Crystal earbobs danced against her pale-as-milk slender neck. She looked extravagant and indulged.

A woman who dressed as if she was due to go to a ball was all wrong for the frontier. Wrong for the hard life in a trapper’s cabin. Wrong for him.

Jack focused on the woman as he walked closer.

‘I’ll give you fifty dollars for her,’ said the man beside her.

Jack hesitated. Fifty dollars was a lot of money—not as much as it had cost to get her here, but enough that he could reconsider and send for another bride.

Olivia’s eyes widened.

‘Unhand her,’ Jack said softly.

New Mills & Boon® Historical author

Katy Madison

invites you to her

WILD WEST WEDDINGS

Mail-order brides for three hard-working, hard-living men!

Three penniless East Coast ladies are prepared to give up everything they know for the lure of the West. Will they find new beginnings, new families and eventual happiness as mail-order brides?

Their advertisements answered, three rugged frontiersmen await their new brides—with eagerness and not a little trepidation!

What have they all let themselves in for?

Read Olivia’s story in

BRIDE BY MAIL

and look for Anna’s and Selina’s stories

Coming soon!

Bride by Mail

Katy Madison

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Award-winning author KATY MADISON loves stories. As a child she was always lugging around a book. At the age of eight, after having read over a hundred Nancy Drew mysteries, all the Laura Ingalls Wilder books and a full weekly allotment of library books, Katy went to her mother and begged for a new book to read. Her frustrated mother handed her a romance novel. Katy fell in love with the genre. She quickly discovered where her mother hid the rest and began sneaking them out to read.

Now she gets to write romances and live the glamorous life of a writer—which mostly means she stays in her pyjamas all day and never uses an alarm clock. Katy thinks nothing is better than curling up with a good book.

Visit her on the web at www.katymadison.com

This is Katy Madison’s fabulous debut novel for Mills & Boon® Historical Romance!

AUTHOR NOTE

This is the first of my Wild West Weddings series, following three young women working in a cotton mill in Connecticut. When the Civil War halts cotton shipments the three of them answer advertisements for mail-order brides. After exchanging a few letters that take months to reach their destination, they set out to marry men they’ve never seen.

In the early years women were scarce on the frontier. Men often had to send back to the East to find brides. The lure of the West always held promises to Americans of yesteryear. The frontier provided a chance for a new beginning, plentiful land, and reward for hard work. But what incredible bravery it must have taken to leave everything behind and go west to marry a virtual stranger.

This first story is about Olivia and Jack. Ever since her parents died in a tragic train accident Olivia has wanted to find where she belongs. She doesn’t realise she has inner strength and hopes to find a protector in Jack. He doesn’t see her strength either, and is certain it won’t be long before she flees from the tough life in the Rocky Mountains.

For history buffs, the train accident that Olivia survived really happened in 1853, in Norwalk, Connecticut. The official death toll was fixed at fifty-six, although some bodies were never found, and many others were severely injured.

I hope you’ll enjoy the adventures of Olivia, Anna, and Selina.

Please visit me on the web at www.katymadison.com

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

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

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter One

Denver City, Colorado Territory

May 1862

Twenty-seven-year-old fur trader seeks wife and helpmate. Have cabin with cookstove in Rocky Mountains. Must be brave woman with calm nature.

Olivia Hansson stepped down to the dusty street. Her shaking hands spoiled her attempt to look calm.

“Here you go, miss.” The stagecoach driver set her mother’s trunk on the boarded walk behind her.

Tossed from the roof of the stage, her carpetbag thudded next to her feet. The outrider pitched down more bags, raising a cloud. During the harrowing race across the Western prairies, his eyes had held a flinty look, scanning the horizon for danger at every stop.

Raw wood buildings blocked any view of the mountains. The sprawl of buildings with crazy false fronts substituting for second stories was a far cry from Connecticut. The farther West she’d gone, the more often city was tacked on to any cluster of buildings, but she was a little relieved the outrider no longer looked as if he feared attack from every direction.

“Gentlemen, grub and beds are available at the saloon,” said the driver. He cast a sideways look at Olivia. “Are you being met, ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you.” Her husband-to-be would retrieve her. As soon as the stagecoach and crowd cleared out of the way, she would surely see Jack Trudeau.

Her heart skittering, she smoothed a gloved hand over her lavender jacket and tugged the bottom to erase any wrinkles that might have formed. Meeting one’s groom didn’t happen every day.

In her best anticipation of how the first meeting would go, her beauty would astound him. Not that she really expected that. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to force color into her too-pale countenance. She didn’t consider herself more than passably pretty, but compared to the careworn women on the frontier, she would do well by contrast. Thanks to her mother’s carriage gown, she was better dressed than any woman she’d seen since leaving Kansas City. Surely Jack would be pleased with her appearance.

“We’ll head back East tomorrow morning.” The driver held her gaze a moment as if warning her to return to a more civilized place.

Her throat went dry. She couldn’t afford a return trip. What little money she’d possessed she’d used in a fruitless search for her father’s assets.

Her fellow travelers, all men, trudged across the street and into the saloon, but no man waited for her.

The driver and the outrider drove the empty stage through the open double doors of a livery stable. They exited laden with mailbags and toted them down the street. She waited alone.

The wind kicked up gritty dust. Olivia held down her hat and searched for a man wearing buckskins. She resisted the urge to reach into her reticule and retrieve the photograph he’d sent at her request.

When the months without a reply had stretched to December and the pressure to answer another advertisement from the Matrimonial News had almost grown too much to bear, she feared her request had put him off. Then Mr. Trudeau’s letter had arrived.

Olivia had cautiously unfolded the two sheets to discover his portrait. Anticipation and excitement had thrummed through her just like the Christmas morning when she’d unwrapped a porcelain doll and a miniature china tea set.

The photograph showed a man with dark curls brushing his shoulders, a clean-shaven face with strong planes and a full mouth with the slightest of tilts, as if her request had amused him.

He looked like a man accustomed to danger and the wild. He looked like a man who would think a cabin with a stove was the height of civilization. He looked like a man afraid of nothing, and nothing like a man she had expected to marry.

Her knees had gone weak and her mouth had watered anyway. A tightening sensation like fear had settled low in her gut. After sneaking peeks at the picture again and again, she’d grown sure he was a man who could protect her from the world.

Laughter and shouts emanated from the saloon, but no man from the photograph. Had he been delayed? Her chest tightened.

Her optimism was fast disintegrating. Her friends and roommates had thought her crazy for suggesting they answer advertisements for brides. Perhaps they had been right.

“Howdy, ma’am.”

Olivia spun around. Her throat tightened.

“Can I help ya ta find a place?” A man with an untrimmed beard and wearing stained red suspenders approached.

