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Wed To The Montana Cowboy
Carol Arens


From City Spinster… to Cowboy's Bride!Abandoned as a young child, Rebecca Lane has always felt unlovable. Convinced she’s too tall and strong-minded to find a husband, she heads West to start a new life on her grandfather’s ranch.Lantree Walker is wary of his employer’s beautiful granddaughter. But when Rebecca is threatened the cowboy does the only thing that will keep her safe – he marries her! Lantree might have convinced his reluctant bride to take his name, but what will it take to get her into his bed… ?







For a long time Rebecca watched the stars, listening to the rumble and snort of the men who slept about the campfire.

Lantree also watched the stars, his head tipped so that she felt the tickle of his hair on her ear. After a while he turned his face and she watched his gaze settle on her.

She drew in a quick breath. The emotion she saw in his eyes was not that of a comfortable friend. He was a man wanting a woman…wanting his woman.

He touched her hair, smoothing back some of the tangles that the day’s ride had caused.

“My sweet, beautiful Becca,” he whispered.

There might be words in the universe to chastise that remark, but at that moment she could not find them…did not want to.


AUTHOR NOTE (#ulink_9e3d1de4-84a7-56b8-9992-21eb48aed092)

Are you drawn to stories of the Old West like I am? There is something so unique about that time and place. It was a hard, rugged land that tested the mettle of those who ventured into it. At the same time it was a land of new beginnings. For some it was a place of refuge, where one could leave a regrettable past behind and start anew. For others, young and fresh with hope, it was a place to dig in roots and build a future. For many the Old West represented a way to throw off the constraints of proper society and live life on their own terms.

When Rebecca Louise Lane ventures to Montana it’s for all three reasons. As destiny will, in the land of romance, it leads her to Lantree Boone Walker—a man who has gone West to hide from his past.

I hope you enjoy the story of how Rebecca and Lantree each find a new beginning, as well as a life together, in the wilds of Montana.


Wed to the Montana Cowboy

Carol Arens




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CAROL ARENS delights in tossing fictional characters into hot water, watching them steam, and then giving them a happily-ever-after. When she’s not writing she enjoys spending time with her family, beach-camping or lounging about a mountain cabin. At home, she enjoys playing with her grandchildren and gardening. During rare spare moments you will find her snuggled up with a good book.

Carol enjoys hearing from readers at

carolarens@yahoo.com (mailto:carolarens@yahoo.com) or on Facebook.


Dedicated with love to the memory of Tony Arens.

Brother, we will always hear your boot-heels two-stepping across our hearts.


Contents

Cover (#u743306ee-562e-51b8-98d8-1bce11e7ac7f)

Excerpt (#u74204857-a6af-5597-9f9d-2402df3c84c3)

AUTHOR NOTE (#u349fecdf-3402-5c49-824e-e53eb790860c)

Title Page (#u4e973184-6536-5d1c-b7ae-d095ea3dcdb5)

About the Author (#uff7c0d27-1a2e-5a77-8d54-3b39dfb592b8)

Dedication (#ucd3ae595-bcc0-5198-8a1a-a07d7475b9b8)

Chapter One (#u827f4e1c-dfe4-55de-8f37-f5eeb27a369e)

Chapter Two (#uf9a6bc5d-a6de-5b71-8fab-05967d8570e9)

Chapter Three (#u3bf274b1-4e7a-5423-be3a-b90f5ecdd79f)

Chapter Four (#u5c28fc8b-c817-5798-958f-57593ca851bd)

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)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_e9a25277-13ec-5590-9e0d-94d4ced25cf4)

Kansas City, Missouri, April 1882

Despite appearances, Rebecca Lane was not a wallflower.

Glancing to her left, then her right, she watched her passed-over companions sitting primly against the wall of the Kansas City Ladies Cultural Club while the fiddler played his jumpy tune off-key.

While the other ladies might be considered blushing flowers, waiting hopefully for some man to pluck them from disgrace, she was not.

What she was, was a spinster.

If a man did come and pluck her, it would only end in humiliation. There was no disguising the fact that among the dainty wallflowers wilting in their chairs she stood out as bold as a ragweed.

If this were not a charity event, and if Aunt Eunice had not spent the best part of an hour casting frowns at her, she would stand tall, very tall, six feet worth of tall to be exact, and escape this hall of merry, dancing people.

A sigh coming from her right reminded her that not everyone was merry. If she had an ounce of spit, she’d unite her sisters in humiliation and together they would march out the door.

Perhaps not Mary Crowner, though. Willard Phipp had just lifted her from her seat of misery and whirled her onto the dance floor.

Because Rebecca had idle moments with nothing to do but tap her toe and clench her fingers together, she considered her future.

There were a few fates worse than being a spinster, and truth be told, some advantages. She closed her eyes to the colorful skirts twirling past her feet. As she often did, she recited the advantages in her mind.

One, no man would tell her what to say. Two, no man would tell her what to wear. Three, no man would dictate where she could go or when she could go there.

But—and she never made it through the advantages before this thought sneaked in—no man would ever tell her that he loved her.

“Rebecca Louise Lane,” her aunt’s voice hissed in her ear. “Why must you sit so tall? Your head is bobbing above the rest.”

Was her head bobbing? No, certainly her aunt had made that up.

“How do you expect to ever get a husband?”

She didn’t, of course, but to say so out loud would put the woman who had raised her in a foul mood, so she shrugged instead.

“Now, slouch down...and for heaven’s sake, smile. I just saw Randall Pile looking your way.”

“Yes, Aunt Eunice.” She slid her posterior forward on the chair so that her shoulders sunk to the level of the girl sitting beside her.

Sadly, this position jutted her knees out and made her look... Well, she wouldn’t think about that. She only hoped that no one tripped over them.

She peered through the throng of bobbing, whirling dancers, searching for Randall. Please, oh, please let her aunt have been mistaken about the fellow’s interest in her.

Randall, in his boots, was five feet tall.

A yellow skirt whipped out of her line of vision and there he was, staring at her. Not at Martha on her right...not at Lucy on her left, but smack, square at her.

He was with a group of young men. One of them elbowed him in the side. Another whispered in his ear. Randall laughed...well, smirked more like it.

This could only end in a way that would not please Aunt Eunice.

Martha’s shame was suddenly lifted when a young man asked her to dance.

A flash of lavender ruffle settled into the empty chair beside Rebecca.

“Becca, sit up straight.” Winded, her cousin Melinda frowned at her and yanked her elbow. “You are far too beautiful to be scrunched up like that.”

Melinda was a lively, pretty girl who rarely went without a dance partner. The one whom she had apparently abandoned in the middle of a quickstep stood alone in the revelry looking bewildered.

“I saw Mama talking to you. Don’t pay a whit of attention to whatever she had to say.”

Rebecca sat up and took a long, shuddering breath.

“If only I could. She’s set on matching me up with Randall again.”

“I can’t imagine what Mama is thinking. Randall Pile is—”

“Walking this way,” Rebecca groaned.

“If we hurry we can escape outside before he makes it across the room.”

For pity’s sake, the man was fast. She hadn’t taken three steps from her chair before he stood before her, chest puffed and looking arrogant to his boot toe.

“Would you care to dance, Miss Lane?”

By George she would not! Sadly, the interested gazes of several people in the room turned her way. She did not wish to make a scene.

Melinda’s abandoned dance partner appeared out of the crowd. “Miss Winston, may I have the pleasure...again?”

“Billy!” Melinda exclaimed. “How beastly of me to leave you the way I did. I’d be delighted to continue.”

Clearly Billy held no grudge. A grin split his face, as cheerful as the bright quarter moon visible through the window.

Randall grinned as well, but it was over his shoulder at his companions, not at any pleasure over dancing with her. No doubt he had made the offer on a dare...possibly money had changed hands.

One of the wallflowers giggled. And why would she not? She and Randall must look like a giraffe and a peacock engaged in some bizarre ritual.

She would give her aunt this one satisfaction, then beg some indisposition and go home.

A slow walk around Palmer’s cornfield with the brisk night air brushing her cheeks would cleanse away the humiliation as effectively as a classical melody would.

The fiddler played a twisted version of a polka. Did no one else hear the off-key screech that felt like pinpricks inside one’s bones?

She glanced about.

Apparently not. Everyone seemed to be having a fine high time.

Randall, more than most. He stomped on her skirt with every turn. His clutching, sweaty hand was bound to leave a stain on her dress.

Exasperated, she glared down at the top of his head, noticing that his hair was thinning. She had the urge to blow a fleck of dandruff from his scalp.

She might have made all sorts of inappropriate faces at him for all he would notice.

The one and only thing the man cared to look at was her bosom. And not because it was anything more than adequate but because unless he looked up or down, it’s where his gaze fell.

His nose began to twitch...and sniff. He licked his lips, then for the first time he looked into her eyes...arched one brow.

Why, the little maggot!

She shoved him away. That ought to have been the end of it but he said, “I thought you’d be grateful.”

So, when he turned to walk back to his snickering friends she raised her skirt to her knee, lifted her boot and kicked him hard in the rump.

Sadly for Aunt Eunice’s reputation, which her aunt valued above anything, Randall lost his balance and skidded belly-first across the floor.

Everyone noticed.

In the chaos that followed, Melinda grabbed her hand. Together, they fled out the front door, down the steps and into the night.

* * *

The moment of reckoning came at one minute past midnight, even though Aunt Eunice had arrived home an hour after the unfortunate event.

Summoned, Rebecca stood before her aunt with her head bowed and her hands folded in front of her. She had taken this position many times over the years. The only difference between now and then was that when she was four years old, she had to look up into her aunt’s scowl...now she looked down at it.

