Colorado Courtship

Such foolishness! “A smile will do it?” she asked.

“Just looking at you gives me pleasure,” he told her, and she laughed, a quick, harsh sound.

“I’ll put some stock in that if I didn’t know how I look these days, Finn.” She set her jaw, deliberately acknowledging her own shortcomings.

He laughed at her. The man had the audacity to touch his fingers to her cheek and then bend to kiss the tip of her nose. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Jessica.”

Then he was laughing no longer, his mouth taking hers fiercely, his need powerful, elemental. And then they lurched, almost in unison, as the baby made its presence known to them both, a tiny hand or foot poking indiscriminately in protest…!

Acclaim for Carolyn Davidson’s recent titles

The Texan

“…heart-touching characters and a vivid, mythic setting…”

—Romantic Times

A Marriage by Chance

“This deftly written novel about loss and recovery is a skillful handling of the traditional Western, with the added elements of family conflict and a moving love story.”

—Romantic Times

A Convenient Wife

“Carolyn Davidson creates an engaging, complex plot with a hero to die for.”

—Romantic Times

The Tender Stranger

“Davidson wonderfully captures gentleness in the midst of heart-wrenching challenges, portraying the extraordinary possibilities that exist within ordinary marital love.”

—Publishers Weekly

Colorado Courtship

Carolyn Davidson

Sometimes those who point out our faults are not truly appreciated. But if the truth be known, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the women who read and critique my work and let me know when and where I have fallen short of the goal. They do their best to make me look good in front of my editors, and to those ladies I offer my heartfelt thanks for their efforts on my behalf. Brenda Rollins and Betty Barrs, this book is dedicated to you, with love.

And as always, to Mr. Ed, who loves me.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Prologue

Saint Louis, April 1862

He wanted her.

With but a single glance he acknowledged the desire flaring within him, knew instinctively she would fit neatly into his arms should he lift her against himself. His mouth tightened, as did the pressure of his knees against the sides of the horse he rode, and the black gelding sidestepped, tossing his head impatiently.

Appearing small and fragile beside the tall wagon, the woman’s face was in profile, her features finely drawn. Woman? She seemed but a girl, clad in a poorly fitting, voluminous dress. From beneath her sunbonnet, dark hair hung in a long braid down her back, the end tied with a bit of ribbon. It was a feminine touch, almost an aching reminder to the watching eye that, no matter the adversity, a woman’s need for such small fripperies would prevail.

To Finley Carson’s narrowed gaze, she appeared too delicate for the rigors of traveling across prairies toward the mountains that beckoned the unwary. Silently she stood looking upward at the seat, and then placed a slender hand on the wooden vehicle, hesitant, obviously fearful of climbing upward, lest she fall.

“Get in, Jessica.” The order was growled impatiently, the man standing beside the pair of oxen apparently not given to gallantry. Harsh syllables that offered no leniency to her smaller stature, her obvious fear.

“I’m not sure I can,” the young woman answered. “There’s nothing for me to step up on.” Her voice was husky, that of a woman full grown, but laced now with frustration only too clear to a bystander.

And a bystander was exactly what he must be, Finley Carson reminded himself. No matter that the man muttered an obscenity as he stalked back to where the young woman stood, it was not his concern that she was lifted and tossed with careless movements to sit atop the seat. Not his affair to wonder at her rough treatment by the man whose actions brought quick tears to her eyes and caused her to cringe from his uncaring hands.

Yet, the aching awareness of dark hair and fragile-boned femininity made Finn frown. The urge to rest callused palms upon her narrow shoulders, to look into those wary eyes, tugged at him. For a single moment he knew envy of another man, such as had never possessed him in his twenty-six years.

His hands tightened on the reins of his mount and moved with an almost unseen signal, turning his horse aside. The black gelding obeyed with a toss of his head, and Finn caught a glimpse of the woman’s face as she turned her head in his direction. Unsmiling, she nodded, a simple acknowledgment of his presence, and he felt a lurch in his chest as controlled anger gripped him.