Not Jack. She deflated. “No, thank you. I’m waiting on someone.”

A group of bricklayers worked on a building. Men on foot and horseback passed, but not a single woman was in sight. Her spine tightened. Was she alone in a world of men?

Surely her husband-to-be hadn’t spent a small fortune on her passage only to abandon her at the last stop. Had an accident or illness befallen him? Was she here in this rough place without a protector?

“Care ta wet your whistle? I can buy you a sarsaparilla across the street.” He gestured toward the saloon.

Ladies didn’t go into drinking establishments. Even in this wild place, she doubted the rules were different. “Thank you, but I had better wait here.”

She turned to dismiss him.

“Who’s fetching you?” he persisted.

“I’m sure he will be along directly.”

The man crossed his arms and spit a stream of tobacco, narrowly missing the lavender skirts of her carriage dress.

Gentlemen didn’t spit in a lady’s presence. Pulling her skirts back, she hoped he would take the hint and go away.

He didn’t.

Indians moved up the sidewalk. Loincloths and open vests exposed bronzed skin. Their long black hair glistened with blue lights. Olivia drew in a sharp breath at the sight of muscular legs and smooth bare chests covered in strange patterns. Behind the men trailed women wearing buckskin sack dresses. In contrast to the silence of the men, the females chattered in birdlike coos and calls.

They stopped and looked Olivia up and down. Bursting into giggles, they scurried after the men. Heat rose in her cheeks.

“Damned Arapaho.” The suspender-clad man spit again.

Realizing her jaw had dropped, she pressed her lips together. She couldn’t have said if her shock was because the natives walked down the sidewalk as if they owned it, or if it was because the men wore so few clothes. She felt as if she’d stepped into China or Africa instead of a territory of the country she’d been born and raised in.

Her throat dry, Olivia scanned the street again. The signs around her indicated the ticket office, the livery stable, the BK saloon, and Pike’s Mercantile, but no man in buckskins was in sight. Where was her husband-to-be? The bricklayers ceased their work and openly stared at her. Her heart raced and the back of her neck felt as if a cold demon blew on it. She swallowed hard to suppress the outward signs of nervousness.

The scruffy man scratched his armpit. Was the brown stain on his suspenders tobacco, food or just plain dirt?

She shuddered.

One side of his mouth slid up. His gaze dropped to her chest. “You answer one of them ads for a wife?”

Olivia backed up. Her heels clicked against her mother’s trunk and she nearly fell on it. She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

“Might as well come with me. One of us is as good as another.”

He had to be kidding. She curled her fingers in so tightly her nails bit into her palms through her gloves. What kind of place was this?

A man in a green-and-white-striped waistcoat and a shiny black jacket pushed the man in suspenders to the side. “Leave the lady be.” His pomaded hair was combed straight back and his penetrating eyes appraised her. “Is he bothering you, ma’am?”

Letting out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her tension eased. The gentleman would be of assistance. “I’m sure he is just trying to be helpful.”

“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Ben Kincaid.” He doffed his hat and made a slight bow.

She nodded but didn’t answer in kind.

He extended his arm. “Why don’t you come with me, ma’am? I’m sure you don’t want to be standing in the street.”

“I’d rather wait a bit longer. I am expected.” But she’d be grateful if the gentleman would get rid of the man in the dirty suspenders. Ironic that she, who couldn’t seem to attract a single man’s attention back in Connecticut, had two men vying for her attention. She reached to take the proffered arm.

“You ain’t safe waiting here all alone,” Mr. Kincaid said, shattering the illusion of being a well-bred man while clamping her hand into the crook of his arm. He insolently looked her up and down.

His bold appraisal made her feel unclean. Her heart thudded in her chest, threatening to break through her ribs. Where was Jack?

A frisson of fear sliding down her spine, she tugged, but Mr. Kincaid didn’t let her loose. She gave up trying to free her hand rather than create a scene. He was at least preferable to the unkempt man. Or was he?

The scruffier man folded his arms across his suspenders. “Better off comin’ with me. Leastwise, I’d marry you.”

Mr. Kincaid flashed a big smile. “Now, I have a private room over yonder where you could...freshen up after your journey. I’d be happy to see to your...comfort.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Olivia wasn’t at all sure she would be fine. But at this point she’d opt for tagging after the Indian braves who had ignored her, rather than with Mr. Kincaid, who offered an unsavory sort of assistance, or with the man who needed a bath.

Several men toddled out of the saloon. They took various poses along the opposite sidewalk. What on earth were they doing?

“I’m sure I don’t want to keep you.” Perhaps she should go down to the mercantile and inquire within, but she couldn’t manage her trunk without help. Inside were the last of her links with her parents. She didn’t want to abandon it.

She suspected if she asked Mr. Kincaid to assist her, he’d take her trunk into the saloon. Her throat closed and she swallowed.

Her friend Anna would have laughed at the men. Selina would have shooed them off, but Olivia’s tongue was tied and it was all she could do to keep from trembling.

Where in heaven’s name was Jack, and why was he leaving her alone to contend with these uncouth men? Horrors that could befall an unprotected woman cast big black blots in her thoughts.

“I’m waiting for Mr. Trudeau. P-perhaps you know him.”

Mr. Kincaid’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “I ain’t seen Jack, nor his mules, lately.”

Mules? Olivia again looked around for Jack or mules, but no mules were in sight. A new buckboard wagon and horses waited in front of the mercantile, but no Jack. Her stomach somersaulted.

“Jack’s got him a woman already. He don’t need you,” objected the scruffy man.

Every fiber in her went rigid.

“Now, didn’t Jack tell you he had an Indian wife? Shame on him,” said the slick man with a sigh, as if he expected no better of Jack.

Her future husband had a wife already? He hadn’t said anything about a wife. Her mind blanked as icy dread crept up her spine.

“You’d better come with me.” He patted her captured trembling hand as if to soothe her.

She snatched it back and gripped her reticule as if it might shield her.

The men watched her with an intensity that made her neck tighten.

She wanted to crawl under the boards of the sidewalk or run away, but her feet were stuck as if vines had twined around her ankles to hold her in this awful place.

Mr. Kincaid reached out and caught her arm. “You’re coming with me. You look like you need to sit down.”

The suspender man grabbed her other arm. “I saw her first.”

The idea that she could be fought over like a child’s plaything made noise rush in her ears. As if she was being swept into a roaring river, she sought the purchase of a rock or a muddy bank. She didn’t know what to do. If Jack had a wife, she couldn’t go with him, either. Trembles shuddered through her and she fought to breathe.

* * *

Jack Trudeau waited for the poky grocer to fill his order. He checked the sack of coffee for nuts and twigs that were often used to bulk up the precious beans. He inhaled deeply of the rich scent.

