, almost seven in the evening. He scanned the departure times. The next one was Friday, then Sunday. There was no train leaving for two days?
He rubbed his bristly jaw. How was he supposed to get her out of here?
Stagecoach, he thought, or wagon train.
He turned around, steeled himself, adjusted his hat and strode toward her. There was no chance Ledbetter would’ve sent a photograph of himself—or even a description—for fear that his criminal face would be plastered across the country. So there was no way she’d know Simon was a liar.
A crazy thought hit him.
Nah. Couldn’t be.
Or could it? Could she have been more involved with Ledbetter than even McKern had suspected? Could she have been in cahoots with Ledbetter? Did she know anything at all about the stolen gold and jewels? She was a tiger in skirts. She had a temper she was trying to conceal. What else was in her character?
His cowboy boots thudded on the platform. She looked up in his direction, seemed to sense who he was and smiled. Loose strands of brown hair twirled across her face and over her freckles. Lips the color of sweet raspberries parted.
Hell, he nearly melted.
She might be a criminal, he repeated in his mind. Before he could respond to her, other footsteps shuffled to his right and she turned to look that way.
Simon frowned and turned his head to see who it was.
His muscles tightened in warning as he spotted the two men from Ledbetter’s gang—Kale McKern and Woody Fowler. Simon had told them to stay put, that he would pick up his bride alone and see to them in a couple of days. What were they doing here?
Then he recalled all the lewd remarks they’d made during the poker game—about what the mail-order bride might look like and how fast Simon could get her to bed.
They’d likely had a few drinks and came to see for themselves.
These weren’t stupid men; Ledbetter himself had gone to Harvard. In a time when few people were educated, Ledbetter’s wealthy grandparents had sent him to the best college in the country. He’d learned everything from books; Simon had learned everything he knew from the streets. Ledbetter had demanded that the men who worked for him be college educated, too, not only because he preferred the company of intelligent men, but as a cover. What sheriff would suspect a group of well-educated men to be cutthroats and train robbers? McKern and Fowler had gone to school in Upstate New York, violent thieves and scoundrels from an early age.
Simon kept walking toward the woman, firm and steady. He was reassured by the weight of his concealed guns and knife. But McKern and Fowler also carried hidden weapons. Simon tried to think fast. He couldn’t turn Natasha O’Sullivan away in the presence of Ledbetter’s men, for that would raise suspicion that Simon wasn’t who he said he was. Then both he and she might get a bullet to the skull.
So now he had to pretend to be the ever-lovin’ groom.
Damn. This mission just got a lot more complicated.
* * *
Three men were walking toward her, and suddenly Natasha O’Sullivan was no longer sure if one of them was her groom.
She had thought it was the tall, muscled one with shoulder-length dark blond hair, but it might be the thinner gentleman in the bowler hat or the heavyset one with the dark mustache. Her nerves took hold. It was one thing to write confidently to a complete stranger but quite another to be here in person. Surrounded by unfamiliar things and faces, she was scared and intimidated and lonely.
Evening light shimmered through the canopy of leaves above them and danced across the wooden platform. The breeze brought a heavenly relief to the back of her sticky neck and the perspiration that clung between her breasts. She’d worked up a sweat due to the blasted trunk that had nearly made her miss her stop.
The three men reached her at the same time.
The tall, handsome one in the checkered suit held out his hand and smiled. “You must be my lovely Natasha.”
Goodness. Relief washed through her, loosening her rigid shoulders, unlocking her knees and lifting the corners of her mouth in a very grateful smile. He was here. He’d come for her just as he’d written he would.
She slipped her gloved hand into his large palm. My, what a firm grip. She turned her face to look into the warmth of his green eyes. Her stomach clenched with the intensity of his gaze, the strength of his profile and the thought that he was hers.
For one thousand miles, she had hoped and prayed that she would feel some connection to him when they met. She’d felt that connection seconds ago, when they’d first locked eyes across the platform. She was blessed. Not only was he an educated man from Harvard, but about as sturdy and healthy as she could imagine.
“I’m Jarrod Ledbetter,” he said with a deep rumble. “I could hardly wait to meet you, darlin’.”
Her heart skittered at the endearment. “My pleasure, Mr. Ledbetter.”
“Jarrod, please.”
She inhaled a breath of fresh Wyoming air, laden with the scent of fir trees and pines. “Jarrod.”
The man was intimidating.
If she had to say, she’d say he was affected by her, too. She could see it in the heated manner of his gaze, the upturn of his silky lips, and how he slowly dropped his hand and rubbed the back of his neck. And yet he took a step away from her, his stance detached.
Jarrod cleared his throat and then introduced the other two men.
“These are my associates. Kale McKern and Woody Fowler.”
They were all roughly thirty years of age, give or take a couple. Neatly shaven, well dressed, inquisitive.
The thin man in the bowler hat stepped forward to shake her hand.
“Mr. Fowler, how do you do?” she asked.
“Welcome to Wyoming Territory, ma’am.”
Then to the other she added, “Mr. McKern.”
“You arrived on a right beautiful day.” His mustache wiggled as he chewed on a piece of grass. She thought she detected the scent of alcohol. Maybe they’d had dinner while they were waiting for her.
“You all work together in the jewelry business?” she asked politely.
The two men shoved their hands into their pockets and deferred to Jarrod. He was obviously the leader of the group. He likely employed them, judging by the respectful way they looked at him.
“Yes, we do,” Jarrod said boldly, half a head taller than his associates and much more muscled. Goodness, by his letters, she’d never realized he’d be so handsome. “Pay no attention to them,” Jarrod continued. “They just came to say hello. Now they’ll be on their way.” He seemed to give them some sort of signal. “As soon as they pick up your trunk and deliver it to the hotel across the street. Right, fellas?”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Fowler heaved on one end of the trunk, and his friend the other.
Jarrod was trying to get rid of them, she thought, likely so that he and she could be alone. It made her flush to think she would be alone with her future husband soon. There was only so much they could get across in letters. His had been rather formal and very proper. She was not expecting this bigger-than-life red-blooded male with rather long hair standing in front of her. She wondered what he had in mind for this evening, and when they would be talking to the minister. She had been expecting one final letter from him this week before she left Chicago to clarify those details, but it hadn’t come. He likely hadn’t had the time to write it.
As the men hoisted the trunk, she gripped her satchel. It contained her coin purse, travel documents and derringer.
Jarrod held out his elbow and she took it with an appreciative smile.
He was unexpectedly charming.
They strolled ahead of the other two, making their way down the platform toward the stone-built depot.
Jarrod patted her fingers that encircled his arm. Even though she was still wearing gloves, it was such a tender gesture and made her insides flutter.
Lord, she was going to be sharing her bed with this man. Sharing her body with his. Back home in Chicago at Mrs. Pepik’s Boardinghouse for Desolate Women, she’d met a lot of women from ragged backgrounds, some worse off than her, hearing all sorts of tales about men from different segments of society, rich and poor. All sorts of talk about the pleasures and dangers of intimacy. She hoped that Jarrod was what he appeared to be in his letters: well educated, finely bred, a gentleman in every regard.
She did admit, he looked wilder and more untamed than she’d imagined. Much more physically in shape than someone who spent a lot of time reading books and studying jewelry. And what was it about him that made him seem so distant from her?
“How was your trip?” he asked. “Not too tiresome, I hope.”
“It was a little rough, I’m afraid. We had problems with the locomotive.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t say.”
“Luckily, I took an earlier train from Chicago—one day earlier because train schedules can be so disruptive—so I had time to spare when we broke down yesterday morning outside Omaha. We had to wait an entire day for new parts. The railroad put us up for the night. I nearly didn’t get here.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How unfortunate.”
“Yes, it could have been. My friends in Chicago sometimes tell me I get too worried over fine details, that I’m always expecting trouble, but thank goodness I had the foresight to leave earlier this time. Otherwise you’d still be standing here, thinking I stood you up!”
Jarrod nodded. “Good thing you’re resourceful.”
“I try to be,” she said. “Thank you kindly for noticing.” Her skirts picked up as her enthusiasm bounded.
“Always expecting trouble, you say?” He peered at her oddly.
“It’s in my nature. I don’t trust easily. My friends in Chicago say it’s because I grew up with my grandfather, who was overprotective and worried about every little thing. You know how older folks are.”
He blinked. “Right. And yet here you are.”