He wanted her. Ached to lift her from where she huddled on the high seat. Yearned for a long moment to feel her softness against his body. The thought possessed him and he turned aside, his heels again nudging the barrel of his mount, urging him into an easy lope.

With a discipline gained from his years as an army scout, Finn Carson put the dark-eyed female from his mind, his jaw firm as he rode down the line of wagons. His gaze surveyed the men who performed last-minute chores, readying the train for its imminent departure from Saint Louis, heading for Independence, Missouri.

This was an assignment he almost relished, one that must be uppermost in his mind over the next months. Taking his place on this wagon train as a guide, using his skills to find the man who was a cheat—a murderer who had stolen the deed to a homestead. One hundred sixty acres of land that lay in the shadow of Pike’s Peak—a speck of wilderness that held a fortune in gold in its depths, if the assayer’s office could be relied upon.

Lyle Beaumont. The man was here, his presence a canker, his very existence a stain on the essence of decency Finn had been raised to believe in. Lyle Beaumont—the man who had cheated Finn’s brother, Aaron Carson, of his rightful claim to land and then killed him to conceal the theft.

Lyle Beaumont—who even now possessed the deed to those 160 acres in Colorado.

It was toward that man his mind must focus, that man Finn must identify and pursue, even as he hid his own identity on this train. With regret, he set aside the moment of yearning he’d suffered, acknowledging his purpose would not—could not—include a dalliance of any sort on the journey. Certainly not with a woman who so obviously was already possessed of a husband.

There were only a dozen or so females counted among the group. Most of the men were miners who traveled toward the promised land of gold and silver that courted their interest. More of an obsession, actually, Finn decided with a shake of his head. Men who lusted after gold were a breed apart. Willing to sacrifice everything they possessed on the altar of greed.

Even a woman—a woman obliged to follow the path her husband took. A woman who was off-limits to other men, he reminded himself. A woman bound to the man who had placed a ring on her finger and fear in her heart.

Chapter One

June 1862

It was a scar on the landscape—a raw wound against the backdrop of prairie flowers and lush grasses. The earth was mounded over the narrow plot of ground, and beside it Jessica stood in silence. The man she’d lived with for most of her adult life lay beneath several feet of hardscrabble soil.

Her last memory of him was the look of surprise he’d worn as a bullet tore through his chest only hours before, a recollection she suspected she’d live through again, more than once, during the long nights to come.

“Mrs. Beaumont?” The wagon master stood at her side, his palm cupped beneath her elbow, and she glanced up as he spoke her name.

“We’ve got to get rolling, ma’am,” Jonas McMasters said, his words spoken firmly as he nudged her from the graveside. Beside him, the kindly minister who was heading for Santa Fe with his family closed his Bible and offered her a final nod. At least Lyle had had a real funeral, Jessica thought, even though he’d said more than once that he had no belief in anything he couldn’t lay hands on.

And that included the God she worshiped.

Now Jessica nodded at Jonas, aware as they turned from the grave that a huddled group of men waited next to Lyle’s wagon. Her wagon, she amended silently. The bullet that had shattered Lyle’s heart had effectively robbed her of her position as his wife, as a woman under a man’s protection. Now she was on her own, yet not alone, she thought, as the child within her reminded her of its presence with a rolling motion.

“I’m ready,” she told Jonas quietly, aware that she did not present the appearance of a grieving widow, that her tearless eyes made her seem uncaring. And yet, she could not mourn Lyle. At least not as she might have if he’d endeared himself to her in any way over the past years.

He was dead, and she faced an uncertain future. But for today she had only to sort out what she would do for the next few hours. Tomorrow morning would bring problems enough to worry about for one day. There was no point in thinking too far ahead.

“Mrs. Beaumont.” Another voice broke her reverie as she made her way toward the wagon. Finley Carson stood before her and she looked up at him, met his gaze and felt a shiver of awareness. “I’ll walk with your oxen this afternoon,” he said. “Why don’t you ride in the wagon and get some rest. You’re looking a little peaked.”