The mercantile owner painstakingly penciled a list on butcher paper.

A brightly colored array of tins resided on the shelf behind the counter. Olivia might want tea.

“I’ll take a tin of tea, too,” he said.

“Orange or black?” asked the grocer.

What was the difference? A red tin with a white flower stood out. If his bride didn’t like the tea, she might like the metal box to store whatever small things a woman liked to accumulate. “The red one.”

Her request for a photograph had struck him as bold, exactly the kind of woman needed on the frontier. Olivia probably wanted the photograph to make certain he wasn’t a grizzly, unshaved mountain man. He’d been fortunate to find a man taking photographs of the sprouting Denver City, who’d said he’d take Jack’s picture because he reckoned the portrait would help get a pretty wife.

But pretty didn’t matter. His first wife hadn’t been pretty. She’d been short and dark and built like a tree stump, but he’d loved the way Wetonga’s eyes would disappear into upside-down half-moons when she laughed. She had been the wife of his heart.

But Wetonga was gone. He could not raise a plot of vegetables or keep varmints out of his cabin while he had to go farther and farther north to find the lucrative beaver and red fox.

The worst vermin were the two-legged variety who thought an empty cabin was an invitation to track in mud, sleep on his bed and burn his food into his pots. The pots they left behind anyway. Upon returning from a trapping run and finding his home defiled, Jack had decided he needed a new wife.

He glanced toward the window, where he’d been looking out every now and then to see if the stage had arrived.

Jack shifted impatiently. He’d already waited half an hour to be helped. His bride was due to arrive. He’d promised to meet her, but he hesitated to leave for fear if he returned later he would have to wait another half hour before his shopping was seen to. He wanted to be ready to leave for home as soon as they were hitched.

A group of Arapaho entered the store. As they unwound lengths of cloths, the squaws giggled about a pale-eyed woman with a skirt as big as a tepee.

Jack turned and asked in an Algonquian dialect where they had seen the woman.

A brave stepped forward and said in perfect English, “Pale Eyes arrive on the stage. Many men wish to claim her.”

A miner standing near the door leaned out. “It’s a right fine-looking lady. Kincaid’s got her. She goes to work for him, I’ll be first in line.”

“Merde!” How had he not heard the stagecoach’s arrival?

The Indian switched to a French patois. “Pale Eyes afraid.”

Were they playing musical languages? Jack stared at the brave, who slowly smiled as if they were sharing a great joke.

“Merci.” Jack swiveled around to face the grocer as he backed toward the door. “I’ll be back before you finish.”

Imagining that a scared-horse look was the reason for the nickname Pale Eyes, he trotted out onto the street. A cluster of men blocked his view. He took a few steps closer. A willowy woman dressed in a bell-shaped dress the color of lilacs stood in the center of the throng. Bands of ruffles and bows flared out from her tiny waist.

Her back was to him. Her wide-brimmed straw hat with ribbons and bows covered her hair. One of the ne’er-do-wells who hung about Denver City saloons tugged on her arm. She pulled free and leaned against Kincaid. His bride, or a fancy whore brought in by Kincaid?

He hopped on the boarded sidewalk and headed toward the throng.

Kincaid covered the woman’s hand.

The woman who claimed to work hard in a cotton mill couldn’t be this waiflike thing clinging to the saloon owner. Kincaid was a worthless excuse for a man. Jack didn’t have any use for a man like him, nor would any woman worth her salt.

A reedy female voice said, “Your place is lovely, but is there a hotel or a boardinghouse where I could get a room?”

She wouldn’t convince anyone she meant what she said with that waver in her voice.

“Why, ma’am, just come across the street, and I’ll be sure that you’re taken care of,” said Kincaid in a snake-oil-salesman’s voice.

“Olivia?” Jack called sharply.

She spun around, and for a second it appeared she had no color in her eyes, except thin black dots at the center. “Mr. Trudeau?”

Crystal earbobs danced against her pale-as-milk slender neck. She looked extravagant and indulged. A woman who dressed as if she was due for a ball was all wrong for the frontier. Wrong for the hard life in a trapper’s cabin. Wrong for him.

He nodded.

“Where have you been?” she screeched.

Jack winced. He forced his feet to move forward. “Buying supplies.”

Jack focused on the woman as he walked closer. Her irises were of such a pale gray-blue that from a distance she appeared to have the eyes of a ghost. Eyes more gray than blue, she’d written.

“I’ll give you fifty dollars for her,” said Ben Kincaid.

Jack hesitated. Fifty dollars was a lot of money, not as much as it cost to get her here, but enough he could reconsider and send for another bride.

Olivia’s eyes widened.

“Unhand her,” Jack said softly.

Ben Kincaid loosened his grip on Olivia’s arm.

She exhaled and her shoulders dropped. Going limp, she put one hand on the trunk. He thought she might swoon. Could she be any more useless?

“She ain’t going to be here long nohow,” said a man in greasy suspenders.

His heart sinking, Jack silently agreed. No way would this woman last long in the newly christened Colorado Territory.

Her Cupid’s-bow mouth flattened. As if the boards of the sidewalk had burst into flames, she stared down. Her long lashes fluttered against the carved alabaster curve of her cheek.

Good Lord, his bride was beyond pretty. She was beautiful. Could anything be worse in the Colorado Territory, where women were scarce enough that men wanted to treat them as communal property? Rather than being able to defend his cabin while he was out hunting, her looks would just draw more squatters.

“Seventy-five dollars,” said Kincaid.

Jack rolled his eyes.

She stared at Kincaid.

“Do you want to go with him?” asked Jack. His jaw tightened until a twitch developed.

Her head jerked back, and she stared at him as if he’d turned into a rattler. She swallowed hard, but then her chin slid up a notch. “No. I’m not a possession to be sold.”

Her voice had moderated from the thin, raspy screech she had greeted him with. She still sounded too breathy and young, but he reckoned he could live with the sweeter sound. Maybe, just maybe, she had a bit of grit. “Then tell him to leave you alone.”

She gave him an angry glare, then marched toward the mercantile. The way she floated over the ground in her swaying skirt mesmerized him.

“Sure you won’t sell her to me?” said Kincaid, breaking the spell. “Seems to me she took to me a mite better than you.”

His blood rising, Jack turned toward Kincaid. “You wouldn’t know how to handle a lady if you had one.”

“And you would?” Kincaid taunted.

“Yeah, I would.” His mother was a lady. And she’d never let anyone forget that her blue-blooded grandparents had fled France during the Reign of Terror.

Jack was off-kilter. Olivia was a huge miscalculation on his part. The last thing he wanted was a woman who reminded him of his mother. God help him if Olivia was as haughty. Watching the stiff set of her shoulders, he didn’t harbor high hopes.