“Kindly explain why you would do such a thing...humiliate me and your poor cousins so horribly.”

Melinda, clearly, had not been humiliated, but Bethune and Prudence were no doubt sobbing their mortification into their pillows at this moment.

“I never meant to—”

“It’s Becca who was humiliated, Mama.” All of a sudden, her defender stood beside her. “That horrible little man—”

“Might have been willing to offer for her hand, given his own limitations.”

“Any man would be lucky to have our Becca!”

“Go to your room, Melinda,” her aunt declared drily.

Melinda was far too old to be told to go to her room, just as Rebecca was far too old to be taking this scolding. But by George, no one wanted to send Eunice into a temper that might go on for days.

So, Melinda went to her room while Rebecca slouched another two inches.

Aunt Eunice had been distressed over Rebecca’s height since the day she had been dropped on her doorstep. At four years old she had towered over Bethune who was five and a half.

“Do you want to be an old maid, Rebecca?” Aunt Eunice arched one eyebrow. “Or worse...have people wonder if you grew up to be like your mother...that I allowed you to?”

It would be difficult to know whether she committed the great sin of growing up like her mother or not. The memories of her life before coming to live with Aunt Eunice were vague.

She did recall the scent of rose water, and a fairy-like woman who laughed out loud but cried even louder. There was always a blur of men’s faces in her memory. Sometimes she thought her mother’s tears had to do with them.

But just as often she wondered if it was her that had made Mama weep because she was not pretty enough to make Papa stay.

It had been the dolls that made her think that. Mama carried a collection of blue-eyed princesses to whichever place they happened to be living. Papa had bought them for her, Mama liked to say, because they reminded him of her. Back then, they reminded Rebecca of angels. Later on when she thought of those pretty porcelain gifts, it hurt dreadfully.

In all their travels, Mama had never left a doll behind. She’d left Rebecca behind without a backward glance.

“I have accepted the fact that I will, in all likelihood, remain unmarried.” It stung that her aunt continued to fear that she would suddenly become promiscuous. “But I am nothing like my mother and have gone to great pains to show that I am not.”

“As this evening would attest? Really, Rebecca, I’ve done my best with you but sometimes I fear that no matter how strict I am, you rebel... You are my sister all over again.”

Whether that was true or not, she couldn’t say. Mama had become a distant memory, buried so deep that trying to recall her face was like painting with mist.

“Aunt Eunice, the mother I remember is you.” A woman who hid rare, tender feelings behind a starchy demeanor. She could only recall one instance when her aunt had showed her unguarded affection. When she was six years old, Rebecca had been seriously ill with a fever and her aunt had sat up with her for two days and nights, wiping her brow and crooning lullabies. During the worst of it she had even called her Becca.

“I regret that I shamed you, but Randall was behaving like a lewd goat. I merely defended myself.”

“And as usual, you dragged my Melinda into the mess.”

Anyone acquainted with her cousin for more than ten minutes knew that there was no dragging Melinda. She dove into life headlong, laughing while she did so.

The clock on the fireplace mantel ticked off long silent seconds while her aunt stared up at her.

“You need a husband,” she declared at last. “I hoped it would be Randall since you are of an age. But after tonight that is unlikely. But mark my words, Rebecca Louise, you will marry and marry soon.”

Aunt Eunice sighed loudly, glanced at the clock then back up at her.

“Mr. Fielding, the butcher, has asked for you. He believes that with your size, you will be helpful in the shop. Count your blessings, young lady, that the man wants a hefty girl.”

Hefty? Why, she was no such thing. She was slender, and if not delicate, exactly, she was by no means strapping.

“You may go to your room now.”

There were many things that she would do to keep peace with her aunt. After all, she did owe her a great deal. A widow after only five years of marriage, she had managed to raise four girls all on her own. She truly did deserve respect for that.

But showing her aunt respect stopped a good deal short of marrying the butcher.

“Rebecca.” Her aunt’s voice caught her just as she made the turn from the parlor to the hall. “As horrified as I am at how you behaved tonight, I’m glad that you did not let that pitiful Randall make improper advances. Once you are under the butcher’s care, you’ll be safe from that sort of conduct.”

“Yes, Aunt Eunice,” she said, but it was the last thing she meant.

* * *

A footpath crossed the backyard then sloped downhill toward the creek behind the house. Rebecca followed the trail of daffodils growing beside it, watching them nod their pretty yellow heads in the glow of the low-hung moon.

It was dark in the wee hours, but that didn’t mean the flowers did not continue to flash their color. She decided to be like those bold little beauties...shine even during the dark hours.

Sitting on a bench that she had placed beside the creek three years ago, she drew her violin from its case and began to play.

As the sound filtered through the cottonwoods, her nerves began to settle. With each draw of the bow across the strings, despair melted...hope took its place.

After a few moments she was smiling. The instrument always had this effect upon her. Learning to play it had come naturally.

“Do not, under any circumstances, marry the butcher.” Melinda plopped down beside her, out of breath. She must have run all the way from the house. “I’m certain his first two wives were perfectly miserable.”

Melinda, her fair hair loose and tumbling, her nightshift a soft white glow in the dark, was everything lovely. Her lively, engaging spirit had a way of drawing people to her. If she decided to postpone marriage for years, she would still be snatched up in a heartbeat. Her cousin might live to be a hundred years old and still not be considered an old maid.

“Your mother can be very determined.”

“But not as determined as us... You wouldn’t consider it? Please say you wouldn’t!”

Rebecca placed her violin in its case then cradled it across her knees.

“I would not, not in a million years.”

What was she going to do, though? Become a lifelong burden to her aunt? Eventually, when they were both old, become her caregiver?

A few hours ago, any slim hope of finding a decent man had slid across the floor of the social room with Randall Pile. No doubt the gentlemen of Kansas City were shaking their heads in astonishment. Perhaps even the butcher was having second thoughts.

“But there is something I’ve been considering for some time now.” She paused and drew a breath. “I’ll go to my grandfather.”

“You can’t do that, Becca! He lives in the wilderness with bears and wolves! Your home is here with us.”

“I only live here. This is your home, your sisters’ and your mother’s. There’s no future for me here.”

“When I marry, you’ll live with me. My home will be your home.”

“I won’t be any better off then than I am now. I’ll still be a burden.”

“I won’t treat you like Mama does. You know I would never.”

“I know, but, Melinda, don’t you see? I’ve got to go. If I don’t I’ll just shrivel up.”

“I’ll shrivel without you. My sisters and Mama will stifle me as sure as I’m breathing.”

“You are not the stifling kind. You’ll do fine without me.”

“You can’t go, Becca. Your grandfather lives in Montana. Not to mention that he’s a... I hate to say so, but he’s a Moreland, and a stranger.”

“We can’t judge all Morelands by my father. In his letters, Grandfather sounds congenial. I believe he is just a sweet, little old man who wants to meet his only grandchild. No doubt at his age he’s helpless and feeble. I’m sure he needs me.”

“But Montana is so far away! How will you even get there?”

How indeed? She’d spent countless hours lying awake, or playing her violin, thinking it over.

“By paddleboat. It leaves here and goes right to Coulson. That’s not far from my grandfather in Big Timber.”

“What’s not far?”

“Only about eighty miles.” She shrugged and stared down at her violin case.

“Of wilderness!”

“It’s not as though it’s uninhabited.”

“Mama will forbid it.” Melinda tapped her finger to her lips. “Paddleboats are dangerous. It will involve months of travel. Then there’s the Morelands. Demons and that side of your family are one and the same to her.”

“Whether they are or not, that’s something I need to know for myself...before it’s too late.”

She stood up, pressing the violin case to her chest. Looking down at Melinda, she felt her heart thrum against it. Her need of this instrument went as deep as her need for food...deeper than her need for sleep.

The first time she had touched the gift from her grandfather, something shifted inside her. The instrument had belonged to her grandmother. According to Grandfather’s letter, Catherine Moreland had a talent that could only be described as a gift.

By George, she knew this to be true even though she had never met her. There were times when she felt that her late grandmother stood behind her guiding the bow across the strings.

It was a fanciful notion, but not one that she had ever been able to rid herself of...nor did she want to. If a Moreland could possess such an exquisite gift, then just maybe they were not the reprobates that Aunt Eunice painted them to be.

“Melinda, I don’t know who I am. Your mother has tried to make me into one of her own, but I just don’t fit. I’ve got to see if it’s the Moreland in me that made me kick a man in the pants.”

“You know, our Grandmother Lane would have done the same. Maybe it’s her you take after and not a Moreland.”

“I’ll never know that unless I meet my grandfather.”

Melinda sighed and shook her head. “If you’re set on this, you have my blessing. And don’t worry about Screech. I’ll take good care of him.”

“I would not ask that of a saint.” Screech was a green parrot with a pretty yellow-and-blue head. The bird, she had been assured, would outlive most men. Screech had been a point of stress to her aunt for as long as Rebecca had. They had been abandoned by her mother as a pair. “I’d live in constant fear that your mother might serve him up for dinner.”

“That might not be the worst thing ever,” Melinda declared. They laughed together. This was something that Rebecca would miss down to her bones. “We’ll tell Mama first thing in the morning. You can be on your way when the next paddleboat comes through.”

Melinda stood up. Arm in arm they walked slowly back to the house.

“I’m going to miss you dreadfully, cousin,” Rebecca said past the lump in her throat.

Maybe it was beyond foolish to leave the only person who had ever truly loved her. But she’d gone over and over it in her head. This was something she had to do.

“Not if I go with you!” Melinda’s eyes flashed up at her, sparkling blue mischief in the moonlight.