“Oh, I know it must seem to you that it’s a contradiction. That I don’t trust easily and yet I traveled a thousand miles to marry a stranger. But as I said in our many letters, I had to get to know you first. That’s why I needed to ask you all those questions.”
“I guess I passed your test.”
“You most certainly did.” She rubbed away a fallen hair from her cheek. “And my friends, of course, helped me pick out the most eligible bachelor from all the responses I got from the ad.”
“And you trust your friends.”
She smiled. “Yes. We help each other. So far, six of us have placed ads as mail-order brides.” It was their way of escaping the tragedy of the Great Chicago Fire two years ago that had charred the city, leaving behind death and destruction and forcing them to make new lives for themselves all across the country. In her heart, it was also to get away from the loss of her grandfather, and the burden of feeling like a wild bird in a cage. She’d always wanted to travel and feel the ripple of adventure in her pulse.
He pulled in a breath that made her wonder what he was thinking.
She added in a whisper, “This is the most daring, craziest thing I’ve ever done, though. Coming to meet you. My grandfather would roll over in his grave.”
“Then I’ll have to take good care of you for the sake of your granddad.” He patted her hand again in a most detached, grandfatherly way, much to her puzzlement. “You likely missed dinner. Are you hungry, darlin’? I thought I might book you a room across the street. The Mountain Hotel has a beautiful view and a fine restaurant.”
She thought she heard a snicker behind her. With a frown, she spun to look, but the men behind her were straight-faced, shuffling the heavy trunk between them.
She tensed over the fact that he wished to book a room. One for her and one for himself? Surely not one for them together, for there didn’t appear to be enough time to wed first. As eager as she was to get to know him intimately, she wasn’t the type of woman to do it before marriage. She’d met lots of women like that at the boardinghouse, though, many who became dear friends. Ladies of a “certain kind” who taught her things about what pleased men in the bedroom—tips she would surely try out on Jarrod. Perhaps he would stay at his home tonight, although she didn’t know the particulars of where he stayed when he traveled. He’d written that he owned a few homes, modest homes little more than cabins that he wished to make bigger and brighter with her as his new bride.
“You didn’t have dinner yet?” she asked him.
“I was waiting for you.”
“How considerate.”
They stopped by the outer stone wall of the depot as he picked up a fine suitcase befitting of a jeweler. She gathered his things were inside. Perhaps they would marry quickly and honeymoon somewhere?
They walked through the crowded station and came out on the other side at street level. The boardwalk was teeming with folks in all directions. Wagons loaded with ranching supplies rolled along the dirt street. Storefronts were strung with banners that read Shovels for Sale, Sandwiches Till Midnight, Gold Nuggets Weighed and Exchanged, Copper and Silver Bought and Sold.
Some of them had help-wanted signs tacked to their doors and windows. Natasha glanced across the street to the left, to the river valley lined with plush green trees. In the center of the greenery sat one outstanding hotel. It was built of stone and timber, and sprawled across an acreage. A wood-burnished sign hung over the entrance. The Mountain Hotel.
Gracious. It was massive and more luxurious than any building she’d ever spent time in.
The two men lugging the beat-up trunk weaved around two cowboys and planted the case behind her.
“Why don’t you fellas go on ahead to the front desk?” The brim of Jarrod’s black hat shielded the setting sun behind the mountains. “I’ll be in touch in the next few days.”
“Take your time getting back,” Mr. Fowler said. The other man nodded and they soon disappeared through the horses and pedestrians, carrying her trunk to the hotel.
She brightened, pleased that he would be spending a few days with her. She clutched her satchel to her waist. “Jarrod, have you had an opportunity to think more about what we discussed in our letters?”
“How’s that again?” He turned toward her with a twinge of concern. Did the question bother him?
“The letters,” she repeated softly. “What I asked you in my last one?”
“I’m...I’m still giving it some thought.”
“I see.” She puckered her lips.
Had they hit a little snag in their communication? She wished to make it clear how involved she wished to be in this marriage. And now, upon meeting him, she wondered again why he had replied to her advertisement for a bride. He seemed so attractive and intelligent and successful, her doubts rose again. She had asked him precisely this in one of her letters, and he had responded that he’d been engaged once but it hadn’t lasted due to her unfaithfulness, and that due to the nature of his business, he traveled so much that he didn’t have the opportunity to meet many women. Combined with the fact that the ratio of women to men was somewhere in the neighborhood of one to twenty.
Jarrod seemed distracted. His gaze moved over her bonnet to the other side of the street. She turned to see what held his dire attention.
A team of horses were rearing up at a water trough. An elderly man was holding tight to their lines, but he turned pale as one horse neighed, fell down hard on his front hooves and bucked.
Her body stiffened in fear for the man.
Jarrod muttered, “Excuse me,” and dashed to help.
Jarrod took control. He grasped the reins from the elderly man, calmly speaking to the horses as he pulled tight against the power of the beasts. He finally got close enough to pat the shoulder of one. The jittery white one settled first, then the chestnut mare. They were magnificent animals, muscles gleaming in the faded golden light, accentuating the muscled lines of Jarrod’s legs, the strength of his shoulders and width of his chest.
His tanned hands were utterly commanding, yet soothing at the same time. She wondered where he’d mastered his skill with animals.
When it was apparent that the mares were settling, other folks rushed in to help. Jarrod never released his hold. He kept control of the situation, even turning to the frightened elderly man to calm him, too. They talked, laughed some and kept talking low and serenely.
The picture was comforting to her, that she had chosen to marry a man with integrity and capability.
Yet oddly, the scene also caused a rush of homesickness.
She would likely never again see the dozen women she’d made friends with in the past two years at Mrs. Pepik’s Boardinghouse for Desolate Women.
They’d all suffered through the Great Fire. One-third of the city had lost their homes. One hundred thousand people homeless. Dozens had died. Natasha had been living with her grandfather at the time. They’d lost their house in the fire, and his jewelry shop with it. She had mistakenly assumed that because they weren’t physically hurt by the flames, they’d be fine.
However, three days later, her grandfather had suffered an apoplexy from the stress—a sudden paralysis of half his body, as well as slurred speech. The next day, she lost him.
It still misted her eyes.
Women with no other means to support themselves had turned to Mrs. Pepik. The kind widow hadn’t allowed anyone to feel sorry for herself. Her late husband, a policeman, had taught Mrs. Pepik how to shoot a gun, and she made sure every woman there knew how to handle one in self-defense. Then at the beginning of this year, the women had decided to place ads in the Western papers as mail-order brides. Suddenly their futures turned brighter, and no one could stop talking about where they wanted to live, which state, which man.
Natasha yearned for love, for intimacy, for family. She yearned to be free from what had always been expected of her in Chicago.
She’d had several men to choose from in the letters. In the end, she’d decided on Jarrod Ledbetter because he had replied to her ad that he was an educated man and a jeweler. She wished with all her heart to join her new husband in his ventures. Here in the West, she hoped to run her own jewelry shop—or a partnership with Jarrod—not only to prove herself, but in silent honor of Granddad. He had, after all, trained her in everything she knew, and she had become just as skilled in jewelry repair and knowledge as he had.
In the distance with the sun nearly set, Jarrod turned over the reins to the now-calm owner and made his way back to her.
“Where were we?” Jarrod asked when he reached her. Heavens, he was so rough and energized from his adventure with the horses. “Let’s move on to that hotel. We’ll enjoy a nice meal and get to know each other.”
Her throat welled with a lump when she thought of the tender friends she was leaving behind in Chicago. She tried to overcome it by reminding herself that she would write letters home to them and that she was with a good man, in a good place.
She’d never been in love before. Could she drop the shield of protectiveness that her grandfather had instilled as second nature to her heart, and fall in love with Jarrod Ledbetter?
Chapter Two
Simon pleasured in the way the candlelight from the restaurant tabletop shifted across Natasha’s face. The glow brought out her lively eyes, outlined the fine arch of her brown eyebrows and warmed the contour of her lips. It was late evening. Darkness engulfed the window next to them, dampening the view of the river below, but he was enjoying the view in front of him.
He’d hooked his hat on the wall behind him, but she was still wearing her bonnet with the fake grapes and cherries. They bobbed on her head as she ate her meal.
Remain in control, and never leave anything to chance. That was the simple rule he’d lived by ever since he’d turned eight. Those words had put food in his belly, kept him safe, protected his heart.
And it was why this situation made him bristle.