She should have been a plain, sturdy woman. Mail-order brides wore calico and sunbonnets, not hoop skirts and beribboned straw hats. Pioneer women were ordinary, not pretty, not pampered. It wouldn’t be long before Olivia complained of the dirt, the primitive living conditions and him. It wouldn’t be long before she fled—just as his mother had.

Chapter Two

My name is Olivia Hansson. I work in a cotton mill. I live in a boardinghouse with my two dearest friends. They consider me the quiet one. I have light hair and am fair skinned. I am above average height for a woman. My eyes are more gray than blue. Please send me a photograph of you.

Spots danced in front of Olivia’s eyes, and she prayed she would reach the wagon. With her tight lacings, she could barely breathe. She needed to stop and catch her breath, but she wanted away from those awful men. Jack included.

Her lungs screamed and her vision closed in. She reached the wagon and gripped the side, trying desperately to breathe. Lying down would be prudent, but she suspected Jack would look at her with even more distaste in his brown eyes. Oh, God, he was even better looking than his picture. Yet his frowning appraisal had implied she was a bitter tonic to swallow.

Her eyes stung. She’d fantasized all kinds of greetings, but for him to look at her with distaste had never even crossed her mind. For a minute she’d feared he would sell her.

Her carpetbag thudded into the wagon bed. Her trunk followed. He’d shouldered it as if it weighed nothing. “I’d hoped to be done stocking up before the stage arrived.”

The planks of the wagon side bit into her palms. She couldn’t look at him. It wasn’t much of an apology, but his tardiness hadn’t upset her so much as his not protecting her from the swarming jackals. “I understand. The stage doesn’t always arrive on schedule.”

She strove to sound rational. He’d asked for a calm woman, and hysteria would not be endearing. Nor did she think fainting would project bravery.

Silence stretched between them. Olivia’s heart pounded.

“Men here so seldom see a pretty lady, they don’t know how to be civil,” he offered.

Had he called her pretty? “I am not used to being accosted in the street.” No, she was used to being ignored or studiously avoided by the men in Connecticut. She looked out of the corner of her eye at Jack.

He scowled at the trunk he’d just put in the wagon.

“Or offered up for sale,” she muttered.

He glared at her. “I didn’t offer to sell you. Besides, you were clinging to Kincaid.”

“Yes, well, it seemed better to choose one of them rather than to be torn apart.” Olivia chomped down on her tongue. Railing at Jack wouldn’t improve things.

“I’m sure they preferred you in one piece.” Jack shoved her trunk against the side of the wagon. A rigorous round of cheeps came out of a wooden crate holding a couple dozen half yellow, half brown chicks. They looked like they had a bad case of mange.

Olivia closed her eyes. She knew nothing about raising chickens. She forced herself to open her eyes.

Jack gave her a funny look. “Don’t you want eggs?”

Had she given away her apprehension? Determined to put a good face on it, she said, “Of course. I’ve just never raised chickens.”

She should tell him she didn’t have a clue how to cook eggs, but the confession froze on her tongue.

“I have to go back in the store. Do you want to stay here or go inside?”

Olivia cast a glance over her shoulder. Men still watched her. “I’ll go with you.”

Jack strode into the store without a backward look. Pushing at the stitch in her side, Olivia followed.

Her eyes took a second to adjust to the dark interior.

Three scruffy men and the group of Indians turned her way. Everyone looked at her, except Jack. Even the grocer stared over the goods piled on the counter. His mouth fell agape. Was she such an oddity?

Olivia took a step forward. Cracker boxes, pickle barrels and all sorts of dry goods from bolts of material to shovels crammed the space. Negotiating the narrow pathways with her hoops would be impossible.

The Indian women pointed, while this time the impassive native men watched, too. If she tilted her hoops to get through the maze of barrels and crates, they would all laugh.

One rough-dressed man’s gaze turned from surprised to speculative. His bold look ran down her front and stopped at her chest. Chills ran down her spine. Olivia backed away. Jack shouldered a flour sack and headed toward the door.

She stepped to the side, out of sight of the rude men inside.

Jack made several trips carrying supplies. He finally paused beside her. “Is there anything you need?”

She shook her head, staring down at the wilting bows of her dress.

Jack folded his arms. “You’ll need dresses you can work in.”

“I’m not an idiot.” She knew the carriage dress was impractical for everyday wear. Her mother had worn it visiting when the most strenuous thing she did was raise a teacup. Olivia lifted her chin. “I have work dresses.”

The Indians exited the store. The men left as unencumbered as they arrived, but the women bore bundles on their backs.

“Pale Eyes lazy squaw,” said a brave as he passed.

Olivia’s jaw dropped. She wanted to escape, but she had nowhere to go.

Jack rubbed his forehead as if pained. He looked off to the side. “The preacher is expecting us.”

Her stomach jumped to her throat and Olivia’s knees buckled.

Jack caught her elbow. “Are you all right?” The question sounded grudging.

“Of course I’m all right.” Her voice sounded breathy and strange to her ears. She locked her knees.

Jack guided her toward the wagon. His hands around her waist, he lifted her into the box, and she felt his touch everywhere. In spite of the warmth of the afternoon sun, she shuddered.

A bright woven blanket covered the wooden bench seat. After arranging her hoops so the front of her skirt would not shoot up in the air, she sat on the woolen blanket and folded her hands in her lap to still their shaking.

She was getting married. Today.

Even though she had come fully expecting to marry Jack, to meet and marry him in the space of an hour was whirlwind fast. Her pounding heart settled in her throat.

Jack spread thick brown animal skins over the supplies, and then lashed them down.

Olivia twisted in the seat to look at him. The Indian’s criticism had been cutting. “Should I help you do that?”

He tied the leather straps down. “Not necessary.”

The sun glossed the hides of the two brown horses hitched to the wagon. She bit her lip. He was taking her to the church. The minister would bind them together forever. Or did Jack already have a wife?

Jack untied the horses, not mules, from the hitching post. He swung up and settled onto the bench beside her.

Mr. Kincaid had been wrong about Jack owning mules; he was probably wrong about an Indian wife.

“Mr. Trudeau—”

“Jack,” he corrected, just a hint of a French accent coloring his words. “Might as well call me by my given name, because I will call you Olivia.”

“Jack or Jacques, the French way?” she queried.

He shrugged. “My mother would call me Jacques, but Jack will do.” He clearly made a distinction between the “ah” and “ack” sounds this time.

“Must we be married so soon?” Olivia clamped a hand over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say that. She wanted to ask if he had a wife, but she had no idea how to frame the question.

He drew the wagon to a halt and set the brake. Bracing a boot on the board running across the front of the box, he turned sideways and measured her with his warm brown eyes. “I have a one-room cabin.”