And then his mouth twisted in a grimace. “And wasn’t that a kind remark to make,” he said with a shake of his head. “I only meant that you’ve had a shock, and in your condition…” His voice trailed off, as if he were aware that her obvious pregnancy was a topic not fit for discussion between strangers, especially when one of them was an unattached male and the other a woman who had been, only hours before, cast into the role of widowhood.

“I’ll leave you to tend to her, Finn,” the wagon master said with a quick nod of his head in the other man’s direction. “We need to make another three miles or so before sunset.”

Finn Carson’s hand touched Jessica’s back, his wide palm warm against flesh that felt chilled from within, and she shivered. He bent to peer beneath the brim of her sunbonnet. “Can I help you up onto the wagon seat?”

“If you don’t mind,” she said, aware that the step was too high for her to reach. Lyle had made it plain he had no patience with her, just providing a box for her to climb up on in order to get into the back of the wagon and then find her way to the front. It seemed that Mr. Carson had more finely honed manners than Lyle, she thought as the man supported her, lifting her, his hands firm around her middle, then easing her onto the wagon seat.

“Thank you,” she whispered, breathless as she arranged her skirts and settled herself. He was strong, there was no doubt about that, and mannerly to boot, his index finger lifting to touch his hat brim in a small salute.

She sat stiffly, barely able to focus her thoughts, yet aware of the men who sorted out their families, the miners who lined up the wagons, and the womenfolk who cast her looks of sympathy as they gathered their children up and hastened to ready themselves for departure.

The shot had come out of nowhere, it seemed, felling Lyle as if lightning had struck and taken his life in a single instant. He’d turned halfway toward her from his position near the oxen, and the light in his eyes had gone out as though a puff of air had extinguished a candle. He’d fallen and, in moments, had been lying in a pool of blood that spread beneath him like a scarlet cape.

Three men had ridden out, intent on seeking the gunman, and had come back empty-handed an hour later, shrugging helplessly as they stood before her, hats in hand, sweaty and weary from their efforts.

Now she watched dully as the oxen leaned forward and the wagon was set into motion, Finn Carson walking to the right of her team. He glanced back at her, his blue eyes darkening with concern as she lifted her hand in acknowledgment of his unspoken message. And then she relaxed on the seat, knowing that the jouncing of the wagon was easier to survive if she rolled with the rocking motion.

Finn walked at a steady pace, conscious of the woman atop the wagon seat behind him. As he’d been aware of her daily ever since the wagon train had left Independence long weeks ago. He’d dreamed of her, had imagined touching her dark hair, had envisioned holding her in his arms. Since the day in Saint Louis when he’d first seen her, she’d stuck in his mind like a burr beneath his saddle. And though his good sense had bade him forget the woman existed, he’d hoarded the vision of her wide-set eyes, her gleaming hair, and the memory of her gentle profile as she walked the trail.

She was married. He’d repeated the words over and over, even as he’d chafed when Lyle Beaumont treated her uncaringly, when the man had ignored her needs and been unkind in a hundred ways. Finn’s stride was long, his mind working in time with the pace set by the oxen who plodded beside him.

Jessica Beaumont was a widow, available…and in dire need of a man to take care of her. Tonight, after they set up camp, when the wagons were circled and fires lit, he’d go to Jonas and speak his mind. And if the unwritten laws of the wagon train were to be observed, Jessica would accept a husband from among the available men in the group, or be sent back to civilization at the first opportunity.

She’d not been treated so well since Saint Louis, Jessica thought. Never had Lyle lifted her from the wagon, carried firewood or asked after her well-being while she cooked the evening meal. Now Finn watched her from beside the wagon, his gaze intent on her as she bent over the campfire and rescued her kettle from the flames. She stirred the rabbit stew once and her stomach rebelled as the rich scent rose on a cloud of steam.

“If you’re ready to eat, I’ll dish you up a serving,” she said quietly, turning to face him. He stood upright from where he’d leaned against her wagon and stepped closer, taking the kettle from her, gripping it firmly over her protests.