Don’t hurt her, he thought. If she’s innocent and not a criminal, she doesn’t deserve to be hurt. In order to find out, he had to ask more questions.
He planted one large elbow on the white tabletop and leaned in toward her bosomed silhouette. What exactly could he say that hadn’t been said by Ledbetter in his called letters? How could Simon now pretend to know what had been written between them, so that he wouldn’t alert her that he was an imposter?
He’d start with something tame. “Where are you from originally?”
She inhaled, and when she did, her chest moved up and down, accentuating the slimness of her waist. He noted how nicely she moved and the sensitive sweep of her dark lashes over her face as she answered.
“Chicago. And you?”
She brought the glass of ice-chip water to her lips and sipped, making him wish she’d do all sorts of devilish things to him with those lips. He swallowed hard, cursed himself silently for noticing her womanly charms and glanced away to the other customers in the crowded room to distract himself.
Waiters in black suits hustled to deliver wine and liquor, soups and main courses of roast venison and wild duck.
“I’m from the Midwest. Raised on a farm. Before I moved to Boston, of course.” He and Ledbetter had both been raised in the Midwest. Simon in southern Dakota Territory, Ledbetter in Nebraska very briefly till his parents had died and he was whisked away to Boston by his wealthy grandparents. The grandfather, apparently, had made his fortune from pirating ships in the Caribbean. The nasty streak was either in the bloodline or was taught to his grandson. Simon’s parents weren’t around long, either, but he’d had no one to whisk him away to safety.
“Natasha. That’s an awfully pretty name. Where’d that come from?”
She flushed at his attentiveness. “My father was Irish, but my mother was Russian. She named me.”
“Ah,” he said with humor. “Irish and Russian. That makes you a person with quite a hot temper.”
Her brown eyes lit with amusement.
“And,” he continued, pleasuring in her reaction, “your Russian blood would explain the high cheekbones. Very lovely.”
“How about you? What’s your family heritage?”
“We can trace our lineage all the way back,” he said, proudly speaking the truth, “to George Washington’s house.”
“Truly?” she said. “You’re related to George Washington?”
“Well...one of his servants.”
She smiled. “What made you want to go to Harvard?” She looked so nicely at him, he found it hard not to scoff at her curiosity. However, the question made him realize why he was here. Not to flirt with her, but to fool her. The closest he’d ever gotten to stepping foot inside any college was riding past one in a locomotive. He hoped his speech and mannerisms didn’t give him away. He tended to cuss more than he should, and he could never sit calmly in a suit.
“I always had the urge to study,” he lied smoothly. He shifted his too-wide-to-get-comfortable shoulders against his chair and tried to straighten his cramped leg under the table. There never seemed to be enough room for him in these fussy places.
She played with the stem of her water glass but gazed intently at him.
“Studying came naturally,” he lied some more. Ha. He had counted down the days in school when he wouldn’t have to pick up another pencil. Although he was excellent with numbers and calculations, and figuring out what sort of gun he’d need to shoot what distances, and how much gold bullion a two-foot-by-two-foot safe could hold.
She scooped the white napkin from her lap and dabbed her lips. “That’s incredible. Your parents must’ve been so proud.”
“I reckon.” He realized she was referring to Ledbetter’s departed parents, but Simon was thinking of his own. His mother would surely be proud, if it were true and if she were still alive. But his father—the no-good son of a bitch—wouldn’t give a cow’s scrapings. After all, the bastard had walked out on Simon and his mother when he was just a kid.
“And pray tell,” she said, returning the napkin to her lovely thighs, “what subjects did you study?”
He blinked at her. How the hell should he know?
She must’ve taken his hesitation to mean that the question needed clarification. “I know you studied economics, but do tell what precisely you covered.”
“Ah, I see.” His hair brushed against his shoulders. “Economics of the United States. Of our natural supplies, and the upticks and downticks of the market, and our trade with the richer countries of the world. For example, England and France.”
“France? Don’t tell me you speak French?” Her lashes fluttered. How engrossed she was with her imaginary, dearly departed Ledbetter.
To be frank, Simon was a little put off at how much she seemed to worship him. Who the hell cared about someone who’d studied at Harvard? The man had fleeced old women of their wedding rings and slashed the throats of railroad passengers who wouldn’t cooperate. Education was no substitute for character.
“Nah, no French.” He shifted his long arms as the waiter brought glasses of red wine that Simon had requested. He’d selected French wine from the Burgundy region. She’d been impressed by that, too.
“Cheers,” he toasted, “to us.”
“Oh, Mr. Ledbetter, yes, to us.”
“Please, it’s Jarrod.”
“Sorry, it slipped out. It’s just so strange to be thinking we’re to be married shortly when we’ve never met before. Jarrod,” she corrected herself, clicking her glass against his. “May we always be this happy.” She lifted the glass to her mouth.
“Hmm,” he said softly, thinking of her comment, then took a swig. Not bad stuff. He preferred wine from the new vineyards of California, but he’d had a sense he needed to show off by asking for an imported bottle. It was what Ledbetter would have done.
He schemed as he twisted in his prickly wool suit and stared at the enticing person seated mere inches away. How exactly was he going to get through to this woman without arousing her suspicions to get what he wanted?
* * *
Something was off between them.
Natasha had felt it ever since his two friends had left them alone, and she and Jarrod had headed here to the hotel. She was trying awfully hard to be congenial and friendly, but something was holding her back.
What was it?
She lifted a piece of grilled fish to her mouth and tried to enjoy the meal, the restaurant, the company.
Perhaps it was a reaction to his behavior.
She had a sense that Jarrod was sizing her up rather harshly. That now that he’d met her face-to-face she wasn’t perhaps what he’d been expecting?
She wasn’t as formally educated as he was, granted, but she was well aware of the world, very well-read and inquisitive about business and jewelry. Her grandfather had taught her much about the business world, about delivering fine goods, about keeping his word on delivery times and being honest in a business deal. She hadn’t gone to Harvard, but she would love to read some of his texts to learn the finer details of economics, to be privy to what men were educated on and perhaps the economic secrets of the world.
No...she didn’t sense that he was lording over her that he had a college education and she didn’t. It was something else.
In his letters, he’d been keen to list what he wanted from her, declaring his desire of starting a family together, of bonding as husband and wife, but now in person...she sensed none of that. Every time she caught his eye, he was the one who looked away first. He had seemed open and friendly at first glance, but only to a point, for any intimate talk she was hoping for—about weddings and ministers and how many children they’d like to have—was not materializing.
It chipped at her confidence.
Was she emitting involuntary signals that she herself was hesitant of this marriage? That now that she’d arrived and met him, perhaps they were doing this too quickly?
Nothing easy is ever worth having. That was what Granddad had always said.
Perhaps she should take in the evening more slowly, not let her nerves run away with her senses. She would strive to be observant, to ensure that now that they’d met, she still did truly wish to marry him for him, and not because a stranger had simply responded to her letter.
What were her alternatives if she chose not to marry Jarrod Ledbetter?
She knew a trade. Jewelry repair. She’d read in the newspapers that many women here in the West ran their own businesses. That they even had the right to vote.
She had little money in her pocket, which was frightening on its own, but outside the train depot, she’d spotted two signs in storefront windows saying Help Wanted. She could apply for one of those positions to make sandwiches, or for a jeweler’s shop assistant, or any number of small jobs until she decided how to open her own jewelry store.
But...she was being ridiculous. Things were going as planned. She was here and her fiancé across the table was prepared to marry her. How on earth had she allowed her mind to wander off in this manner?
Because she was seeing it through the eyes of her protective grandfather, who’d always warned her not to give her heart away too freely. Any man who came into the shop and gave her a second glance got a cold stare from him in return.
Not until you’re sure of his intentions, Natasha, he’d say, should you ever allow a man to court you.
But Jarrod had given her no reason to doubt that he still intended to marry her.
“Tell me something more about yourself.” He seemed to be enjoying his roast venison and took another bite.
“Such as?”
“Anything and everything. Start from the beginning.”
“But you already know so much from my letters. I have to apologize how much I poured onto those pages.”
“Nonsense. I liked that. And now that you’re here in person, I want to hear about you all over again.” His green eyes flashed with flecks of deeper colors. His gaze lowered to linger on her lips.
Her pulse rippled. “You sure I won’t be boring you?”