Having her cousin at her side would be wonderful. The temptation to encourage her to do so was strong...but wrong. Melinda was right about Montana being a rugged place teeming with bears, wolves and who knew what other dangers.

“You know you can’t.”

Melinda shrugged. “I might turn up one day, if Mama tries to give me to the butcher in your place. You’ll answer your door one day and there I’ll be, trailed by a wolf pack and half eaten by a bear.”

Climbing the path toward the house she watched the moon dip closer to the horizon and felt the warmth of her petite cousin beside her.

She prayed that she was not making a giant mistake in leaving the familiar for the unknown.


Chapter Two (#ulink_5363ad2e-abce-5555-b0a1-7a9a64b438ba)

Coulson, Montana, June 1882

Lantree Walker listened to the full-bodied whistle of the River Queen. From where he stood on the boardwalk he watched the riverboat’s twin smokestacks blow sooty smoke into the pristine sky.

A stand of trees grew between him and the dock so he couldn’t see how many passengers were disembarking.

In his opinion, the fewer the better.

Not only did newcomers bring their bags and other possessions, they brought unintended disease. Fevers and plagues rarely announced their arrival.

Even Coulson, a place as wicked as they came, did not deserve to be decimated by disease.

To his bones, he felt Moreland Ranch calling him home, where the air was fresh and the trees tickled the sky.

This was not a town a man wanted to linger in. It had more saloons than legitimate businesses and more brothels than saloons. Wild and rowdy was the rule of the day and more so, the night. This was a town without a single church to redeem the lost souls of its inhabitants.

The sooner he loaded the supplies he had purchased into the wagon and headed back home, the happier he would be.

He figured he ought to pay a visit to the barber before heading out, since his hair hung well past his shoulders. Hell, he hadn’t shaved in days...since before he left the ranch.

What he ought to do was not what he was going to do. He could shave on the trail if his face itched.

A man stumbled across his path. He caught the fellow’s arm to keep him from landing face-first on the boardwalk. Out of long habit he studied red eyes and felt the skin under his fingers for unnatural warmth.

As he’d suspected, the man was merely drunk, so he straightened him and pointed him on his way.

Crowds had not always made him uneasy. In his former life, before fever had decimated Amberville, he hadn’t minded them...he’d even enjoyed the hustle and bustle of town.

Not anymore. Ghosts haunted crowds.

Not the vaporous departed...but there was always the flash of a stranger’s smile that reminded him of a neighbor who had died while Lantree had wiped his brow. Or the high-pitched laugh of a woman sounding like Abigail Steen, who had fought for her last breath while she gripped his hand.

He shook his head, took a long, slow breath of air. He filled his lungs with the fresh, muddy scent of the Yellowstone River.

As soon as he deposited his wages he would load the wagon and be on his way.

It was no accident that the bank was located only a few doors down from Sheriff Johnson’s office. The sheriff was a giant of a man with a mean reputation. A thief, or a drunk, would think twice before robbing the bank.

He strolled past the sheriff’s office with a nonchalant stride, but he was anything but relaxed.

A fresh set of wanted posters decorated the lawman’s front door. He needed to look at them, but he hell and damn did not want to. The closer he got, the harder his heart beat, the more damp his armpits felt.

He slowed his pace and scanned the broadsheets. Relief eased his heart back to its normal rhythm...one more trip to town without seeing his “likeness” staring back at him.

He dreaded the day that he would see his twin brother’s face staring back at him.

In spite of his brother’s crime, he loved him and the thought of him being captured or killed made the blood hitch in his veins.

Then again, in an odd way, it might be a relief to see the broadsheet. It would mean he had not yet been apprehended, had not faced a noose or an itchy-fingered bounty hunter.

With that worry put to rest for the moment, he felt lighter in his soul. Home was only days away with its crisp air and polished blue sky.

The three years he had spent working for Hershal Moreland had been some of the best he had known.

Moreland Ranch was a bit of heaven on earth. Its southern border lay along the Yellowstone River and its northern border stretched to the mountains. The house had a view of both the Beartooth Range and the Crazy Mountains.

He’d spent more than a few quiet hours fishing Big Timber Creek where it cut through the ranch.

The land had given him a place to heal, but it was Hershal Moreland who had found a broken soul and brought him home, given him sanctuary and shown him a new way of life.

There had been a time when he’d believed that the only life he could be happy with was that of a medical doctor.

With what Boone had done, he believed he owed something to...well, he didn’t know to whom, but he’d felt that dedicating his life to healing in some way made up for his brother’s crime.

Life had certainly set him straight on making anything up to anybody. The fever that had swept through his town like a putrid wind claimed the old, the young, sweet mothers and their little babies.

Hadn’t touched him, though. The ones who depended upon him, upon his skill as a healer, died all about him, but he remained standing with his stethoscope dangling about his stooped shoulders and his confidence buried along with most of his fiancée’s family.

He’d never blamed Eloise for calling things off, not even when she’d accused him of incompetence, taken off her engagement ring and flung it out the window of the schoolhouse-turned-hospital. How could he say, with her loved ones lying dead, that she was wrong? That the bitterness in her gaze was undeserved?

Hell, he’d turned bitter against himself. He’d only really begun to live again when Hershal showed him another way. Over the past few years the old man had become more than kin.

Truly, the only person he’d been closer to in his life was Boone.

But his brother was lost to him. One thoughtless act, an accident really, had made Boone an outlaw. It had also made Lantree who he was...or had been.

“Hell, Boone,” he mumbled. “Why’d you have to draw your gun?”

* * *

Rebecca had been prepared for Montana being an untamed land. During the two months she had spent aboard the River Queen, she’d heard stories of bears, cougars and violent storms that washed folks right away.

What she had not been prepared for was Montana’s natural, shout-out-loud beauty.

Over the past week, she would barely catch her breath over one wonder before another would appear.

She’d watched from the balustrade while the River Queen drifted past grassy meadows surrounded by great trees. She’d heard the wind sighing and moaning through them at night while she slept on deck, gazing up at a sky so sparkling that it seemed to be in constant, glittering movement.

It was the sight of the distant mountains, though, still capped with snow, that brought her to her knees.

Literally.

Getting off the boat a few moments ago, she had been so engrossed by their grandeur that she had tripped over a small piece of baggage that someone had carelessly left near the gangplank. She had hit her knees and stayed that way, staring at what she had been told were the Beartooth Mountains. If at that moment she had been swallowed by a bear or shredded by a cougar, Aunt Eunice would be proven right, but Rebecca would die satisfied.

Although, she realized, still on her knees and gazing at the town, the real danger might come from that direction rather than God’s stunning mountain range.

Was she mistaken that even at this hour of the day the scent of alcohol wafted on the air...and tobacco? Surely her nose was oversensitive, she didn’t really smell sweat and stale cologne?

Even if her nose was conjuring smells, her ears heard things quite accurately. The jarring sound of an out-of-tune piano drifted out of a saloon nearby, along with a woman’s laugher, a man’s cussing...and a gunshot.

By George, she had not imagined the gunshot or the one that answered it.

“Miss Lane?”

Rebecca looked up from where she knelt in the dirt to see Tom, a young, fresh-faced deckhand, looking down at her. He had her trunk slung across his shoulders.

She stood up, dusted off her skirt and tweaked her hat.

“Where would you like for me to deliver your trunk?” he asked.

Sunshine illuminated a smattering of freckles across his nose. He stared with a frown at Screech, who sat on the perch in his travel cage. The bird eyed Tom with a pivot of his yellow-and-blue head.

“Yummy,” Screech said. “Here.”

The bird had not made many friends on the trip, very likely due to his tendency to nip...and screech, which he did with regularity at sunrise.

The safekeeping of her trunk was a problem. She could not have it delivered anyplace in town since she had no intention of getting closer to it than the dock.

“Where are Mrs. Henson and her daughters staying?” Perhaps she could accompany them until she figured things out. She had met the women briefly on the boat when they had come to the lower deck to check on their goods.

Tom blushed. “Those weren’t her daughters, Miss Lane. They were more like...well...I reckon you’d call them recruits. They’ve probably taken up business at the Sullied Gully by now.”

Oh, dear... They had looked like normal women. Aunt Eunice would be stricken if she discovered that the niece she had taken such pains to raise to be a lady had spoken with prostitutes. No doubt her aunt would compare them to Rebecca’s mother.

Tom was beginning to show the strain of holding her trunk.

“Just leave it here beside the dock.”

“But where do you aim to go?” It made her uncomfortable to see his eyes widen in alarm.

“My grandfather’s ranch near Big Timber.”

“That’s near eighty miles, you’ll need someone to get you there.”

“I’ve been told that men who are out of work often act as guides.”

“You sit tight here. Coulson’s not the place for a lady like you. I’ll pass the word around.”

“Thank you, Tom.” She handed him a quarter. “I appreciate your help.”

“Don’t wander off, now,” he said with a doff of his cap. “I’ll send someone down shortly.”

She watched him saunter away. The afternoon sunshine gave him a long, fluid shadow. Tom entered the first saloon he came to.

“I hope he sends someone out soon,” she said to Screech. His pupils flashed, a certain sign of his intelligence. “Because I’m not leaving our goods unattended.”

To be honest, she didn’t have the kind of goods that a thief might be interested in. Still, they were hers and she needed them. And there was the one item of great value, the one she didn’t even dare display so close to town.

Her grandmother’s violin, wrapped carefully in her spare petticoats and centered in the trunk, was more than polished wood. It was a link to the grandmother she had never known.

No matter how long it took, she would sit on top of the trunk like a bird on her nest, keeping her precious cargo safe.

She only hoped that Tom really was arranging an escort to Moreland Ranch. A young man in a bar with alcohol, and ladies after his quarter... Well, his attention might have wandered from her plight.