“Yes,” said Olivia.

“Two days’ travel from here.”

She nodded.

“One bed. Unless you’d rather live in sin,” he said with a slight lilt in his voice.

The point he was attempting to make suddenly became crystal clear. Olivia went hot and cold all over. “Oh.”

He turned to face the front. “Figured you’d rather be married.”

She ducked her head, hiding her flush.

“I can put you back on the stagecoach, if you’d rather.”

From his strong profile she tried to glean a hint as to what he preferred. Her heart sank. Even if he sent her back to Connecticut, her home wasn’t there anymore. Not that Connecticut had ever really been home. She’d just been stuck there after the train accident killed her parents.

“We can go to the cabin without benefit of marriage, but I’ll be damned if I sleep anywhere but in my own bed.”

“I see,” said Olivia slowly. She desperately wanted to change the subject. Blurting the first thing that came to mind, she said, “I brought you a shirt and coat.” Her voice rose to a squeak. “For the wedding, b-but I need time to finish them.”

The shirt she’d made from fresh cotton at the mill, and for the jacket she’d recut one of her father’s best broadcloth suits. She’d only basted the seams, wanting to check the fit before finishing.

Jack sighed. “We need to get home.”

Home. Her mouth opened and nothing came out. She yearned for a home. But nothing was going as anticipated. She wasn’t even sure he liked her. She closed her mouth.

“Look, I have no intention of forcing you to be a wife in all ways before you’re ready. But if you intend to leave, I’d rather you did it now.”

Was he as uncertain of her as she was of him? The idea startled her. Nothing had indicated he was anything less than supremely confident.

She wanted to tell him she’d slept with his photograph under her pillow for the past three months, but the words wouldn’t form. The detail seemed too intimate to reveal to a man who’d written her three letters. The man would be her husband quite soon. Her head spun.

Silence stretched out.

He scowled. “So what is it to be, Olivia?”

“All right,” she said in a low whisper.

* * *

Jack stood before the altar in the little brick chapel. The stiff collar of the crisp white shirt cut off his breath. The tight black jacket constricted movement. He hated wearing civilized clothes, but he suspected a refusal to wear the jacket and shirt would upset his tense bride.

The mother-of-pearl buttons had the look of expensive tailoring. Other than being a hair too tight, the shirt fit like a glove. His mother would have been ecstatic to see him so finely clothed. He’d probably never wear the shirt and jacket again. He wouldn’t have a need.

Beside him, Olivia trembled like aspen leaves caught in the breeze. He kept his hand near her elbow in case she fainted.

As he said his vows, a sick feeling settled in his stomach. He’d wanted a wife to ease his worries, but she had increased them tenfold. The pale beauty wouldn’t stand up to Indians who walked in uninvited. She wouldn’t be able to back down men tired of panning for gold and wanting easy pickings from his cabin. She hadn’t managed to stand up to the men in town, who had daylight and witnesses to prevent them behaving too uncivilized. He’d never be able to leave on a trapping run.

But he couldn’t back out.

Olivia whispered her pledge in a tremulous voice. Her head dipped low. Even though the top of her head was on level with his eyes, he couldn’t see her expression. He held his breath, fearing she might yet balk and choose to go back East.

“Do you have the ring?” asked the preacher.

When Jack produced the ring, Olivia jerked her head up. Pink tinged her cheeks.

When he slid the ring on her finger, she would be tied to him and this place.

He caught her hand in his. Her cool fingers were long and delicate like a bird’s wings, and fluttering in his grip. What would that fluttering feel like against his skin? Likely she would be gone before he knew.

She’d find the gold band too simple, too plain.

It was too loose. Like everything else about this marriage it didn’t fit right.

The preacher intoned the solemn words. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

Olivia swayed.

“You may kiss your bride.”

Jack turned to face her, but Olivia stared down at her hand.

He waited for her to look up. The preacher cleared his throat.

Cupping her elbow, Jack eased her sideways, but she didn’t turn up her face. He nudged her delicate chin. She pressed her lips together. White rimmed her pale gray irises. Her trembling increased.

He sighed, then leaned forward and brushed a kiss on her smooth cheek. Her hat brim nearly poked out his eye. A tiny squeak left her throat. She blinked rapidly and lowered her gaze.

“Congratulations,” the preacher said heartily. “After you sign the certificate, won’t you join me in the rectory?”

Olivia swiveled back to face the preacher.

Jack began, “We need to get—”

“Yes!”

“—on our way.”

Now she speaks. Jack rolled his eyes. She couldn’t make her dread of being alone with him be more obvious. He kept his voice coaxing, rational. “We need to leave while we have daylight.”

She gave a short nod, but her lower lip trembled.

“Just one thing, then,” said the preacher. “We do things different out here in the territories. I won’t file the certificate for a month.”

Jack winced.

Olivia froze. Then she turned toward him with her eyes wide.

The preacher lowered his head and cleared his throat. “In case you find you don’t suit.”

“Wh-what?” asked Olivia on a shallow puff of air.

Jack caught her arm and tugged her toward the door. She looked over her shoulder at the preacher. “Nothing to worry about,” Jack mumbled.

But the V between her brows suggested she was plenty worried. She wouldn’t make it thirty days. And he wished the preacher hadn’t made it so damn obvious she could leave without repercussions.

* * *

Hours later, Olivia anxiously scanned the horizon for a dwelling where they might spend the night. Perhaps over the next rise would be a new settlement.

The horses’ heads bobbed, jiggling the harnesses. Their backs glistened with sweat as they pulled the creaking wagon over the twin dirt tracks through the long grass. The sun scraped the peaks of the green-and-purple-topped mountains far to their left. With every mile the menacing giants loomed closer.

They hadn’t encountered any other travelers. She’d rarely seen such long stretches without a town or a farm.

Jack rolled his shoulders. The basted stitches at his shoulders gaped. He hadn’t been willing to wait for her to finish the shirt.

His silence made her tense. His presence made her tense. His despairing gaze on her made her tense.

“Have you known Mr. Kincaid long?” Olivia stared ahead where the trail rose up and up into the robin’s-egg-blue sky as she waited for his answer. And waited. She wanted to ask what the preacher had meant, but she dared not.

He scowled.

She wanted to retract her question, yet he would have to acknowledge her sooner or later. What kind of a life would they have if they never talked to each other?

“He seemed to know you.” Both men had known Jack, but the other man hadn’t given his name.

“Long enough.”

Not willing to let the grudging opening go, she asked, “What does he do?”

“He gambles and provides whor—runs a saloon.”

“He seemed to want to let me know he was rich.”

“Because he dupes the prospectors out of the gold they find.”