He shook his head. His dark blond hair shifted about his broad shoulders, and she very much enjoyed the absurd length of it. All the cultured men in Chicago trimmed theirs short. But this was the Wild West.
“I’m mesmerized,” he murmured.
She smiled. He was definitely more charming in person than he’d been in his letters. His letters had been intense and serious. She had detected no sense of humor in them, but then, what man showed his humorous side on a page? It wasn’t as if she was marrying Mark Twain, for heaven’s sake.
“Well, as I said, I was born in Chicago. My parents died early, sadly, both from tuberculosis.” When she was fourteen and had never even heard the word before. She’d become their caregiver for a solid month, getting instructions from the doctor and learning how to make chicken soup on her own, change bedsheets with a person still in them, and sit in the darkness night after night listening to their rattling breathing and praying they’d make it. God had never answered her prayers, and it had taken her years to forgive him.
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
She frowned gently. She’d already told him that in her letters. Didn’t he remember?
He seemed to, for he corrected himself. “I mean to say—sorry to hear it in person.” His mouth twitched in genuine sympathy.
“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “But I had a lovely upbringing with my grandfather. We didn’t have much, just each other. We lived above his jewelry shop.”
“His jewelry shop. Tell me more about that.”
“I thought you’d be interested in his business, seeing how much it is that you and I have in common.”
A line in his cheek flickered. “My thoughts exactly.”
“His shop wasn’t big, but he had a lot of customers. At first, I’d help him by working the counter. You know, taking in the cash, putting it in the drawer, making change. A couple of years later, I helped him with the watches.”
“The watches?”
“Pocket-watch repair. Cuckoo clocks. Grandfather clocks. He wouldn’t let me do much but hold the pieces for him. But I studied what he did. Sometimes if we were behind, he’d let me do an order. Then we expanded to repair gold rings. To reset loose stones in other pieces of fine jewelry. The business got bigger and bigger.”
He frowned. “And then you must’ve...you lost it in the Great Fire?”
She nodded.
“And your grandfather passed away....” He prodded for more.
She promised herself she wouldn’t get weepy. His death was more painful to her than her parents’. “That he did, unfortunately. A few days after the fire, when things had cooled down and it was safe, we were sweeping the streets of charred debris. One minute he was teasing me that I looked like a chimney sweep, and the next he was clutching his heart and falling to the ground. Apoplexy. His speech was so slurred I couldn’t understand him. We never got a chance for another conversation.”
“That is a shame.” He reached over the tablecloth and touched her hand. His large, warm fingers pressed against her slender ones. Such a difference in size. Such pleasure in his touch.
“Then I placed the ad,” she said on a brighter note. “And here we are.”
“Yes, indeed.” He pulled his hand away. “Tell me again why you chose my letter,” he said, “above everyone else’s.”
“But I’ve already told you.”
“Tell me again. A man likes to hear in person what his bride thinks of him.”
“There were dozens of respondents, as I mentioned, but yours stood out. It was so well worded. Your education truly does you justice with the written word. When I discovered you were putting your business education to good use in your jewelry enterprise, I thought I could be very supportive to you.”
“Supportive. Hmm.”
“And that’s why I posed the question. The one you’re still thinking on.”
“Ask me again,” he said softly. “Tell me more directly so I get a true sense of what’s on your mind.”
She inhaled. “Well, it’s just that I believe that you and I could build quite a business establishment as a couple. We could do this together, Jarrod. We’d be twice as good, twice as big, twice as profitable. I know the jewelry business.”
“And so...?”
“I’m asking you if you’d please consider letting me join you in your travels. You know, do whatever needs to be done?”
She sipped another smooth mouthful of red wine as he leaned back in his chair and stared at her so intensely that she thought he would shatter his wine goblet.
* * *
She was in on it, thought Simon with rising anger. Sure as thunder came before lightning, Natasha O’Sullivan was devoted to helping Ledbetter’s criminal jewelry business. How much more obvious could she be?
He tried not to moan. He tried not to flinch as he sat watching her. He tried not to move a muscle in his face to indicate in any manner that he was affected by her request to join him. She knew about jewelry repair and was quite willing to indulge her would-be husband by jumping in with 100 percent enthusiasm.
How could a man from Harvard accomplish so much and yet now be so dead?
Why did Simon feel such disappointment in her?
She had many positive attributes. Why did she wish to become a criminal herself?
Greed?
All right, he’d play along. After all, she might know the whereabouts of the missing three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cash and jewels and lead him directly to it. In fact, if she was guilty, that would let him off the hook for how he should treat her. He’d met criminal women before, and they were just as vicious and deadly as men. Didn’t he owe it to Eli and Clay to put her behind bars? Some of her cohorts had shot them in cold blood! They’d made Simon go mad at the scene, trying to stifle the flow of blood from Clay’s neck where a gunshot had severed the artery. And poor Eli with a bullet straight through the heart.
If this woman was involved in any manner, she deserved what was coming.
Simon could only pray that she wasn’t too bright and wouldn’t pick up on the fact that he wasn’t really her beloved partner in crime, Ledbetter.
But maybe he was jumping the gun. Maybe he was assuming too much, assuming that she knew what she was getting involved with, that it was a criminal enterprise with Ledbetter.
Slow down, he told himself. Let’s not pull the trigger yet. Give her the benefit of the doubt.
How much, thought Simon as his pensive gaze swept over the caring eyes and the pursed feminine lips, did she know about Ledbetter’s business? The lawmen were still looking, but as far as they could gather so far, they hadn’t been able to uncover any stores that Ledbetter had actually opened in any town. Yet he’d claimed he had several. The man knew a lot about jewelry, but maybe only because he’d been a thief.
But surely the man hadn’t written too much in his letters for fear of incriminating himself. Or maybe he had. Maybe the braggart couldn’t help himself. All he had to do, once he’d trusted her and revealed his hand, was tell her to burn his letters.
“Well?” she prodded. “What do you say? Shall we run this business together, Jarrod?”
In all the years he’d been chasing criminals, he’d arrested only two women. He’d never injured one before, for neither had resisted arrest. Laws were laws and whoever broke them would come to justice.
“Before I answer that,” he said, bringing the French Burgundy to his lips once more, “I need to ask if you’ve kept any of our correspondence.”
She frowned at the question and lowered her voice. The grapes on her bonnet flashed in the candle’s flicker of light. “I did as you asked. However, I don’t see why I needed to burn them all,” she whispered, “even though I do understand your need for privacy and security, seeing how many jewelry shops you intend to open. And how you’ve been robbed yourself just recently.”
He quirked an eyebrow. So he’d been right. Ledbetter had asked her to get rid of all his letters. “Thank you kindly for understanding.”
“I admit, I thought it odd at first. But the more you explained, the clearer it became.”
Clearer? His side was getting murkier. They were speaking in riddles. How much did she know? Was she a criminal or simply in over her head?
Hellfire. He couldn’t send her home on the next train or stagecoach yet. He had to find out how much she knew and whether she could lead him to the jackpot. It was what his superiors at the detective agency would expect him to do. To follow through on every lead, and certainly not to feel sympathetic toward a possible criminal only because she was a head-turning female.
He pushed away his plate and tried to act civil and calm, as Ledbetter would do in this situation. All in a day’s work for that bastard. “Would you care for anything sweet? I saw raspberry pie on the menu.”
She leaned her pretty frame back against the chair rails, smiled down at her empty dinner plate and sighed in contentment. “I don’t think I can fit another morsel. Thank you for the wonderful meal and the wonderful company.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Natasha.”
She kept flushing at the mention of her name. It did feel rather intimate to him, too, sitting here across from a seemingly lovely lady who soon expected to be his bride.
If these were normal circumstances, if he was allowed to be himself as Simon Garr and she was his mail-order bride, he’d be as nervous as a trapped cougar. He’d seen what sort of marriage his parents had had: his father walking out, his mother drinking herself to death. No way on this earth he ever wanted that.
She lifted the white napkin from her lap and folded it across the table. She looked rather nervous, pursing her lips as though straining to find the right words. “What—what did you have in mind for the wedding ceremony? How soon would you like to do this?” The smooth muscles in her throat moved up and down with her delicate question.
Everything about her was a trap. Her smooth voice, the soulful brown eyes, the scattered freckles on her face that made her seem so innocent.
He silently cursed. There’d be no damn wedding.
He was saved from answering by their waiter.