“Yummy,” Screech said. “Ummm, yummy.”

“Yes, me, too,” she answered, then settled her derriere onto the lid of the trunk.

* * *

Having finished his business at the bank, Lantree walked the isolated path that wound through the trees behind the main street of town.

The boardwalk in front of the establishments would have been a quicker way to get back to his wagon, but this way was more peaceful, more private.

Unfortunately, this path tended to be a dumping ground for drunks who had been tossed from the saloons. He spotted one now, face down in a mud puddle.

With the inebriated as plentiful as fleas on a hound, no one much cared if one of them never came out of his stupor. Boot Hill was home to a fair share of unfortunate alcoholics.

Lantree crouched down beside the man. His skin was an unhealthy color. He touched the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse.

It was there, sluggish under his fingertips. Turning the fellow over, he sighed. The drunk was more a boy than a man. If he kept up this behavior he wouldn’t live long enough to grow a full beard.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he said. Slinging the limp body over his shoulder, he stood up.

The closest thing to a doctor that Coulson could boast was the bartender at the Gilded Cage Saloon. “Doc” Brody had assisted an army doctor for three years so he did what he was able.

Brody would have enough skill to see the kid back to sobriety.

Lantree walked past the River Queen on his way to the Gilded Cage. Only one passenger remained in sight.

This one straggler made him pivot at the hip, stop and stare. She sat upon a trunk beside the dock, apparently conversing with a large green bird in a dome-shaped cage.

Decent women in Coulson were rare. Perhaps she was a lady of the night, but if that were the case, she would just be starting her career.

Her skin looked fresh...lovely even. Her expression was bright and untroubled.

Evidently, the bird must have done something funny because the woman laughed out loud. She didn’t try to hide her amusement coyly behind her hand, but let it out, lifting her face to the sky, looking joyful.

He wanted to weep for her. Give the girl six months, and she would be visiting Doc Brody with sores that she would never recover from.

Maybe he ought to sit down beside her and warn her of the danger, but he had the boy slung over his shoulder.

At any rate, the young woman would resent his interference and he was in no position to advise or heal anyone.

Still, it was a shame to imagine such beauty fading to despair and illness.

A few moments later, he deposited the boy on a chair inside the Gilded Cage.

He approached the bar and signaled Brody with a wave.

“That one’s no more than a kid,” he explained to the “Doctor” and pushed a five-dollar bill in his direction. “See what you can do to get him sober.”

“You and your strays, Lantree.” The bartender poured him a shot of amber-colored whiskey. “Just a dram to keep you warm on the ride home.”

“Appreciate it, Doc.”

He took a sip, enjoying the smooth heat sliding down his throat, warming his belly.

At the other end of the bar, a young man...a deckhand from the Queen, he thought, chatted with Big Nosed Mike. No one knew Mike’s real name, but everyone knew about his bullish reputation...everyone apparently but the boy chatting amiably with him.

Lantree slugged down the rest of his drink. Coulson was wearing on his nerves. The sooner he got home to the tranquility of the ranch, the happier he would be.

On his way out the door, he paused to straighten the boy in his chair and check his pulse one more time.

He’d recover this time, but if no one took him in hand he faced a sad, short future.

Outside, June sunshine warmed his face, but come tonight the weather would turn downright cold. It was a lucky thing he’d purchased several heavy blankets and a couple of rain slickers.

“Walker!” came a voice from behind him on the boardwalk. “Hold up a minute.”

He’d hoped to get in and out of town without a confrontation with William Smothers, Coulson’s power-hungry mayor.

He stopped, turned. When he did, he spotted the fresh young woman with the bird. She was standing beside her trunk, stretching. She was tall, very tall, with a lithe, lovely figure. He wished...well, he wished for a lot of things, but it was a shame about the girl.

Smothers gazed up at him, yanking then smoothing the lapels of his fancy suit over his portly belly. “I heard you were in town.”

“Just on my way out.”

“Arrange a meeting for me with your boss.” As usual, Smothers was short and to the point.

The fellow was shifty, all right. Just because he wore a tailored suit and polished boots didn’t make him any less of a snake.

“Mr. Moreland sends his regards and his regrets.”

“See here, Lantree. The railroad is coming. This town is going to grow up overnight. We need lumber. Moreland’s got more trees than he needs.”

“Not interested.”

Smothers might yak all day without Hershal giving up so much as a branch.

He’d refused to sell it to fuel the steamboats. He’d escorted the railroad folks off his land with a shotgun. His boss was as protective of his trees as he might have been with his own kin, if he’d had any.

There was the granddaughter, but her mother’s family had poisoned her opinion of Moreland. The girl would never come here, no matter how much comfort she would be able to give the old man.

“You arrange a meeting, and I’ll make it worth your while. How much do you make as ramrod for Moreland? Not as much as you’d like, I’d be willing to bet.”

“I watch out for Moreland’s interests.”

“Just deliver the message this time.” Smothers’s face began to mottle. A red circle blotched his nose. “Or I’ll find another, not-so-gentle way of delivering it.”

“Is that a threat, Smothers?” Lantree took a step closer, bent down to the mayor’s level and spoke softly. “I reckon you didn’t mean it to be.”

“I want those trees.”

“Get them somewhere else.”

“You know that property has the best lumber, and all near the river. We need it and we need it fast if Coulson is going to be the railhead and not Billings. The survival of this town depends on it.”

One more reason for Hershal to hold on to his trees, as far as Lantree was concerned. If the railroad boss picked another place for his town and this one died, so much the better.

“If you try anything illegal, I’ll know it, Smothers.”

He walked away, leaving the man steaming in his fancy duds.

Home, Moreland Ranch, could not come soon enough.

* * *

Thanks to Tom, Rebecca had a guide. She watched while the squat but solid-looking man built a campfire for the night.

To appearances, Mike looked like a ruffian, with shaggy hair that could use a wash, along with the rest of him. But this was a rugged land, full of rugged men, and she would not judge his character by his grooming habits. Besides, Tom would not have sent him to her unless he was of dependable character.

Wisely, she had only paid him half his due, the rest to be delivered upon her safe arrival at Moreland Ranch. Even if Mike did not care about her welfare in a personal sense, he would want the rest of his money.

If nothing else, her guide did build a roaring fire. The flames chased away some of the chill setting in, now that the sun had set. She walked to her trunk where it was stored for the night beside the pair of saddles lying on the ground.

If the rest of the journey went as easily as the first three hours, it would be a pleasant trip.

She withdrew a key from the pocket of her skirt, opened the trunk, then lifted out her coat and shrugged it on.

Mike glanced over at her with a grin.

Compared to the place she had grown up, Montana was big and wild. In Kansas City, one ran into folks on every street corner. Here in the wild, even street corners were scarce.

She listened to the night sounds, how they all blended, composing a song. When she closed her eyes, she could clearly pick out the melody created by a pair of hooting owls. The sough of the breeze through the treetops made up the chorus. Far away, lifting on the wind, she heard what sounded like a man’s voice, but was more likely the yipping and yapping of a pack of coyotes on a distant hilltop.

“Beans?” Kneeling by the fire, Mike pivoted on his knee, his face lit up like a gap-toothed jack-o’-lantern. He lifted a can in his fist. “Ain’t much of a cook, so to speak, but I can warm beans.”

“Thank you, Mike.” She smiled brightly at him. Since they would be journeying together for a couple of days, they might as well be cordial. “Anything warm would be a dream come true.”

He stared at her for an uncomfortable moment, nodded his head, then shot her a sidelong wink.

How odd.

Ten minutes later, they sat beside the fire, each with a mug of warm beans cupped in their palms.

“How long do you reckon that birdie of yours is going to last?” Mike pointed his fork at Screech, who sat on his perch grooming his pretty feathers beside the fire.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a tough land, ma’am. Most critters tend to blend in. That one’s bright as a fancy gewgaw.” Mike picked a fragment of bean from his teeth with his fork tine and flicked it into the fire. “For an extra dollar, I could make sure he doesn’t get mistaken for a chicken.”

A chicken? Was the man daft? Show her the chicken that spoke English and had feathers so pretty they were iridescent in the sunshine.

She would like nothing more than to set her guide straight but she held her tongue, wanting to keep things friendly between them.

“Since it’s only the two of us, I can’t think that will happen.”

“Someone not as civilized as you and me might come along. Have themselves a right fancy dinner.”

A chill skittered up her spine wondering if he was truly concerned about Screech, or if that had been a veiled threat. How was she to know?

She was suddenly uncomfortable being alone in the forest with a strange man whose only recommendation was that he was available when no one else was, and he claimed to know the way to Moreland Ranch.

By George, she had better sleep with Screech’s cage on her lap. A woman in her situation could not be too careful.

“We seem so isolated out here,” she pointed out. “Is there really much danger of someone coming upon us?”

He slid toward her two inches. She slid six the other way.

“There’s wild things out there in the dark...bears, wolves, wildcats...wilder men. But don’t you worry, pretty lady. Big Mike is here to see to your needs.”

That ought to be a comfort, but the hair rose on the back of her neck and the goose bumps on her arms.

Tom, she had to remind herself, would not have sent her off with an unsavory fellow.

“Any beast or ruffian shows up, you run to me, snuggle in good and tight.” He opened his arms. She scooted away. “Come on, girlie, give it a practice.”

“If the time comes, I’ll know what to do.” She eyed the iron kettle sitting on a rock beside the fire.

“I don’t know about you, but I plan to keep good and warm tonight,” he mumbled.

His gaze wandered over her, slow and overly familiar. He scooted his rump uncomfortably close.

Suddenly his gaze jerked up, spotting something over her shoulder.