“He seemed more gentlemanly than the other—”

“He fools women into working on their backs for him, too.” Jack glared at her.

“—man.” Olivia cringed, her ears heated. “I didn’t think he could be trusted.”

“No. He can’t be.” Jack drew the wagon to a halt at the base of the hill and wrapped the reins around the brake handle. “You need to get out and walk.”

Her jaw dropped and her fingers curled in. “Because I asked about Mr. Kincaid?”

“No, Olivia.” The corner of his mouth curled up.

That look mirrored the look in his photograph. She’d anticipated seeing his bemused half smile for a thousand miles. Her heart skipped a beat. She wanted that look, rather than the look of impatient disgust he’d greeted her with.

“Because the horses have to haul the weight of a loaded wagon up a steep grade.” Jack leaped out of the wagon.

Olivia stood. Preparing to climb down, she grasped the footboard. Walking might be a relief. In spite of the blanket folded on the wooden seat, the jolting wagon was not so kind to her posterior.

Jack disappeared around the back.

The width of her skirts made it impossible to see where to step. She would have changed to a more serviceable gown if Jack hadn’t been in such a rush to get her out of the church. Reaching back, she searched for a foothold.

His hands closed around her waist.

Her heart skipped.

He swung her down as if she weighed nothing. Awareness of him jangled along every inch of her skin. “Th-thank you.”

She couldn’t look him in the eye. Her cheeks heated. Her breath hitched. How foolish must she look staring at the wagon? She slowly turned to face him. His hands slid along her waist. A rush of emotions swamped her. He was her husband, but she hardly knew him. They would become intimate, except he’d said he wouldn’t rush her.

She stared at a middle button. The stitches around the hole were even and neat, not so small the edges scalloped but not so big as to appear clumsy. Her hopes of a perfect marriage had been in every thrust and pull of her needle.

“Just get over the rise, then you can ride again,” he encouraged. Dropping his hold on her, he moved toward the team. Gripping the leather strap between the horses’ bridles, he clucked to the horses and started them up the slope.

Olivia followed. The horses pulled the wagon faster than she could walk. Her squished toes protested. Her mother’s demi-boots were too small.

The hill stretched out before her like a small mountain. Sucking air between her teeth, she trudged forward.

The wagon pulled away. She pressed at the stitch forming in her side. Before long, spots danced in front of her eyes. To fit in her mother’s dress she’d laced her corset tight. While sitting, the extra cinching hadn’t mattered.

The wide flare of her hoop skirt hid the best path. Loose rocks twisted her feet while her toes and heels painfully rubbed inside the demi-boots. The steepness increased. Her skirt snagged on a rock. Impatiently she raised her dress high enough to continue.

She plodded forward, one foot after another for as long as she could, only stopping to regain her breath. The wagon disappeared over the ridge. After a few minutes the wagon’s rattle and the endless chirping of the chicks no longer drifted back. How far ahead was Jack?

Resuming her trek, she climbed.

The sun disappeared behind the peaks and the light faltered to a shadowlike dusk and then went darker. She took a step, then another. The darkness was not all because of the quality of the light, but the result of her inability to get more than a short puff of air into her lungs. Her foot twisted in a hole she couldn’t see and she fell to her hands and knees. Her palms stung.

She stayed like a dog, her head hanging as she waited for the faintness to pass. If she couldn’t make it up the hill, would Jack leave her here?

* * *

Jack had planned to be another dozen miles up the road before stopping, but Olivia had dropped so far behind, the plateau a half mile past the crest of the hill would have to be far enough today.

He guided the blowing and snorting horses into the meadow. Listening for Olivia, he released them from their traces. The horses needed to be watered, curried and dried before the temperature dipped overnight.

Jack unlashed the wagon bed and retrieved a spade. He picked out the best place for a fire pit. So much needed to be done before the night closed in and Olivia didn’t look to be much help.

Wetonga would have already gathered the makings of a fire by now. Hadn’t he made it clear in his advertisement that he needed a helpmate, not another helpless animal to care for?

He attacked the sod, turning it over and away from his fire pit. He viciously scraped the dirt. What healthy young woman couldn’t walk up a quarter mile of steep hill in less than half an hour? Apparently his wife.

He jabbed the spade in the ground and straightened. As he’d led the horses up the steep grade, he’d seen her slogging forward.

He’d wanted to go back for her, but he couldn’t let the horses stand with the weight pulling on them. Nor could he trust them to continue up the hill without guidance. They’d already been huffing and puffing. Stopping and restarting would’ve put unnecessary strain on his livestock and risked the loaded wagon rolling backward and doing serious damage.

He squinted toward the road. A cool breeze wafted across his brow. The temperature was dropping. He needed to make camp, not fetch Olivia. Why hadn’t she made it over the ridge yet?

Her froufrou dress was the height of absurdity in this rugged land. The wide skirt must make walking harder, but her frivolousness irritated him all the same.

He frowned. How the hell was Olivia to know that hoops shouldn’t be worn out here? He should have insisted she change. But he’d figured he might as well get the satisfaction of driving a beautiful woman dressed like a princess through town.

So it was his fault that she was struggling to climb a ridge in a dress better suited for a parlor than a mountain pass.

He stomped over to the wagon and shoved aside the animal skins until he found his rifle. Taking a hasty look around, he reckoned there weren’t any skulkers about. Too many men in the recent influx of speculators would steal his goods, or worse.

He stalked to the road and back up the slight dip that followed the nasty incline. Many a man would find his pretty bride worth stealing. His heart stepped up a notch.

He jogged to the ridge. His heart pounded as he scanned the tall grass. The road was empty. More than a hundred yards down a scrap of lilac material lay on the ground. His throat tightened.

“Olivia,” he called, and then louder, “Olivia!”

Farther out was a pool of white. His chest tight, he ran down the slope. As he drew near he made out a petticoat and her lilac-colored jacket. What had happened? A disgruntled miner or a rogue brave could have stripped her of her clothes. Jack’s heart caught in his throat.

Horrible images flashed in his mind of her knocked out, gagged and bound.

Was she even now being abused in the worst possible way?

His boots thudded against the ground and his hands grew slippery on the rifle. Oh, God, was his wife being raped because he was more worried about his horses and supplies?

Chapter Three

Here is the photograph you requested. I am standing in front of the offices of The Rocky Mountain News by Cherry Creek. The natives say that it is unwise to build so close to the water, but their knowledge is often ignored. Tell me more about yourself. Would you be willing to travel far into the mountains?

Now he comes for me, thought Olivia with exasperation. The only way to make it up the hill was to loosen her corset and remove her hoops, which meant half undressing. She’d thrown off her jacket, then fought through the tall grass to a gray-and-green-speckled boulder for privacy. After struggling for several minutes, she finally got the back of the dress unbuttoned.