“May I offer you some coffee?” the man asked as he gathered plates. “Perhaps some pastries, miss?”
She shook her head and nervously brushed her sleeves. Pastry was the last thing on her mind, he guessed, for she had a marriage to pursue.
“Please send the bill to the front desk,” said Simon, pushing his long legs back from the table. “I’ll settle up when I pay for Miss O’Sullivan’s room.”
“My room?” Those cinnamon-and-brown-sugar eyes flashed at him again as if to add, Not our room? We won’t be married tonight?
“I thought you might like to settle in. Find your way around town, rest up a few days before we plunge into this.”
She might be beautiful and tempting, but he was not Jarrod Ledbetter. Fortunately, she was not his mail-order bride and it was not truly him who needed to make decisions about an upcoming wedding.
He wanted no part of wives and obligations and possible children who’d grow attached to him and...and detective agents who’d deliver the news, as they had to Clay’s widow and Eli’s mother, that their loved ones had been killed in gunfire in the line of duty. God almighty, Clay even had a young boy, Tucker, who’d been left behind. Simon knew all too well how it felt to be deserted by a father.
He reminded himself again.
Natasha O’Sullivan was poison.
Chapter Three
He wasn’t that taken with her. The hurtful thought rippled through Natasha’s mind at dinner and became even more apparent as Jarrod walked her to her room.
Her high-heeled boots padded along the carpet runner behind him as her disappointment grew.
At dinner, there had been moments when he’d looked across the table and she had sensed that he was drawn to her. He’d waited for her to answer some of his questions as though there was nothing more important to him in the world. But at the end of their meal, she had noticed a slight hesitation, an almost-imperceptible coolness that seemed to blanch his heart. It was almost as though he’d been testing her in some way, and she had failed his qualifications.
Why? What could it be about her that he disapproved of?
She couldn’t help it, but she was also ruffled by the fact that he took charge without much discussion with her—he’d told the front-desk clerk that he’d like one room with a pretty view for an unspecified period. Why not discuss the waiting period with her? Why did he think she wished to rest up before “plunging” into this? The bellboy had left to deliver her trunk to the room, while she and Jarrod remained to fill out the guest register.
She stepped beside him and decided to voice her opinion. “Jarrod, it’s not that I wish to rush into a wedding, but it’s not precisely rushing into it when we’ve been thinking and anticipating it for three months, now is it?”
“Huh?” He rubbed his bristly neck. “It’s just that I wish to give you time to settle in.”
“Perhaps it’s a silly notion, but I fantasized that upon meeting you, you might lift me in your arms and tell me how you couldn’t wait to be with me. That you had a minister waiting this minute.”
“Ah. I see.” He gulped. Why was this conversation making him nervous? “This way,” he said, motioning with his hand and making a sharp left.
She followed in the narrow corridor. Why was he so controlled with his feelings when all she wanted was to be encircled by his arms and held for a little while?
She hadn’t been held for a very long time.
But perhaps she should be happy that he wasn’t rushing her into marriage. That he wished them both to take their time. Perhaps she should learn to temper her loneliness and her desire to connect with another person. It would come in due course. Impatience on her part wouldn’t help.
Her folks had never talked to her about boys. They’d had a loving relationship with each other, and with her, but the pain of losing them made her wary of getting close to a boy and possibly losing him, too. The last man who’d kissed her had been a young man who’d come from an upstanding family her grandfather had known. Granddad had rarely introduced her to potential suitors, had never rushed her nor tried to force her to marry young.
Wait for the right one, he’d often say. Be guarded like your grandmother, dear Elizabeth, was until we knew each other well.
Natasha had liked her last suitor well enough, but there’d been no mad rush to see him, no quivering in the pit of her stomach when they kissed. It had been more brotherly—playing checkers and strolling along the river together. Before him, she’d known several boys while growing up, but none she’d dreamed of with wild intensity. She had wondered if there’d ever come a time when she would meet a man who would turn her heart and soul upside down. She’d wondered it on the entire train journey here. She wondered it now as she watched Jarrod’s thigh muscles flex beneath his wool trousers, as she watched his shoulder blades move beneath the shadows of his jacket.
“I think we’re close,” he said, turning his cheek slightly as he looked at the numbers on the hotel doors to match the one on the key.
They passed the bellboy. “Folks, it’s straight ahead and to the right.” He pointed that way.
Jarrod tipped him some coins, and they continued down the hall.
What had Jarrod thought when he’d first read her advertisement in the paper?
Looking for a man of solid worth. I am a hardworking young woman of good moral standing and excellent health. I adore children. I also have skills in jewelry repair, can handle a revolver and a horse, and would dearly love the adventure of living west of the Mississippi. Please write to Miss Natasha O’Sullivan...
Now that she’d left Chicago, however, she felt an ache in her heart she couldn’t suppress. Her friends were left behind, and she hadn’t realized how much she had relied on them. They were trusted souls who gave her straight answers.
She thought she would find all of that and more with Jarrod. His letters had been cordial and, although a bit detached, had filled her with an intense desire to join him in his travels on the railway, tending to his jewelry shops across the West and scattered over the Rockies, and creating an empire of prosperity.
Yet why was there such a chasm between them?
Granddad would never approve of her becoming a mail-order bride.
Perhaps that was why she’d done it. That thought burned inside her. But there were extenuating circumstances, she reasoned, trying to push away her shameful feelings that she wasn’t quite good enough for her grandfather’s standards.
She’d always tried to be such a good girl, abiding by his rules, listening to all of her elders with politeness, being ever so demure. It was her time now, wasn’t it? Time to do as she pleased with whom she pleased. Time to follow her heart and any desire to fulfill her life with her own dreams, no matter how silly or outlandish they might appear to any onlooker.
She had that right.
“Ah, here we are. Room 208.” Jarrod inserted the key into the door at the end of the corridor.
He turned the knob, swung the door open and stepped aside for her to enter.
“Is that it, then, Jarrod? No more talk of wedding plans?” Why was he elusive?
“Only until tomorrow. It’s been a long day for both of us.”
“Long day?” she snapped. “That’s how you think of this? Of me?”
“Of course not, darlin’.” He swooped in to brush his lips against her cheek.
The light kiss was unexpected. A sexual current rippled between them, hot and fierce, as she wavered past his looming body, inches close to his chest and his firm, square jaw.
His skin, bristling with unshaven shadows, held the scent of fresh outdoor air mingled with leather. She inhaled sharp and quick, and his gaze snapped down to hers. A moment of fire burned between them. Who were they to each other? Soon-to-be husband and wife?
The thought that they would soon share a bed made her tremulous. Heat shot through her chest, flushing her skin and heating her limbs.
She was so inexperienced yet so lonely that she couldn’t wait to share her nights with Jarrod.
Her nostrils flared with the heady scent of his masculine presence, and she stepped past him, desperate to breathe neutral-scented air. It was almost as though she couldn’t think straight when he came too close.
And she had to think straight to surmise her next step. What would be the proper requirements to set her mind at ease that he was indeed the man she should spend the rest of her days with?
“Jarrod, I don’t wish to be one of those couples who pretend for appearances that we are happily wed, when beneath the surface we might live in separate homes in separate towns in separate beds.”
“You have given this a lot of thought.”
She frowned. “Haven’t you?”
He seemed to be getting exasperated. He tugged at the collar of his shirt as if it were too tight. “Yes, it’s all I’ve been thinking about. For days.”
“Only days?”
“Weeks. Three months.” He groaned. “What do you want me to say?”
She opened her mouth in disbelief. “How can you be so...so detached?”
Still looming at the doorway, he held up his palm in a sign of forgiveness. He seemed sincere as his voice softened. “I’m sorry. Let me rephrase this. Since the moment you stepped off that train, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off your beauty. Since the moment you kicked that trunk halfway down the platform, I thought there’s no other woman in the world for me.”
“You truly mean that?”
“And every word I said in my letters.”
At his bright expression, she felt buoyed. Then somewhat embarrassed. “You saw me kick the trunk?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh.” So much for appearing ladylike.
She stepped into the large room, her skirts and petticoats swirling about her ankles. It was a fine room. Large and airy, decorated in clean white linens with fresh-cut flowers on the nightstand and a lantern lit on the wall above the bed.
Her trunk had been placed at the foot by the closet door, and the bed had been turned down. The pillows had been fluffed and patted and looked inviting after her long, tiresome journey. Comfortable feathers awaited her.