Her “protector’s” expression hardened. His lips peeled back in a snarl.

“Move away from the woman,” came a deep voice from behind her.

Oh, goodness. They were not as isolated as she had assumed. An intruder had come upon them without crunching a leaf.

She turned to see one of the ruffians Mike had warned of...a very large ruffian.

He had to be more than six and a half feet tall! In a moment, when she stood to defend herself she would have to look up at him.

Firelight reflected off his solid-looking form. The evening breeze blew streams of long blond hair in front of his face. Golden highlights flickered in the strands. It distracted her that his hair gleamed with cleanliness.

What kind of ruffian had clean hair and the build of a handsome Viking?

It didn’t matter what kind. A ruffian was a ruffian...and he was threatening her guide.

Her guide who, faced with danger, did not open his arms to protect her as he’d promised.

“Go find your own way to get warm tonight.” Mike stood, growled and balled his fists, clearly ready to protect his own pitiful self.

The intruder, rather than backing off, took several steps toward Mike.

Mike scuttled backward, nearly tripping over a large rock.

Screech began to screech when Mike began to holler about the man having no claim on her.

And, by the dickens, no man did!

Since the men were railing at each other and paying no attention to her, it was an easy matter to seize the iron bean kettle and swing it at the giant’s head from behind.

He crumpled to his knees, grasping his temples in his large fists.

Mike did not take that moment to defend her. Instead of tying up the disabled villain, he dashed for her trunk. He lifted the unlocked lid. Somehow, he seemed to know exactly where she kept her money. He plucked it out.

She ran after him, swinging the kettle, but he was up on his horse before she could do more than land a blow to his calf.

In his rush to get away, he left the older horse, the one she had been riding, and both saddles.

In all fairness, the animal and the abandoned belongings now belonged to her.

She would name the horse Hoodwinked.

“Screech! Be quiet!”

The bird obeyed for a full two seconds before declaring, “Uh-oh.”

This was a fine mess! Abandoned in the forest with a wounded criminal. Lost with no idea how to get to Moreland Ranch.

At least this fellow couldn’t steal her money. And, the kettle gripped tightly in her fist, she would fight for her virtue.

Let the man make a move, let him utter one untoward thing, and she’d smash his nose. She would batter his ears and knock out his teeth.

He looked up at her, silent. The light of the campfire revealed the intense blue of his eyes.

What kind of brigand had eyes like that? And perfect white teeth...and clean hair?

Surely his voice would give him away as an evildoer. Curse words would probably accent his every utterance.

“You’re a fair hand with a kettle, ma’am.”

“And I’m not afraid to use it again.”

He touched the back of his head. His long fingers came away streaked with blood. He swayed on his knees.

She hurried to Mike’s abandoned saddle packs, looking for some sort of binding and found a short section of rope.

“Are you twins?” the man asked. “Or just one lady?”

“Triplets... Give me your wrists and don’t try anything.”

“I’ll try not to be sick.”

His hands hung limp at his sides so she snatched them up and made quick work of tethering them.

All at once he lurched forward. His weight knocked her to the ground.

By the saints, this was a muddle. Not only was she lost in the wilderness, but she now had a questionable man’s bleeding head cradled on her bosom.

She wriggled and pushed until the man’s head lay in her lap. Humph! He had long eyelashes, sandy and dark at the same time...and lovely hair that she wanted to... Well, quite honestly, she wanted to stroke it.

Perhaps she should have paid attention to Aunt Eunice, who had announced that she would come to ruin in Montana.

Still, she wasn’t ruined, at least not as long as her captive remained passed out.

A strand of hair streaked with blood lay across his cheek. She brushed it aside with her thumb and felt the rough scrape of his beard under her skin.

She had never been this close to a full-bodied man before, had never smelled the scent of warm masculine breath so close to her face. She certainly had never pressed her hand on one’s chest, feeling muscles and ribs rise and fall.

This, and she could only be honest, was a handsome man.

And as long as she was being honest, what was there to indicate that he had been up to no good?

Her assumption, was all. Thinking back on it, Mike was the one who had been taking liberties.

This man had simply demanded that Mike back away.

Oh, dear, had she beaned her defender? All of a sudden she felt horrible. If his intention had been to protect, she owed him a great deal.

Then again, if he had only wanted to take Mike’s place, she still owed him a great deal.

From a distance not far off, a wolf howled. She glanced at the smear of blood on the man’s cheek, hoping that the scent would not attract predators.

The safety and the warmth that the fire provided would not last all night.

“Wake up, mister.”

She gently patted his cheek but he did not stir.

No matter who he was, she wanted him awake.

By the look of him, and the solid weight of bone and muscle lying across her, he was a fellow who would be able to fend off a wolf without trouble...maybe even a bear.

“I’m sorry I hit you. Please wake up.”

His eyeballs moved under the lids, but other than that he did not stir.

After a while, the fire grew dimmer. The warmth receded and a bitter chill rushed to fill its place. It would haunt her conscience forever if she allowed her captive to freeze to death.

She shrugged her arms out of her coat, draped it over her shoulders, then spread the long tails over her hero or assailant.

It only covered him to his knees, but some warmth was beginning to build between their bodies.

A very curious warmth. It seemed to come from within her.

If she survived until morning, she would think more about it. Just now, the events of the day had worn her through.

She huddled over the man and tried to relax, but she was more than half-certain that eyes peered at her from the brush.


Chapter Three (#ulink_e1a4e645-c1a9-55b7-86ed-37fb3a6146c5)

Lantree scented a woman.

He cracked open his eyes but saw things through a dark blur. Yep, his surroundings had been doused in oil. Objects swayed like pond grass underwater.

Apparently his mind was still feeling the effects of the blow to his head, which was to be expected. In all likelihood the woman whose face swam in his smoky vision was not real.

That didn’t keep him from finding her interesting.

She was asleep with her face nodding over him. It seemed that his head was lying in her lap and they were both huddling under some sort of covering.

No one had ever reported that hallucinations came with smells, but he breathed in the sweet scent of femininity.

He didn’t mind that, not one bit. Neither did he mind that the vision had the face of an angel. Long dark lashes rested on high cheekbones. Her eyes moved under her eyelids as though she were dreaming. Pretty lips lay still in slumber. If the hallucination awoke and smiled what would her mouth look like?

Even more, what would it taste like if he could lift his head high enough to give those slumbering lips a kiss?

He wouldn’t try though, because he knew that doing so would make the vision disappear into a puff of forgotten dream.

As much as he wanted to indulge in this fantasy, his head hurt like hell and his stomach churned. He needed to close his eyes.

What a shame though, to wake tomorrow and not recall her.

Regretfully, he closed his eyes and gave himself over to oblivion.

* * *

The lilting melody of “The Morning Suite” from Peer Gynt woke him. It was beautiful, but distressing. Heavenly music could only indicate that he had died from the blow to his head.

Odd, he hadn’t felt it to be a life-or-death wound.

He opened his eyes to see the first rays of daylight touching the treetops. He listened, afraid to move or breathe...but he was breathing.

While dead men might listen to divine music upon fluffy clouds, they did not breathe.

Mortal pain shot through his head. His pulse throbbed and he ached all over. He was most certainly alive.

But there was music.

He sat up, stifling a groan.

He glanced about, looking for the source of the melody.

It had been an age since he had heard a symphonic piece, another lifetime. Only now did he realize how much he’d missed it. Before the epidemic, Lantree had been a frequent visitor to the theater. There had been few things he enjoyed more than sitting quietly and listening to classical melodies.

He turned his head, and a stabbing pain made him wish he hadn’t...until he saw the figure standing on the rise of the hill, half-hidden among the trees.

A woman bathed in morning light drew her bow over the strings of a violin.

She swayed while she played, her trim figure seeming to be one with the music. While he watched she closed her eyes and turned in a circle, her skirt twirling gently about her long legs.

Sunshine glittered on her lips.

So that was what they looked like when they smiled. The memory of her came back to him now. She was the angel from his dream.

He glanced at the sunlight creeping down the trees. From their branches, birds began to sing along with the violin.

In this instant, life was beautiful...ugliness did not exist.

Losing himself in the moment, he was certain that the melody came from the woman rather than the instrument.

Then a bird screeched. Not a pretty morning coo or a gentle twitter, but a grating on the ears that had to be disturbing the peace for miles around.

The woman lowered her instrument. She pivoted with a scowl.

“Be quiet, Screech! You don’t need to copy every—” Her eyes widened when she saw him. “Oh! Good morning... By George, you don’t look half-bad considering...well, that you were hit by a kettle.”

Beauty incarnate gazed, wide-eyed, at him...so did the young prostitute from the dock.

She hurried down the rise in long strides. She stopped at a large travel trunk and put her violin inside then closed the lid.

He stood up because she was walking toward him now and he wanted to judge how tall she really was.

He was used to women much shorter. The top of her head would neatly tuck under his chin were he holding her in an embrace.

The temptation to get aquatinted in a carnal way was hard to ignore. With her size, he would not have to worry about hurting her during—

He wouldn’t know her that way, of course. He’d taken the Hippocratic oath. It went bone deep in spite of how things had turned out. That bit about doing no harm meant something to him. To consort with such a woman, especially one so new to the trade, would most certainly do her harm.

“Well, to be truthful...” She stood four feet away and she smelled the same as she had last night...sweet and female to the core. “I’m the one who hit you with the kettle.”

He nodded and glanced about the campsite, wondering what had become of his team and wagon.

“I do beg your pardon.” She wrung her hands in front of her. “I thought you were a thief...or worse.”

“Reckon that’s understandable since I did sneak up on you in the dark.”

“Sit down here, mister. Your skin still looks like milk.”