The lavender material puffed around her ankles as she tugged off her petticoats to access her corset strings.

“Olivia!” His voice was much nearer.

Bending down so he wouldn’t see her state of undress, she jerked at the strings. The ability to draw in full breaths was a blessed relief, but she barely got the strings retied and her dress pulled up before he was upon her.

Her husband would eventually be privy to her undressing, but she wasn’t prepared to share everything now.

“Olivia, where are you?”

Drat, the man was practically on top of her.

She rammed her arms into the sleeves and popped up. “I’m here. Go back—” A long black barrel pointed at her. She jerked, bolts of shock zinging through her body, making every fiber tense.

Frozen, she stared. Just beyond the stock his jaw pulsed. After an immeasurable pause his narrowed eyes relaxed. He lowered the gun. His gaze dropped to her petticoats draped over the rock and then rose back to her face.

Her cheeks burned as she held up the unfastened dress. “Could you give me a moment, please,” she said in a prim voice.

“Sorry.” He turned and walked back toward the path. He stopped with his back to her.

Why in heaven’s name had he drawn a gun on her? Shivering with a sudden cold that had nothing to do with the air temperature, Olivia slipped the buttons she could fasten into their holes. She snatched her extra petticoats off the rock, draped them and the excess material of her skirt over her arm and rejoined Jack.

He looped the metal bands of her crinoline around his shoulder. Her jacket was wadded beneath his arm. With the back of her dress half-undone, she needed the jacket to cover the gaping opening.

She hesitated. “Why would you point a gun at me?”

“I thought you might have been attacked,” he said. “Next time answer when I call.”

His tone was matter-of-fact, but she felt scolded all the same. She nodded. Men didn’t carry around guns back in Connecticut. She scanned the tall grass, wondering what vicious animal he’d suspected was lying in wait.

“Do you need me to carry you?” he asked.

“I can walk.”

He swiveled toward her. He looked at her as if she’d told him she could fly or some other absurdity.

“I like walking. I walk all the time. I just wasn’t dressed for walking.” Olivia ducked her chin.

“I didn’t realize walking required special attire,” said Jack slowly. He pulled at the collar of his shirt. The garment she’d labored over didn’t suit him.

“This is a carriage dress. It is for sitting and riding in a carr...” Well, a wagon hardly qualified as high transport. “For riding or visiting, not for scaling mountains.” Not for having a gun pointed at her.

His brown gaze slid down her dress.

Her heart did a little jig.

“Do you have dresses for mountain scaling?” he asked.

Good gravy, was her husband an imbecile? Was all that brawny masculinity just a shell around nothing? “No.”

“Mmm.” The corners of his eyes crinkled as if he were about to smile.

Was that all he could say? Or had he been trying not to laugh at her? She was tired of traveling and being stared at as if she were an oddity. Her palm up, Olivia gestured for him to lead.

Jack gave a tiny shake of his head as if rousing himself from a stupor. “I should have told you to change.”

Olivia huffed, a feat she wouldn’t have been able to manage before loosening her corset laces.

“But you looked so pretty in your carriage dress.” He mimicked her gesture as if he expected her to go first, and then looked over his shoulder at the rays that haloed up from the out-of-sight sun.

His compliment was so embedded in criticism, she didn’t feel obliged to acknowledge it. Why call her pretty, then look away? If he thought her pretty he would look at her more often. He was probably just trying to soothe her ruffled feathers. Perhaps he didn’t want a sulky bride on his wedding night.

A cold wash traveled down her spine. Olivia shivered all over.

“We have a lot to do before night falls,” Jack said.

“I’ll be right behind you.”

His forehead furrowed. “You’re not a squaw.”

She had no idea what he meant by that. She stared at his broad shoulders as he transferred his gun to his left hand and reached to put his hand at her back.

She twisted away, not wanting him to discover the open back of her dress.

“You don’t have to walk behind me,” he said.

“I’d rather.”

He shook his head. “Stay with me or I will carry you.” Then he took off up the incline at a fast clip. She trotted to keep pace. He left the road and Olivia waded through the tall grass. Her thin heels sank into the soft ground.

He tossed her clothing into the wagon, peeled back the hides and then pulled out the peeping box. “Watch the chicks while they forage. Don’t let them get away. I’ll see if a stream is in those trees.” He scooped out the half-feathered chicks and set them on the ground. “The fire pit is over there.” He pointed to a patch of bare dirt. “Gather up kindling, too.”

She retrieved her matching jacket and put it on. She couldn’t button it, but at least her exposed laces were hidden.

Jack walked toward the stand of trees in the distance. “I’ll hear you if you shout.”

Why would she need to shout for him?

“If you see a bear, or the horses start acting odd, yell.” With that he strode off.

The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. Were there bears around? Had Jack had the gun ready because he feared a bear had attacked her?

* * *

Bears weren’t what concerned Jack. But warning Olivia that she should be wary of all beasts, four legged or two, had seemed unkind. Blood rushed in his ears. He’d been so sure when he saw her jacket near the road and her petticoats on the rock that he’d find her on the ground being violated by one of the low men who’d come West in search of easy money.

Jack had been ready to kill any man who dared touch her. And it angered him that she attracted attention and couldn’t fend it off.

The horses needed watering and the camp needed setting up. He slowed his breathing, attuning to what was around him.

The breeze shimmied through aspen leaves and pine trees darkened the woods. He slung his rifle strap over his back and walked into the shade. The tinkle of running water floated through the air. He’d been so focused on Olivia that he’d neglected to bring a bucket.

At least she’d finally showed a bit of spunk. Obviously she hadn’t liked him discovering her in the midst of ridding herself of layers of excessive clothing. Perhaps she had been lagging behind for privacy.

A smile tugged at the corners of Jack’s mouth. Taking off those ridiculous hoops may have been the first smart thing she’d done. He gathered up deadwood, then started back.

Olivia chased around in a circle shooing the chicks into a tight cluster. With her skirt and petticoats caught in her arm, her slender ankles were visible. She took off her hat and waved it at the chicks.

She looked young and naive as she valiantly kept the chicks from foraging. They peeped and tumbled over each other. Her back to him, she slowly circled.

Great, he’d acquired a sheepdog instead of a wife.

Olivia stepped sideways and fanned her hat at a chick that dared to stray a couple of feet from his brethren. The instant she saw him, she froze.

She pulled her jacket closed and lowered her skirt, hiding her ankles. She pushed a stray strand off her forehead.

The paleness of her hair struck him. The soft-hued blond mass was twisted and woven into dozens of thin braids in an elaborate confection on the back of her head.