She tossed her satchel onto the bed, lifted her arms to unfasten the pin holding down her bonnet, removed it from her head and turned to face Jarrod.
Staring at her from several paces away, he pressed a bulging shoulder against the door opening, one massive cowboy boot crossed over the other. He studied her as she patted down the unruly hairs that followed her bonnet, and mistakenly knocked out a pin from her hair.
One side of her curls fell to her shoulder, so she quickly unfastened the pin on the other side till it tumbled down, too. The weight of her hair fell onto her collar and spine.
He was watching it all, as if he’d never seen a woman fix her hair before.
The lapels of his suit jacket opened. She got a glimpse of the shoulder holster crossing his chest and swallowed hard at how intimidating he looked. The men in Chicago rarely displayed their weapons. She wasn’t naive enough to think the men in the East didn’t carry any, but this vision of Jarrod made her realize how rough and crude and lacking in the law the West was. She’d observed it on the train ride here. Every man had the right and duty to defend himself, and most carried guns.
She placed her bonnet and hairpins on a stand.
His posture stiffened, as if watching her made him uncomfortable in some way, as if being here in her room made him uncertain how to proceed. But, Lord, he hadn’t even crossed the threshold of the door. How tense would it make him if he moved closer?
“I trust you’ll be comfortable tonight, Natasha. I’ll swing by in the early morning.”
Startled that he was leaving, she asked, “Where will you be tonight?”
“Right next door.”
Her eyes widened. “Next door? In this hotel?”
“I thought it would be more convenient if we could spend more time together. No sense going back to the cabins with McKern and Fowler. I’m here to spend time with you.”
Her pulse hammered in her throat. So he did care.
Her lashes lifted as she walked closer, experimenting with this new relationship, this new man. What did he want to know about her?
And what did she wish to know about him?
The answer was quite simple, really.
She wanted to know what he truly thought of her as a potential bride, beyond their cordial first greeting and the predictable words of How was your trip? and How do you do? There was one quick way to find out, and he seemed to be too shy, or too much of a gentleman, to make the first move.
Her lady friends of a certain kind back at the boardinghouse had often told her that some men, especially upstanding gentlemen, often needed a nudge to know when a woman wanted to be touched. And where she wanted to be touched.
Natasha stepped close, craned her neck to stare up at him and tangled her slender fingers into his. An invisible current shot through her at the contact. She tugged in a breath of air. He froze.
Kiss me on the lips, she thought. Show me what you truly feel and kiss me properly.
* * *
Her touch was unexpected.
Simon’s initial response was to pull back. He wasn’t here for this; he was here to get into her mind and motivations, and not be affected by her damn presence.
She pressed her soft lips together as she stood assessing him, their fingers entwined. The warm light from the lantern danced across the bridge of her nose and lit the soft details of her cheek. Her dark chestnut hair, slightly ruffled from the hairpins she’d removed, swirled about her creamy throat.
Why did she have to be so luscious?
She slid her hand into the nook of his firm waist, her light touch caressing his skin, sending a jolt riveting through his gut. She stood so close he could breathe in the scent of her fresh skin and the lemony rinse she’d used on her hair. His pulse drummed hard beneath her touch, and when their eyes met, hers were clear and sharp and inquisitive. No woman, no innocent woman, had ever offered herself to him in such a tender manner.
She was poison, he reminded himself.
And yet he needed this, needed her. He needed tenderness and warmth and gentle understanding. Lord knew he’d had none of this on the road for the past ten years, only hard work, distance and no attachment to any upstanding woman he might have met in his line of duty. There had been saloon girls and hard-core drinkers who could guzzle a bottle of whiskey as fast as any man, but no one with any lick of sensitivity or class.
He swallowed hard at what he could not have.
A night with her would be filled with a hell of a lot more consequences than with a pretty barmaid. This woman would demand things from him he wasn’t willing or capable of giving. Just as his father hadn’t been able to give to the woman he’d married, and to the son they’d had.
Maybe that made Simon selfish. So what.
He was protecting her by not giving in, by not succumbing to her charms. He was also protecting the soreness in his heart that would surely rise if he ever became involved with a decent woman.
Huh, he thought, realizing for the first time in his life that he’d never been with a decent woman.
He’d slept with painted ladies, barmaids and drinkers. No one like Natasha O’Sullivan.
His jaw muscles tightened.
He should have broken free of her grasp then, for when she slid her other hand along the other side of his waist, his sexuality awakened, and the lonely boy who’d grown into a lonely man could not resist her.
With a firm grip, he anchored his hands at the sides of her face and lowered his lips to hers. It began as a graze, a soft, teasing pleasure, warm and delicious. His mouth slid across hers, tasting and pleasuring in the feel of her femininity, marveling at how lightly she could kiss, and yet how firmly his body responded. It was instant arousal. He had an immediate need to take it further.
Expertly, he moved her, stepping into the room just enough so that he could kick the door closed with his big cowboy boot and press her against the slab. Her hands slid up over his ribs, making him burn with a palpable need. He cupped the back of her neck, twirling the silky strands of her hair beneath his fingertips, gasping at the sound of her soft moan and then boldly shifting his palm to cup her breast.
He could feel the rib cage of her corset, the shallow waist, the whalebone strips that tilted her breasts upward. The cup of her breast was large and firm beneath his hand, a wondrous mound of beauty. The bud of her firm nipple arched beneath the fabric into his palm.
And suddenly their kiss became so much more. It was as if they’d been standing in a calm, sunny field, and suddenly a tornado had swept in and blasted around them. The wind caught, the weather shifted, and he and his emotions were whipped into a furious storm. The pressure of their mouths mounted, their lips pressed firmer and deeper and their tongues brushed. He wanted her.
Their bodies pressed closer, his hand dropped from her rib cage to her waist and down lower as he gripped her buttock and imagined what it might be like to throw her onto the bed and truly do everything he fantasized.
Break it up...I must break it...
With a shudder, he tore himself away.
Cool air rushed into the space between them. He gazed down at her shocked expression. Perhaps it had been too much for her, too, the unexpected jolt of passion and desire that seized them.
She slid the back of her palm against her red and swollen lips. She stared at him in amazement. Or was it shock?
He couldn’t apologize! He was supposed to be her beloved groom, so how could he say he was sorry for his display of obvious desire?
“Are you all right?” he managed to gasp.
“Yes,” she murmured, her brown eyes as round as chestnuts, her nostrils flaring as she caught her breath. Her fingers trembled as she lowered her hand to her waist.
“Welcome to Wyoming,” he whispered.
“What a welcoming,” she said softly.
“You’ve had a long journey. I’ll leave you to rest. I’ll be back in the morning and we can have breakfast.”
She nodded, stepping out of the way to allow him to open the door. Her hair was totally disheveled, buckling in waves along her shoulders. Her skin was flushed and she herself was as breathless as though she’d been riding a galloping horse for hours and had been abruptly pulled off.
“Good night.” He strode out of the room and wondered what on earth had just happened between them.
What the hell did he think he was doing?
Chapter Four
Jarrod was definitely attracted to her, thought Natasha with a combination of pleasure and confusion an hour later. Judging by the kiss that still had her stomach in knots every time she thought about his handsome face and his roaming hands, there was no doubt about his physical attraction to her. She pulled her thin robe tighter to her damp, bare skin. She’d just bathed in the hotel’s Spring Room for Ladies and had returned to her room to unpack.
So the hesitation she’d felt from him at dinner was not a physical one. That left her to wonder what precisely it was.
Wasn’t he pleased with their friendship and looking forward to a much deeper relationship? Falling in love? Having children?
Then what in blazes was wrong? One minute he was keeping her at arm’s length as though he didn’t know what to do with her, and the next, he was grabbing her by the behind and making it very obvious what he’d like to do with her.
“I don’t understand,” she grumbled, tossing aside the ropes from her trunk and lifting the monstrous lid. She didn’t know a lot about men from personal experience, but she was ready and willing to learn about Jarrod.
Rummaging through its contents, she tossed aside the worn blanket, then the patched dresses.
She reached for her jewelry box. She didn’t have an overabundance of jewelry, but there were some fine pieces given to her by her grandfather, and others that she’d taken a shine to at his shop. She had saved for some of it herself, investing her hard-earned wages into precious metals, gemstones and pearls. Sadly, over half of her items had been destroyed in the Great Fire. And she’d had to sell most of the few remaining pieces from his shop over the past two years as she struggled to make ends meet.