She pointed to a spot beside the long-cold embers of the campfire.

He did feel peaked so he eased down onto the spot.

“Can you eat something?” she asked then hurried toward a pair of saddlebags. She rifled through them, frowning.

“I figure Mike owes me a meal... Oh, here’s some jerked beef, at least.”

The soiled dove knelt before him, looking fresh as morning. Women of her kind tended to look drawn and haggard at this time of day due to being active all night.

“Can you eat some, do you think?” She held the dried beef toward him. “I’d feel ever so much better if you did.”

In spite of how his stomach still felt queasy, he took a bite. It wasn’t half as bad as he feared so he took another.

The relief in her expression made him take a third bite and nod his thanks while he chewed.

With a smile, she sat across from him, her legs tucked beneath her. He couldn’t help but wonder what legs like that would look like in all their bare, long-limbed glory.

For a dollar, he’d be able to find out. If he were another kind of man—one like Mike, say—he would.

Instead, he sighed and wondered.

“It’s not my business and you can say so, but why did you come out here with Mike, that is, why did you leave the safety of town?”

“First of all, I doubt that Coulson is all that safe. But Mike and I had business together. Business which he reneged on.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, that was for the best.”

“I can’t imagine why you would think so.” She reached across the cold fire pit. “Here, turn your head so I can see that lump.”

“It’s not the worst I’ve ever had. I’ll do.”

The young whore broke a piece of the jerky off then leaned sideways to give it to the bird.

“Yummy,” the green-feathered creature said three times while holding the beef in one claw and happily nibbling on it.

“I’ve got to go see to my team and wagon. But wait here, I’ll be back,” he said.

“I’ve already taken care of them. I heard your horses neighing after...after things settled down last night. I brought them here. See, there they are down by the stream.”

“You wandered away from the safety of the fire?”

“There wasn’t much help for it unless I wanted to leave your poor beasts unattended.”

“There are wild things out there, miss. You’re lucky you didn’t meet up with any of them.”

“I’d prefer a wild beast to a wild man. When was the last time you heard of a bear stealing a woman’s savings? The same cannot be said of Mike.”

“He is a bad one.” A lecture might be out of line but hell if he could keep himself from giving it. “I’m sorry about your money, miss. Have you spent a long time earning it?”

“I began when I was fourteen.” She sighed, clearly disgusted. “To think of the hours I gave to the single gentlemen of Kansas City. I wore myself out, up all hours, often by candlelight, and all so that miserable creature, Mike, could ride off with what I had earned.”

“There’s more than money you might have lost...your health for one thing.”

“I feel fit as a fiddle, thank you very much.”

“That’s because you are young...and you’ve been lucky with the men you have serviced.”

“Might I point out that they were the lucky ones? I gave them fair exchange for every dollar. Even though I was young I put my heart into what I did.”

“As admirable as that is...you are going to end up sick. Your way of life will kill you.”

“And what do you know about my way of life? We are all but strangers.”

“I saw you yesterday, at the dock sitting on your trunk.”

“Which led you to believe that sitting in God’s glorious country on a trunk lid will lead to illness?”

“Let me show you where it leads.”

Taking her to the Sullied Gully and showing her what her future would be might save her life.

He reached for her hand.

She reached for the kettle.

* * *

The hand reaching for her was nicely formed, the fingers long and rugged.

That did not in any way mean that she was going to allow them to touch her.

Hadn’t she learned at her aunt’s knee and by her mother’s example, that virtue, once given away, could not be regained?

“You,” she said with her fingers solidly gripping the handle of the kettle, “will not show me a single thing unless you want a matching lump on the other side of your skull.”

“What if I pay you? I’ll give you a dollar, just like any other man, for half a day of your time.”

It would take far less time than that for her to mend his shirt. But that would mean him removing it and his attitude was far too familiar as it was. Besides, her needles and thread were at the bottom of her trunk and she did not want to turn her back on him for the time it would take to fish them out.

It was becoming clear that the men of the mountains were a greater danger than the wildlife. Tom had shown a severe lack of judgment. Mike was a thief. And this man whose name she didn’t even know wanted to show her what there was about her life that was going to lead to ruin and death.

He might be delusional from the blow...or he might be insane.

She would be much better off on her own.

“Kindly take your beasts and your goods and leave my campsite.”

“Two dollars then.”

She stared him down hard.

“Three dollars and not a penny more,” he added.

Now he was beginning to tempt her. Three dollars to repair a rip in his shirt...one that was too small to even be seen? And she with not a cent to her name?

“Four dollars and we have a bargain.”

“I’m being robbed.”

“Be that as it may, if you want my services, you will set four dollars beside Screech’s cage and take off your shirt.”

“I’ll keep it on if it’s all the same to you,” he said then dug into his pocket and withdrew four one-dollar bills. He set them beside Screech, who eyed them with flashing eyes.

“How do you expect me to do my job with you still in your clothing?”

“All I want is your time...to help you understand the life a young lady like you can expect to lead if you continue on the way you are.”

“You don’t make much sense. I’m sorry. Your confusion is my fault and I do apologize. Won’t you see a doctor about your head? Here, take back one dollar. It’s only fair since I’m the one who injured you.”

She stood up, brushed a leaf from her skirt and went to fetch the needle and thread. It wouldn’t be easy to find among the many skirts, blouses, petticoats and stockings that Melinda had insisted she bring.

At length, she found a needle and selected a color of thread that, surprisingly, matched his shirt. She threaded the needle while she walked back to her client.

This was not going to be an easy job with him still in the shirt. She only prayed that the rip was not in an inconvenient spot.

“I may have to touch you,” she warned him. “Just keep in mind that this is strictly business. Once I’m finished you will go on your way and I’ll go on mine.”

He gazed at the needle and thread looking perplexed. Had he never had a garment repaired for pity’s sake?

She sat down beside him, running her fingers over the arm seams of his shirt. Not even a loose thread to be worried about.

Clearing her throat she began to yank the shirt from the waistband of his pants. Truly, this could not be more uncomfortable.

“You misunderstand,” he said, his breath seeming to come short and fast. “I only want to talk to you.”

The only decent thing to do was humor the man. Perhaps by talking, he might become more sensible.

She pinned the threaded needle through her collar so as not to lose it.

“Do you often pay for conversation, Mister...?”

“Walker,” he said. “And no, I’ve never paid for it.”

“It’s the blow to your head making you do so, no doubt.” She folded her hands in her lap, ready to do her duty and listen to whatever nonsense he had to spout. “Please, feel free to have your say.”

“Ladies of the night,” he began then cleared his throat. “They lead a hard life...a short life.”

“No doubt that’s true.”

“They meet up with brutal men. If a woman is lucky enough to survive the harsh treatment, she rarely survives the syphilis, gonorrhea and other sexually transmitted diseases.”

Now he had her blushing. How could she not when he spoke so boldly of inappropriate matters?

She half wished she had not accepted his money...and certainly that she had not walloped him in the head.

“I’m sure that’s very sad,” she agreed, hoping that this conversation would turn to a more respectable subject.

“You don’t seem overly worried, but I can assure you the danger is very real.”

“Maybe you’d like to talk about something more pleasant,” she urged.

“I’d like to convince you to earn a living in some other way.”

“Mr. Walker, I’ve never heard of anyone becoming ill over a needle prick... Well, there was Snow White’s mother, she died, but that was a fairy tale.”

“You make light of the problem, but it’s very real.”

She sighed. How could she not? “Sometimes a body just needs a dash of humor. Don’t you agree?”

“I do not. In fact, I’ve got a mind to tie you to a horse, haul you back to town and show you how funny a sick whore is.”

She slid the needle from her collar and pointed it at him.

“I know how to use this. Lay a hand on me and I’ll stitch your fingers together.”

“Damned Hippocratic oath,” he mumbled.

He stood up. From where she sat gazing up, it looked like his head skimmed the treetops.

“What an odd thing to say,” she mumbled back.

Insanity was his problem, she decided, not the blow to his head. In some way this was a relief. His behavior was not her fault.

But then again, she was alone in the wilderness with a lunatic.

In a move too swift for her to avoid, he reached down and snatched her arm. He tossed her over his shoulder and began to walk away...somewhere.

Her horse was not saddled. His team was grazing. Did he mean to walk back to Coulson carrying her like a bag of potatoes?

Given his mental state, perhaps he did.

But given her determination not to go anywhere with him... Well, they would see who went where.

She kicked her legs but all she managed to do was cover his face in a blizzard of furious petticoats.

She screamed, having forgotten in the moment that her bird loved nothing more than to join in a ruckus.

Screech screeched. Other birds copied him and soon the branches were alive with alarmed twitters.

“I’m warning you to put me down!”

“This is for your own good,” her captor grumbled.

Apparently, he had forgotten that she still gripped the needle in her hand.

* * *

Something stung him in the rump. It was early in the day for hornets.

He swatted his backside then got stung on the hand.

He spun about, gripping the woman by the knees, while he sought to slap the bug.

Sunshine glinted off something in the soiled dove’s hand. All of a sudden he remembered the needle.

That’s what he got for trying to do a good deed. The same sort of thing had happened to him once when he tried to set the leg of an injured raccoon. He’d been bitten. Infection had been the pay for his effort.

“What the hell, ma’am!” He didn’t believe in cursing before women, but she sliced the needle at him again as he was setting her to her feet. “Damnation!”

“Escaped from bedlam or not, you have no right to accost ladies in the forest!” She backed away from him jabbing the slender weapon at the air.

He did not follow. He rubbed his wounds. Bedlam?

“I warned you what I would do. You should have known that a seamstress would know how to wield a needle.”

All of a sudden he felt heat suffuse his face.