“I’m not used to being waited on,” she said. “I don’t mind—”

“But I do,” he returned curtly, cutting off her objections to his lending a hand. “You’ve had a rough day, Mrs. Beaumont. I’m here to look after you this evening. Jonas gave me leave to skip my duties for a day or so until we get you some help lined up.”

“I can take care of myself,” she told him, lifting her chin in defiance of his words. “I watched Lyle tend the oxen for the past weeks. I’m sure I can learn well enough how to stake them out at night and get rolling in the mornings.”

“I’m sure you can,” Finn said agreeably. “But it isn’t necessary. Not while I’m here, anyway.” And making himself indispensable to her was the name of the game, he’d decided during the last four miles they’d traveled today. Jonas had agreed—halfheartedly to be sure—but had finally given a curt nod in response to Finn’s suggestion.

“You got any more of that stuff?” Jonas asked, as if in answer to Finn’s thoughts. He squatted beside his guide and looked up at Jessica. “How you doin’, Mrs. Beaumont?” he asked.

“I’m all right,” Jessica told him. “I’ll fix you a bowl right away, Mr. McMasters.”

“You need to eat, too,” Finn reminded her quietly.

She only nodded as she dug through the small keg in which she kept her dishes and silverware, seeking out a bowl for Jonas. Filling it to the brim, she offered it to him, handed him a spoon, then returned to dish out a portion for herself.

“I know I have to eat,” she said, her gaze meeting Finn’s. With care, she lowered herself to sit on the ground, her skirts surrounding her, her legs tucked up beneath her, and felt herself the focus of those who watched from various campfires around the circle. And then she poked at the savory stew, forcing herself to lift a spoonful to her mouth.

“Ma’am?” Jonas’s voice caught her attention and she looked in his direction.

“I know this ain’t a good time to be talkin’ to you about this, but there ain’t gonna be any better time, so far as I can see, in the next couple of weeks,” he said glumly. “The hard fact is that a woman alone can’t travel with the train, Mrs. Beaumont. You’re gonna have to either find a husband or leave the train when we reach Council Grove. And that’s less than two weeks from now.”

“I’m not leaving the train,” she said firmly, her jaw set, as if that alone would convince him of her intent. “My husband has—had, I mean—a deed to property near Pike’s Peak, and that’s where I’m going. It belongs to me now.” Her hand rested in an automatic gesture against the rounding of her belly as she spoke. “It’s all I have, Mr. McMasters, and I’m not walking away from it.”

“Well, it’ll take a man to work the land and build a place for you to live,” he told her bluntly. “A woman alone can’t handle something like that.”

“There’s a cabin there, according to what Lyle heard of the place. Not much, but enough for shelter. And he said there was a chance that gold could be found there.” She lowered her voice, lest the words carry to the adjacent campfire. Gold was a powerful incentive, its presence inciting men to lie and steal. Even to murder.

Lyle’s life’s blood had been shed today, and unless she missed her guess, the claim to land in Colorado had something to do with it. Lyle had bragged one night, after he’d consumed half a bottle of whiskey, telling her of gold to be found, and then left bruises as he threatened her lest she repeat his words to anyone.

Now the land was hers, and sharing it with a man was not her first choice.

“Ma’am, you’ll have to be thinking about accepting one of the available men on the train as your husband,” Jonas said, his dark eyes holding not a shred of doubt as to his ultimatum. “It’s just the way it is, ma’am. I’ll give you till we get to Council Grove to make a choice.”

He looked around the circle to where more than a dozen men watched the drama going on, with Jessica as its focus. “You won’t have any lack of suitors,” he said with a grimace. “There’s already talk about who you’ll pick.” He grinned briefly, shaking his head. “There’s never enough women to go around in the West, and these men are already plottin’ to come courtin’ you.”