She spotted the exquisite wedding gown she’d tucked in the middle of the trunk, between the other clothing for protection.
Gingerly, she slid it out and stood up to assess it.
The gown was more beautiful than anything she’d ever owned. It had been bought just for her and graciously sent by train to Chicago by her dear friend Cassandra Hamilton in California. Cassandra had also been a mail-order bride from Mrs. Pepik’s Boardinghouse, the first one in fact, and was now happily living with her husband in the vineyards of Napa Valley. Cassandra and her husband were doing very well to be able to afford such an extravagant gown for Natasha.
“Oh, Cassandra, thank you.”
The billowing white satin wasn’t too wrinkled; nothing that hanging in the closet couldn’t solve.
Natasha spread the gown onto her bed and smoothed the front. The bodice was tailored and beautifully fitted along her bosom and waistline. The square neckline swept low. Mounds of bustling white satin formed the lower half. And, Lord, the train! Who would’ve thought she’d be wearing a ten-foot train? It was embedded with lace and pearls and cut-glass crystals. There were jewels of red glass sewn into the hem and trim around her long sleeves.
She vowed she’d be a good wife. She’d be respectful of Jarrod’s wishes and dreams, work hard to better both their lives, and the lives of their children when that time came. She’d fall into step beside him as his equal partner and lover.
Her pulse bounded again at the thought of that fabulous kiss. And the heart-pounding love affair they might start.
Could she allow herself the freedom of trusting Jarrod? If she couldn’t trust her husband-to-be, then whom could she trust? She’d never relied on a man before, not a suitor. She supposed she did follow by her grandfather’s example of never being able to fully trust someone who wasn’t family. The older he’d gotten, the more protective he was. Near the end of his life, he’d turned everyone away. She tried not to be like him in that regard, but it was difficult to peel away that layer of self-protectiveness that had been ingrained in her since she’d been fourteen and faced with the loss of both parents.
What if Jarrod’s indecision in setting a date was a hint of a deeper problem? Why didn’t he wish to talk about any details of the wedding? Was she being stupid in ignoring the signals that he didn’t want to marry her?
Don’t be a fool, girl. If a man doesn’t wish to marry, walk away quickly and find yourself another. That was what her friend Valentina Babbs, in her fifties and a former lady of the night, used to tell her at the boardinghouse.
“But when do I walk away, Valentina?” Natasha asked aloud. “How do I know if it’s time?”
You can tell how they really feel about you if you ask them about their mother. If they open up, it means they trust you more than they do her. Valentina gave a lot of odd advice.
Sighing, Natasha brushed at the creases of her lovely gown and wondered when or if she’d get the opportunity to wear it. She tried to ignore the feeling in the pit of her stomach, that troublesome anxiety that was building every time she thought of Jarrod.
She reminded herself that she had options here. She had to ask herself whether he would be a great choice for her. She wanted an incredible partner, someone to watch out for her as much as she would for him. If he wasn’t committed to that loyalty and to her in every way, then perhaps she shouldn’t select him.
It wasn’t too late for her to back out. A feeling of remorse lodged in her throat. Surely it would not come to that.
She was ashamed to think of what her grandfather would say, to know she’d come all this way in a bid to marry a stranger—only to be sorrowfully disillusioned. Not to mention embarrassed, unprepared, broke and indescribably hurt.
* * *
Simon hadn’t slept well. After rolling for hours, he was relieved when the sun finally came up and he could rise out of the damn bed. He tried not to think about her. She was the reason for his tossing and twisting last night.
He thought about his jewelry assignment. For the past few years as a detective, jewelry missions had become his specialty. Some detectives knew all about livestock, others the construction and valuation of houses, and for him, it was gems and gold. He’d had an early interest in the field since he was kid, bartering and selling watches and gold chains in train stations with other runaways. Some became pickpockets. He’d picked a few fine pockets himself, but it had always left him with too much guilt, so he’d stuck to lawful trade.
He shoved aside the covers and planted one hard foot on the soft rug. Naked, he stood up, walked to the windows and peered through the sliver of curtains to the street below. The cool air in the room ruffled the hairs on his torso. He assessed the hustle of the street vendors and listened to the clomp of horses as strangers went about their business.
He felt nothing.
Just as every other morning when he rose and wondered what town he was in, there was no stirring in his heart that he might belong here, that there might be someone important waiting for him and binding him to this place.
No one was waiting for him. No friends, no work colleagues, no woman, no wife.
He wondered how it could be possible to meet as many people as he did in his line of work as a detective, traversing the country on covert missions, yet still be unconnected to everything and everyone.
Except there’d been Clay and Eli. They’d been his close friends. And look where that had gotten them. Knowing Simon meant death and destruction. Don’t depend on Simon Garr as a friend. He’ll watch you get killed, then brush off his trousers and walk away.
He sighed.
Lately, it was hard to know who he was anymore and where he wanted to go from here.
“Oh, don’t be stupid,” he mumbled to himself. All this soul-searching because he’d met Natasha O’Sullivan? When it came to women, it had taken him years to get his life to this point where he liked it. No attachments, no responsibilities, no damn obligations, no one to live up to or to possibly disappoint when they truly got to know him.
He veered away from the window to dress.
The full-length mirror tacked to the armoire reflected his nakedness as he got into his trousers. He buttoned them, the muscles of his torso flexing in the coolness of the morning. He took out a neatly pressed white shirt, shoved his arms into it and repositioned his concealed weapons. Derringer behind his back, dagger to his ankle, shoulder holster across his chest.
Even a sauna last night in the Gent’s Spring Room and Sauna hadn’t been able to calm him. What the hell had he been thinking, kissing her like that?
Blazes. He was an idiot.
Did he want to sabotage his own assignment?
Sure, no one had told him a mail-order wife was on her way, but he’d dodged plenty of women before, hadn’t he?
She was no different from the dozens of others he’d come across in his years of travel, he tried to tell himself. Some women had thrown themselves at him, depending on who he was supposed to be while undercover. Posing as a rich and powerful man always seemed to make him the biggest magnet. Other women preferred him when he was impersonating a drifter, whom they thought needed love and attention. Once he pretended to be a schoolteacher, and that had uncovered a woman twenty years his senior who kept surfacing every time he was alone, putting her hands all over him and trying to woo him to her place for dinner.
He’d never taken pleasure or spent the night with any of the women in his line of duty, only the tougher ones he met in saloons, the ones he knew could handle his leaving and didn’t expect much in terms of settling down or his making false promises. There’d been some humor in the delicate situations he’d sometimes find himself in while undercover, but he’d never been truly distracted to the point of losing control.
He’d come awfully close with Natasha O’Sullivan last night.
Yes, she was different from all the rest, he admitted. What was it about her?
Something in her eyes. A glimmer of vulnerability.
He reached into his armoire and pulled out a black suede jacket that had fringes hanging from its sleeves. He tugged into it, donned his black hat and told himself that he knew exactly what he found attractive about her. Why he’d kissed the hell out of her last night.
Because he’d sensed the same thing in her that lately seemed to be engulfing him.
Loneliness.
That deep, throbbing ache in the pit of his soul that always came out late at night to whisper, Hello, I’m here again to keep you company.
He swore and pushed the ache from his heart. He’d been alone since he was eight years old. He was tough and impenetrable and didn’t need anyone. To hell with everyone who might think differently.
He wouldn’t get close enough to the O’Sullivan woman to kiss her again. In fact, he would try to physically avoid her so there was no opportunity for him to be drawn in. If he kept his cool and stayed his distance, he’d get the information he damn well needed to get from her—the location of the railroad’s stolen property—and be on his way to the next assignment.
It was simple. And simple plans always worked the best.
* * *
At the sound of the firm knock on her hotel-room door, Natasha’s pulse leaped. It rattled her composure. She reached to open the pine door and found Jarrod Ledbetter on the other side.
He was dressed more casually today, in a black suede coat and hat that might belong to a cowboy, but a crisp white shirt and tailored wool trousers that a businessman might wear. In the light of day, he seemed more alive and intimidating than ever. Good heavens, she thought, her mind racing with sensual thoughts of what it might be like to disrobe him of those fancy clothes.
“Good morning.” He gave her a charming smile that in no way alluded to any uncomfortable regrets he might have about the intimate kiss they’d shared last night. Her face, however, flushed with heat at the searing memory.