“You’re not a whore?” What a colossal blunder he had made.

The woman paled.

“I beg your pardon?” she gasped and clutched one hand to her throat.

“No, I beg yours.”

“What could possibly have led you to believe that I was...of that profession?”

Her cheeks were now flushing with anger, he reckoned, and rightly so.

He was an ass...a moron. No wonder she thought he belonged in bedlam.

“You were a woman alone in Coulson, for one.” He had to at least try and explain his mistake.

“I didn’t know that was an offense.”

“I offered you money and you took it.”

“And why not. I don’t mend shirts for free...and by the saints, I’d like my dollar back since your addled state of mind is not my fault after all.”

“So when you wanted to take off my shirt, it was to mend it?”

It’s a damn good thing he hadn’t acted on the urgings of his body and stripped off his shirt and everything else.

“Why else would I have asked—? Oh, my glory... You thought— I can’t even say it out loud. I only meant to mend your rip.”

Her face was as red as his felt.

“So—” once more, she pinned the needle to her collar “—you are not a lunatic?”

“And you are not—?” Clearly, she was not. He was an idiot to have assumed so in the first place. “In danger of catching some fatal disease?”

“Not in that way, by the saints.”

With nothing left to say that did not make him sound a bigger fool than he was, he stood looking down, but not too far down, at her, silent as a stone.

He had to look like a big lump of stupid. No whore that he had ever treated, regardless of her age, had ever looked luminous. He should have seen the truth from the beginning.

All at once the seamstress’s lips twitched at the corners. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, then let it drop while she let out a full, joyous-sounding laugh.

He braced his hands on his knees, bent at the waist and laughed along with her. It felt good to laugh so freely. He couldn’t recall the last time he had done that.

“So,” he said when he caught his breath, “I well and truly apologize for assuming the worst of you. Please forgive me.”

“It only makes us even when you think about it.” She dabbed a tear from the corner of one eye. “I assumed that you were a ruffian out to do me and Mike harm. I truly apologize to you, as well.”

He extended his hand and she took it. The shake of truce was slower and more intimate than it might have been, because her hand met his, dainty, sweet...and not swallowed whole.

That was something... So different from how Eloise’s hand had ever felt. Eloise had been delicate, like a pretty porcelain cup that he had to be careful not to chip. Even if his fiancée hadn’t walked out, she would never have fit in the life he lived now.

For all that this woman was tall and, he thought, fit of frame, a woman was a woman and this land was hard.

Unbidden, thoughts of courting her flitted across his mind. He dashed them out quick.

Hell, he might fantasize until Kingdom Come and it wouldn’t matter. A wife was someone who would need protecting and that was one big responsibility that he didn’t want.

But there it came again, a vision of her and him, as irritating as a fly buzzing about the head. Mentally, he swatted at it, but it stuck to him. What might he do if things were different? He couldn’t help but imagine.

He would spend some time getting to know this lady, work up to giving her a kiss.

He shook his head. Things were what they were.

“I can’t help but wonder, knowing what I do now, what you were doing out here with Mike.”

“Oh, that.” Her expression sobered. “I hired him to take me to my grandfather’s ranch. I’m in a bit of a morass now, I suppose.”

“Who is your grandfather?” Maybe he knew the man and could be of help.

“Hershal Moreland, of Moreland Ranch.” She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe you know a guide who would be willing to take me there for four...oh, all right, three dollars.”

Well, hell if it hadn’t felt like the earth had swallowed him whole.

Here was the mysterious, and in his mind selfish, granddaughter, come at last. He had long doubted that she would. What was she after, was what he wanted to know.

The old man’s land, maybe. Or had the mayor of Coulson somehow discovered her existence and convinced her to come and persuade Moreland to sell his trees? Was the money that Mike took perhaps payment from Smothers?

If so, she would be one sorry young woman. As long as Lantree had a breath in him, she would not cheat her grandfather out of his ranch or sell the trees that Catherine Moreland had so loved.

Hell and double damn. Why couldn’t Miss Moreland have simply been a whore?


Chapter Four (#ulink_3b554286-f837-58ad-b30c-cdf5666d365b)

While it was true that Mr. Lantree was not a lunatic, it was equally true that he was sullen, stone-faced and, in spite of his handsome appearance, not enjoyable company.

While Rebecca could only be grateful for the good fortune that had landed her with Grandfather’s foreman and that he happened to be on the way to Moreland Ranch, it was regrettable that she was spending endless hours sitting on the wagon bench beside a great Viking of a fellow who seemed dedicated to pointing out this and that danger.

Why, to hear him go on, one would think he didn’t appreciate the majestic beauty all around. The Good Lord’s creative hand was everywhere, from the great snowcapped mountains to the delicate blue flower that Mr. Walker had just rolled the wagon over and crushed.

“Do you mind if we make a short stop?” she asked when he paused in his description of how boulders rolled down from hillsides without warning and if one were lucky enough to get out of the way one must still be quick-footed enough to escape the nest of poisonous snakes that the dislodged rock had exposed.

“I mind,” he snapped. “It will be a good long time before we find a suitable place to rest.”

She suspected he was lying because just to the right was a lovely green meadow with a clear pool created by a waterfall tumbling down the mountainside.

“I believe, Mr. Walker, that you are trying to scare me away. I can’t imagine why, but I do believe it.”

“Why would I want to prevent the tender reunion between you and your grandfather?” He glanced at her from under a frown.

“I can’t imagine.” She squirmed on the wood bench. She really did need a moment of privacy. “Not that it is any of your concern, but it will not be a reunion. I’ve never met my grandfather before.”

“What makes you want to meet him now?”

“Also none of your business.” She would have gladly carried on a pleasant conversation, telling him about how she had never fit in at home and did not wish to marry the butcher. And most of all, that she hoped to find the family link she had been missing.

She would have liked to pass the time becoming acquainted, but ever since he’d discovered who she was he’d been as sour as curdled milk.

“Anything to do with Moreland is my business.”

That was a telling statement. Either he was devoted to her grandfather or he dominated him.

“Are you related to Grandfather? Are we perhaps distant cousins?”

“We are not.”

That was a relief. She had no wish to be related to such a scowler.

“I really do need to stop for a few moments.”

“Later.”

“If you aim this wagon at one more bump in the path, Mr. Fount of Joy, things will get messy.”

It was a forward thing to say but she was desperate.

He hauled the team up short, leaped off, then stomped to her side of the wagon to help her down.

His hand under her elbow was firm, its strength and support not unpleasant as he helped her down. She wasn’t used to being in the presence of a man who was bigger than she was. The humbling fact was that she had never allowed a man to help her down from anything for fear that she would topple him.

As soon as her boot touched the ground he let go of her.

“Watch out for falling rocks,” he advised.

What a shame that such a handsome face was wasted on scowls.

“While I’m at it, I’ll be sure to sidestep snakes.”

Seeking a private spot, she lifted the hem of her skirt and hurried across the small green meadow. What a shame to step on the tiny flowers dotting the ground, but there were so many of them it was difficult not to.

There was a large, dense bush growing beside the water so she stepped behind it. Glancing up the side of the mountain she listened to the rush of the waterfall. If only it were possible to capture the melody with her violin.

Had her grandmother ever managed it? It broke her heart that she had not been able to meet her father’s mother. Sadly, the first time she had ever heard from her grandfather, was when he sent the violin after Grandmother’s passing. That had been three years ago.

Sometimes she could not help but wonder what her life would have been like if her mother had been respectable and her father not a rolling stone. Perhaps she would have grown up the apple...or at least the pineapple...of her grandparents’ eye.

The love of a parent was something she had missed as a child...and still did. It was her daily prayer that she would find something of that with her grandfather.

He’d given her Grandmother’s violin, an item that must be precious to him. Surely that indicated that he wanted a loving relationship, too.

Still, Aunt Eunice had warned that she was going to live with the devil and that he could not possibly be anything else, given that he had produced Rebecca’s father. But by that reasoning, it might be said that her grandfather could believe that Rebecca was a young woman of loose morals since that was what her mother had been.

That was certainly the first impression she had made on the grumpy Viking, and all because she had been sitting on a trunk lid.

Well, by George, she was here to find out what was truth and what was fear. For better or worse she was going to get to know her grandfather.

And why not? She had nothing to lose but everything to gain.

With her bladder finally relieved, she straightened her clothing and stepped out from behind the bush.

She had to take two quick steps backward to avoid trampling on a kitten. The water in the pond dampened her boots.

Oh, my, but it was a sweet-looking thing with its blue eyes and fuzzy, buff-colored fur.

Looking up, it meowed and swiped at her skirt.

“My goodness, you brave little thing.”

She squatted and reached her hand toward it. A rough, pink tongue licked her palm.

“Where’s your mama, little one?” She waggled her fingers. “You haven’t gotten lost...or become an orphan, I hope.”

That was entirely possible if this land was as untamed as folks said.

“Poor little lamb.”

The kitten nudged her finger with its pink nose. By the saints, one could hardly let the dear creature perish. Although if she took it with her, she couldn’t imagine what she would do with it when it was fully grown.

In spite of the fact that it looked as cuddly as a house cat, it was a pint-size cougar. Perhaps if it were raised with love from infancy, it would grow up tame.

On the other hand, it might turn one day and eat her.

All she did know was that here in the moment, there was a lost baby in need of mothering, and since she would never be a mother to a human, perhaps fate had given her a cub to care for.

Or maybe she was a fool and the cub’s mother was hidden in the trees ready to tear her to—

A shotgun blast rocked the tranquil meadow. Bits of tree bark fell on her hair. The kitten scurried into the brush.

Startled, she fell backward, rump-first, into the water.