Jessica glanced at him, then shot a look at Finn. He returned it with a nod. “Jonas is right, you know,” he said. “Any one of those men—” He tilted his head, lifting an eyebrow for emphasis as he spoke. “Any one of them would be on you like flies on honey if you give them a nod. You’re a good-looking woman, and you’ve got a wagon and a team of oxen, and, as you said yourself, your husband had a deed to a piece of property.”

He smiled, looking into the depths of the fire for a moment. “You’re going to be in demand, Mrs. Beaumont. I’m not the only bachelor who’ll be coming to call. And, as harsh as it sounds to a woman newly widowed, you’re going to have to make up your mind in a hurry.”

Jessica nodded, aware that the truth was staring her in the face, and the man delivering the message was no doubt presenting himself as one of those offering for her hand.

“I expect you’re right, Mr. Carson. But not tonight, please. I can’t think straight right now, and by the time I get my supper mess cleared up, I won’t be fit company for anyone.” If Finn Carson meant to make her an offer, he’d have to wait until her head was clear and she was able to consider all of her options.

An hour later she was settled atop her feather tick on the wagon floor, her mind racing with the events of the day. And for the first time, tears came to her eyes. Not grief at Lyle’s death, although she supposed she should feel some small amount of remorse, at least, at leaving him by the side of the trail in a poorly marked grave.

But the past years had hardened her heart to his cunning smiles, and she’d long since lost any love she’d ever harbored in her heart for the man. He’d been mean. There was no other word for it. The man had been uncaring at times, harsh when she didn’t oblige him to his specifications, and too handy with hands that hurt and bruised her on occasion.

No, she didn’t mourn him, only the loss of those long years she’d spent trying to hold together a marriage that was doomed from the beginning. Her father had been right. Lyle Beaumont was a taker, a man without scruples. And Jessica had been blind to that side of him…until it was too late.

She curled on her side beneath a quilt, and a succession of faces appeared behind her closed eyelids. Miners, both young and in their middle years, at least half a dozen that she knew of, who had offered their condolences today as they eyed her with narrowed gazes, as if they considered her ripe for the taking.

She shivered. There were only two unattached men on the train she would even consider if push came to shove and she was forced by circumstances to choose a husband. Finn Carson, one of the guides, was one of them. The other, a miner named Gage Morgan, was a tall, husky man, older than Finn by few years. He was quiet, a good-looking specimen with dark hair and smoky-gray eyes. He’d offered his hand and had engulfed her own in his palm, just for a moment as he passed by the open grave this afternoon.

“Ma’am,” he’d said quietly, and his piercing eyes had darkened, taking her measure, a hint of admiration in their depths as he offered silent condolences. On the surface, he was all that a woman could ask for, she thought, and wondered what there was about him that made her stomach clench. Not that he had offered any disrespect. Never had he been anything but courteous the few times she’d nodded in his direction during the weeks they’d been following the trail.

Now she wondered at him, her fists clenching as she thought of what it would mean, should she take either of those two men as her husband. Eventually they would want to claim their rights, and she would be obliged to comply.

Shivering, she pushed aside the memories of nights filled with fear. Sleepless hours when she dreaded Lyle’s home-coming, those times when he was out at a saloon or gambling at a poker table.

Taking a man into her bed was a daunting prospect. Offering her body before the baby was born was out of the question. She was misshapen, her body swollen with the babe she carried. Not that she cared—in fact, she gloried in the heavy weight of the child within her. But to a man, especially one who’d had his share of voluptuous women, she might be more than a bit off-putting. But then, most of these men were hungry for female companionship, and that fact alone would probably make her more appealing to them.

She smothered a giggle under the quilt, and then felt a stab of shame that she could lie in her bed less than a dozen hours since Lyle’s body had turned cold in death and laugh at the prospect of another man climbing into her wagon and taking his place at her side. She needn’t fear turning a man’s head, she decided, punching her pillow as she tucked it beneath her head.

The deed to land near Pike’s Peak was another matter. It was enough to lure any man into her clutches, given the steady stream of miners heading west, hoping to find just such a claim to work. If Lyle was right, if the land were indeed worth—