“Morning, Jarrod.”
His gaze sharpened over her plain calico dress. It had been a hand-me-down gift from one of her friends at the boardinghouse. It was a size smaller than she usually wore and therefore too snug in the bodice. However, she would take her shawl with her and drape it over her shoulders for modesty. She’d leave her hair loose, too, in the manner she’d noticed other younger women wearing last night at dinner.
“How did you sleep, Natasha?”
“As deep as an ogre. Utterly wiped-out. You?”
He shrugged. “I never seem to sleep well.”
“That’s a shame. Perhaps it’s because of all the traveling that you do. Have you ever tried camomile tea or—”
“That’s a lovely cameo,” he said, glancing at her throat.
She wondered if he’d purposely changed the subject. “Thank you.”
“Made of pink shell,” he said, “mounted on a black velvet ribbon. The scene depicts ‘Rebecca at the Well.’”
Her hand sprung to the nicely weighted oval above her cleavage. She was pleased he knew so much about jewelry and that she could share this love of the craft with him. “I thought the length of the ribbon nicely balanced the size of the cameo.”
“Very becoming. And cameo earrings to match.”
“Do you like them? They were originally mounted on posts. I converted them to fish hooks so they dangle, more in keeping with the length of the velvet ribbon.”
His penetrating eyes flashed. “Very simple, yet very elegant.”
The heated manner in which he said it made her feel as though he was appraising her, not her jewelry. Either way, she was flattered. His opinion meant a lot, since he was such a fine and experienced jeweler. He didn’t wear much jewelry himself, besides the handsome silver buckle on his belt that was engraved with his initials, J. L., and encrusted with studs. Most men did not wear a lot of jewelry, but she truly enjoyed seeing the occasional lapel pin or watch fob on a well-suited man.
“Ready to go?” he asked. “I thought we might take a stroll and have breakfast outside in one of the cafés. The food’s not fancy, but the sightseeing is grand.”
She was relieved to take the focus from herself and happy to explore the town.
She took her white shawl and exited the room. He tugged the door closed for her, and she turned to lock it with her key. Their fingers brushed accidentally. Her belly rippled with sensations, but he removed his hand so quickly from hers that she felt the space between them rather cold. When she turned around and placed the key in her beaded handbag, he was already standing several feet away.
Oh.
Such an abrupt parting.
He seemed more relaxed when they got outdoors. He smiled at her and motioned her to pass first along the crowded boardwalk and shops, all with the good manners of a schoolboy.
This man was no schoolboy.
She swallowed hard at the glint of metal in his eyes. There was something hardened in him, something she feared might be impenetrable.
Valentina from the boardinghouse popped into Natasha’s head, reminding her to ask about his mother.
“Jarrod, I—I was wondering if you might tell me more about your family. I realize your parents passed away when you were rather young. Six, right?”
He nodded, his expression remaining hard. “Barn fire.”
“I’m awfully sorry. Do you recall anything about your mother?”
He shook his head.
Nothing? Six was old enough to have some memories, wasn’t it? Valentina wouldn’t want Natasha to give up on the line of questioning. “How about your grandmother? What was she like?”
“A nice lady.” Jarrod ushered her through a crowd of people coming at them at the boardwalk, then changed the subject. “That’s an unusual clasp in your hair.”
The signs were not good. He wasn’t letting her into his world.
“Something my grandfather gave me,” Natasha answered sadly due to Jarrod’s refusal to confide in her. “My most valuable piece, actually.” The stones were modest in size, but beautifully set, and she recalled how delighted her granddad had been when he’d presented it to her. “It contains four precious stones, set in eighteen-karat gold from the new mines in California. The brooch means the world to me, not because of its monetary value but its meaning.”
“Of course. The gems are arranged in a secret code to spell out a message from your granddad to you.”
My, she thought as he continued to elaborate, Jarrod Ledbetter was very keen to notice details, wasn’t he? She tried to understand that it might take some time for him to open up about his family. His mother’s passing must’ve been tragic for him.
That’s all it is, Valentina.
Jarrod elaborated on the one topic he seemed quite pleased to pursue. “The first letter of each gemstone spells out the word DEAR. There’s a diamond, emerald, amethyst and ruby.”
“He was sentimental,” she explained. “An excellent goldsmith and gem setter. He made it himself.”
Many people from many different countries used gemstones to spell out words in their jewelry. It was a common practice, and if the message was written in a different language, extremely difficult to decipher.
“I once repaired a ring that I secretly deciphered,” she recalled. “It spelled out FOREVER. And a lapel pin that spelled APOLOGY.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Did you share the information with the owners?”
She shook her head. “That would have been indiscreet. They more than likely already knew the messages, and I was simply the hired help.”
“Ah, the ethics of jewelry repair. You must keep your eyes and ears closed to the secrets of others.”
He was teasing her. A rush of excitement coursed through her at the possibility of what the day might bring.
It was interesting to discuss jewelry with him. She had always been thrilled in learning and practicing what she’d learned with her grandfather. Intimate messages and meanings in jewelry were also represented with symbols, not only spelled out with words. Shamrocks were symbols of luck, for instance, and mistletoe represented a desire for a kiss.
Jarrod strode beside her. It seemed that he was being very careful to leave several inches between them as they walked. She could understand his desire to be a gentleman, but she wouldn’t be put off if he were a bit bolder. She might not be very experienced about what exactly would happen on the wedding night, but she did yearn for a display of affection, to be romanced.
The August sky was clear and sunny. The day was already warming, and the bustle of cattlemen and miners and shoppers enthralled her. There were so many different types of people here. Most were men, but occasional women passed by, too, dressed in various tastes ranging from simple country fashions to elegant coiffures and wealthy dresses.
Soldiers from nearby Fort Russell strode by, dressed in uniform and headed toward the livery stable across the street. A church sat nestled next to it, and a gambling hall next to that. What a mix of affluence and attitude.
Two men in shiny jackets and cravats mused at a jewelry-store window. She glanced at the gold chains that draped across their ruffled shirts, the diamond lapel pins, the silver-tipped watch fobs, the ruby cuff links and golden rings. She’d never seen any men wear so much jewelry.
“Heavens,” she whispered in surprise, trying to fathom who these flashy men were.
“Gamblers,” Jarrod whispered back.
“Ah.” She glanced at the jewelry-store window as they passed. George’s Fine Gold, the swinging sign above them read. When she turned the corner, she realized there was an entire row of jewelry shops on this street.
“Oh, my.” Such wealth.
Close by, near the Union Pacific Railroad Depot, where she’d arrived yesterday, tents were slapped up with makeshift bakeries, coffeehouses and cafés. There were market stalls of all sorts of merchandise being sold from coffeepots to snowshoes to hammers and mining equipment. One man specialized in ropes, and all sorts of these fibers, in various thicknesses and colors, dangled from the top of his awnings.
What interested her most were the jewelry stores ahead of her.
“How on earth do you compete, Jarrod, with all these shops?”
He had a ready answer. “My stores have been around longer than most and I’ve got established customers. I give them expertise in the field. Honesty and value in transactions. Half of these shops are nothing but fronts for dishonest thieves.”
She frowned in surprise and scrutinized the customers going in and out. Many were what seemed like hardworking folks dressed in everyday work clothes, some were travelers with luggage, others were more wealthy folks dressed in finer clothes. It was disappointing to know that some of them were being hustled and cheated.
“There’s a nice café around the corner, but if you’re appetite’s not burning yet, I thought we could investigate one of the larger shops.”
“I’d like that.” She was curious to see how the shops and the jewelry compared with Chicago’s.
“After you,” he said, flagging her into the wide storefront ahead. The sign read Wyoming Jewelry Exchange. “It’s the busiest exchange in the territory.”
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Kate Bridges
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: WHAT KIND OF SITUATION HAS SHE WALKED INTO?Seeking justice for his murdered colleagues, Detective Simon Garr has gone undercover as infamous jewel thief Jarrod Ledbetter. All is going to plan until he finds out that Jarrod’s mail-order bride is on her way to Wyoming! Simon can’t afford to jeopardise his cover, which gives him only one option – he must marry the woman!When his poor bride Natasha O’Sullivan arrives she doesn’t have a clue what she is walking into – but Simon finds there is more to her than first meets the eye. Because Natasha has brought along secrets aplenty of her own…Mail-Order Weddings – From blushing bride to Wild West wife!