The pool could only be a degree short of icing over. She shot to her feet, shivering and breathing in the scent of gunpowder.

Mr. Walker strode forward, his long, angry-looking strides convincing her that he had indeed come from Vikings...and history notwithstanding, not so long ago.

He snagged her about the waist and dragged her roughly across the meadow.

She had never been handled roughly by a man. The fact was, for good or ill, she had never been handled by a man at all.

It was odd. For all the power those large hands exerted dragging her toward the wagon, his touch caused her no pain. She would not be bruised.

For a spinster to feel the arms of a hulking male clamped about her middle...by glory, it was a thing to remember.

What a shame he was cursing in her ear.

He tossed her onto the wagon bed as though she weighed no more than Melinda did. She landed on a large bag of coffee beans, belly-first.

Why, the colossal nerve! Why, the—

Why did she suddenly feel so warm?

Anger, naturally, she deduced when her heart quit galloping like a horse outrunning a prairie fire.

In no way was it because she seemed caught in his intense blue gaze, unable to look away even though she ought to.

“Did you want me to have to explain to the old man that I let his tenderfoot granddaughter get mauled by a mountain lion?”

She scrambled to her knees. Frowning down at him, she swiped at her soaking bodice.

Mr. Walker bounded aboard the wagon in a single leap.

“Have you ever known anyone to be mauled by a kitten?”

“Where there’s a cub, there’s a mother cat.”

“Not this time. It was an orphan and you frightened the life out of it.”

“Reckon you didn’t notice that Mama was about to leap down on your head.”

“Surely not!” Shocked, her mouth sagged open. A shiver trembled through her, scalp to toe.

“Creeping across the branch over your head.”

She ought to say something in self-defense but she couldn’t imagine what.

“Hold on tight. That’s one angry predator.”

He cracked a whip in the air several inches over the team’s heads. The wagon jolted and she clutched the coffee bag to keep from tumbling backward.

The horses raced down the path. She glanced back.

The cougar followed for a short distance then turned back, probably to tend to her cowering baby.

Screech, his cage tucked between a bag of flour and a crate, fell off his perch, squawking in a panicked flash of green feathers.

* * *

Huddled beside the campfire and staring silently at the flames, Miss Moreland seemed to be contrite.

He couldn’t be sure, though. From what he had seen of her so far, contrition would not be something that came naturally.

Could be she was too cold to say anything. Possibly the shivering kept whatever was on her mind locked in her head.

The blamed woman had objected to removing her clothing and letting it dry by the fire like any sensible person would do, even though he had offered his oiled canvas to cover her.

It had taken his comment about her lips turning blue for her to do the smart thing and dry her clothes, the outer ones, anyway.

She wasn’t unintelligent as far as he could tell, which had to mean she was stubborn.

That might not be a bad thing. She’d need some stubborn to make it in Montana since she seemed to be lacking in good sense.

Even little children knew to give a wide berth to a cougar cub.

He’d do his duty and see Miss Moreland safely to Hershal. After that it would be up to the old man to make sure she survived.

A wildcat’s cry cut the dusk.

Miss Moreland glanced at him across the fire, her eyes widening in fear. At least he hoped it was fear.

“That won’t be your cat, Miss Moreland.”

She breathed out a short huff of relief. That, and the way her shoulders slumped, made him want to comfort her.

Of all the things he wanted to be feeling, sympathy wasn’t one.

With a grunt to indicate his displeasure, he got up and crossed to her side of the fire. He sat down beside her.

“My last name is Lane,” she murmured.

Why was that? he couldn’t help but wonder. Couldn’t say that it didn’t make him uneasy. An unmarried lady ought to be carrying her family name of Moreland.

As it was, an unmarried woman coming to this part of the country all alone made him uneasy. No doubt, she wanted something from Hershal.

Moreland Ranch was a prime piece of property. With the railroad on the way, bringing settlers by the hundreds, the ranch would be sought after. With all the building that would be going on, the trees alone would be worth more than gold.

It was possible that Miss Lane had only good intentions, but it was his job to be suspect.

For three years Hershal had been writing, asking the girl to come to see him, and for three years she hadn’t. So why now when the ranch and its resources had become so valuable?

His boss paid him generously to look after the spread, making sure the cattle were cared for and the buildings well kept.

Years ago, when Lantree had felt like a ship lost at sea, Hershal had listened to his story, then offered him a home and a job. In doing that, he had given him back his self-respect.

He would protect the old man, be it from the greedy mayor of Coulson or the lovely Miss Lane.

“I can’t help but wonder why you don’t carry your family name.” He probably shouldn’t have stated that so boldly, but there it was. Let’s see if she gives an honest answer.

“It’s the name my aunt Eunice gave me.” She glanced at him with eyes the color of an ocean wave. Then she stared into the fire, silent for a long time.

Not dishonest, but vague.

“Why have you come here, Miss Lane?”

“To get to know my grandfather, of course.”

She continued to stare at the fire and apparently did not notice that the canvas wrapped about her gaped open at her chest.

Her under-things were fine, lacy and frilly...and sheer with the dampness. He was ashamed of himself for letting his gaze linger.

For all that he didn’t trust her, she was finely formed.

“Mr. Walker.” She looked at him suddenly, catching him peering where he had no right to.

Dark brows lowered over dark-lashed eyes. The campfire cast her high cheekbones in shades of pink. She yanked the canvas tight across her charms.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Lane.” He’d never considered himself a rude man and was humiliated to find that trait within him.

“If you are a man of honor, let me make one thing clear.” Until a moment ago he’d believed he was. “I do not wish to be courted. I am a spinster and accepting of my fate. I would not welcome any action that would dissuade me from that future.”

“Again, I do beg your pardon.” No wonder she thought he had wooing on his mind, the way he had been staring.

“I should warn you,” she said, ignoring his apology. “If you are not a man of honor, I do not take dalliances lightly. There is a man back in Kansas City who presumed that I did. I’m quite sure he is still being laughed at today.”

As pretty as Miss Lane was, she was stiff. He would believe that she had a heart as cold as winter if he hadn’t shared a bout of laughter with her and seen her concern for the cougar cub.

He couldn’t help but wonder how she would act with Hershal. He’d have to be on guard to make sure she didn’t wound his kind old heart.

“You can believe this or not, but until this moment, I have been respectful of women. I humbly ask for your forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness granted.” She smiled at him all of a sudden, brightly with her white teeth flashing. It nearly knocked him flat, which was something given that he was already sitting on the ground. “By George, that gives me one apology to your two.”

He laughed. How could he help it?

“I hope you don’t mind my saying so,” she said. “But your smile is ever so much nicer than your scowl.”

The fact was, she made him want to smile, and not for the first time.

But no matter how charming she might seem, he did not know her. He feared what she might be up to.

At least, with her being an avowed spinster, he didn’t need to worry about losing his heart to her...because he could not swear that, in spite of everything, it would not happen. From what he’d glimpsed, she had a body to make a man daydream.

Hell damn him as an idiot for letting his mind wander there. He was a confirmed bachelor as much as she was a confirmed spinster.

A woman needed a secure future where she could put down roots...children needed the same. It made his blood run cold thinking of the things that might happen to them. Children needed to live closer to town...to be near a competent doctor in case of an emergency. These days he was a far better cowboy than he was a doctor.

“Can you tell me what my grandfather is like?”

The quick change in the conversation made him uncomfortable. He didn’t want to tell her who the old man was. If he did, she could more easily make plans to do whatever it was she intended.

“He’s a cold man. Not really open to shows of affection.” He shook his head slowly. “Likes to keep to himself mostly. The cabin is small. Surely not up to a lady’s standards. Things could be uncomfortable for you.”

She nodded, as though she had expected as much.

“He didn’t seem cold in his letters.”

He felt ashamed all of a sudden. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she believed him. No hope for it now but to carry on.

“Is it possible that he is only reserved?” she said. “I’ve known folks like that. What seems cold only hides a warm heart.”

“That’s not him.”

“Surely he’s generous, though. He did send me the violin. It had to have been precious to him.”

“That’s not the reason he sent it.” He hated himself right now. “Your grandmother was always playing the thing, he told me. To him it was all a bunch of screeching—your bird ought to remind him of her playing. When she died he wanted to get rid of it, but didn’t feel right throwing it out. So he sent it to you.”

She bowed her head, covered her face with her hands, silent for a long time.

When she looked up her eyes were moist.

“That’s not what... Well, thank you for telling me... I believe my dress is dry. I’ll just step into the trees for a moment.”

She gathered the canvas about her and walked toward the darkness beyond the fire. She hesitated, then stepped beyond his sight.

Reaching for the Winchester that he always kept close at hand, he cocked his head, listening for danger over the shuffling of fabric.

It wasn’t easy to admit that it might not be the wild things that were the biggest threat to her, but that he was.

Clearly his lie about the violin had crushed her. He had heard her play and knew very well that she had a gift...a gift that had been passed down from Catherine Moreland.

Could be that she really did want to simply meet her granddaddy, make the old man’s life better.

The trouble was, at this point, he wasn’t ready to take that risk.

He would be watching her, morning and night. It would be a sorry day that he allowed anyone to harm Hershal Moreland.

* * *

Rebecca sat astride the bag of coffee beans with her knees bracing the sides. She tucked her violin under her chin then poised the bow over the strings.

After a day of the wagon jouncing over rocks and slamming into ruts along the narrow path, her stomach felt unsettled.

Poor Screech must have had half of his feathers bent with the jostling he had taken. As soon as they reached the safety of the cabin, she would make him a perch and let him out of his cage.

Mr. Lantree had estimated that, bears, cougars, storms and floods notwithstanding, they should arrive at her grandfather’s humble cabin before sunset.




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