Wetonga had braided her hair in two braids or worn it held back by a leather band around her forehead. The first time he’d met her, she’d entered the tepee where he slept, drawn off her doeskin dress and tossed it on the ground before joining him on his bedroll. He suspected it wouldn’t be so easy with Olivia.

His throat tightened at the idea of seeing her hair down, curtaining her naked body. Picturing Olivia flushed and naked, his blood heated.

His desire for her hit him like an ax, cleaving him down to the bone. He’d spent most of the day thinking her too refined to tempt him, but he’d been wrong. Her cool beauty called like forbidden fruit. Her slender fingers, the blush that swept over her cheeks, and the span of her slender waist in his hands all thickened his blood.

But then he’d promised he wouldn’t pressure her to be his wife in that way.

He sighed. Perhaps he’d been hasty, but she’d cast a longing look toward the stage office. He’d been willing to say anything to keep her here. Which made no sense at all, since she would be more trouble than help.

“They keep trying to get away,” Olivia said.

“They’re trying to eat.” He resumed walking. “Let them roam.”

“Oh.” Her forehead furled and she bit her lip.

Jack dropped the wood near the fire pit. She hadn’t gathered kindling. “I’m taking the horses to drink at the stream.”

“A stream? May I wash?”

“If it is still light enough to see when I get back.” Jack brushed bark off his chest. “You need to watch the chicks.”

“Will you light the fire?”

“The tinderbox is behind the seat.”

Her mouth tightened and her eyes darted nervously from the fire pit to the wagon and back.

“You don’t know how to use it,” he said flatly. Could she do anything beyond look pretty?

Olivia shook her head. She flapped her hat at a chick straying beyond some larger boundary she’d set in her head.

He sighed. “When I get back, I’ll take care of it.”

He moved to the wagon, removed his rifle and set it down. He unbuttoned and stripped off the fancy new shirt.

Olivia gasped.

She studiously looked away, but her cheeks were bright.

He rummaged for his buckskin shirt and drew it over his head. “Might as well change into what you want to sleep in. It’ll be dark soon.” He remembered to gather the bucket, a sling and a hatchet before tossing buffalo hides to the ground.

If Olivia was shocked at seeing him without his shirt, it didn’t bode well for their marital relations. The chances of a lady like her wanting him were slim.

Besides, she didn’t know how to light a fire. She didn’t know how to dress for the wild and she sure didn’t know anything about caring for chickens. “Do you know how to garden?”

She brightened. “We used to have the most lovely roses and irises.”

Merde, what kind of a wife was she?

* * *

Once he was out of sight, Olivia scurried to the wagon and slid out of her lavender jacket. Hurrying, she changed into a nightgown without removing her shift and corset. While he might not have any qualms about undressing in front of her, she wasn’t ready to fling off her garments in his presence.

Chasing the memory of his broad golden-skinned chest from her mind proved impossible. She shivered.

The murky light was dimming by the minute. The shadows of the trees grew black and forbidding. Would Jack be able to find his way back? Were wild animals lurking in the deepening dusk? Or had the stand of trees swallowed him and the horses whole, leaving her all alone in this wilderness?

The chattering trees seemed to warn her this place was not like back East. As if she needed more warning. Hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and her heart beat in irregular jolts. The unseen animals lurking in the shadows, the impending intimacy of her wedding night and the solitude all unnerved her.

What would Jack think if he returned and found her in her nightgown? A shudder racked her body. Sleeping together when they’d barely spoken troubled her. She pulled her heavy brown-twill traveling dress over the top.

The yards of material meant to go over hoops dragged in the grass.

Only a bit warmer, she retrieved the fire-starting implements and carried them over to the pile of wood. He’d wanted her to gather kindling. She glanced toward the copse. She didn’t want to go into the darkness. Instead, she snapped off small branches from the wood he’d gathered.

After making a tight little pile of wood, she got out the flint and the metal ring.

Striking sparks couldn’t be that hard, could it?

She hit the metal against the sharp edge. A cascade of glowing orange sparks landed on her skirt.

She brushed the hot bits from her skirt, singeing her hand.

“What are you doing?” Booted footfalls thudded toward her. “Merde! Are you trying to catch yourself on fire?”

She spun around. She opened her mouth to defend herself but stood mutely. Nothing would have made sense. “I’m fine. I didn’t know how it worked.”

The horses followed him up the incline with neck-bobbing long strides. “Just wait.” Jack set down a bucket near the woodpile. “Let me get the horses staked.”

She looked down to see if she’d burned holes in her brown twill, but she couldn’t see in the dusky half-light.

How much a nuisance he found her was clear in his voice. Contributing to that impression by insisting he take her down to the water could only make things worse.

“It is too dark for me to go to the creek to wash up now.”

“There’s water in the bucket. Just don’t use it all.”

Disappointment curled through her. She’d been looking forward to the chance to thoroughly wash off the dust from the day of travel. Using her cupped palm, she took a drink and used a little of the icy water to wash off her face. Not knowing what else to do, she sank down on the woolly hide.

The chicks peeped happily from their box.

“You put the chicks in their crate?” he asked.

“I didn’t want to lose them in the dark.” Had that been wrong, too? She held very still as she waited for his response.

“Good.”

It was hardly high praise. But at least she’d done one thing right. She breathed out slowly, releasing tension.

Jack groomed the horses and threw blankets across their backs. He walked over and looked down on the wood. “What the hell?”

Olivia winced.

Jack set the broken branches to the side. He threw most of the firewood back on the pile. Obviously her efforts hadn’t been worth a darn.

“I don’t know how to build a fire, but I can learn.”

He grunted, then set about building the fire. Making her efforts look puny, he fired sparks onto a nest of dried grass and the square of black fabric she hadn’t known how to use. He blew on it, then shoved the flaring pile under the three sticks steepled in the center.

He made it look simple.

“What is for supper?” asked Olivia. She hadn’t eaten since a hurried breakfast at a stage stop.

“Use anything you want out of supplies in the wagon.”

Olivia winced.

“There’s flour, butter, oats, beans...” He looked up and his eyes narrowed. “You’ve never cooked over an open fire, either.”

She’d never cooked. She should tell him, but unable to bear the flat look in his eyes at every revelation she made, she bit her tongue. Shaking her head, she looked down.

“Just sit. I’ll get us food in a minute.” He coaxed the fire, adding twigs and larger sticks until lively flames popped and crackled. He settled rocks around the edge. “Fires need lots of air.”

Olivia folded up her knees and put her chin on them. Jack didn’t stop moving until well after the stars were out. He lit a lantern over by the wagon. He gave the chicks water and cracked corn and oats. Then he wrapped the heated rocks and placed them in the crate. When he returned, he held out a couple of things that looked like dried excrement.

Olivia jerked back. “What is that?”

“Jerky.” Jack put one to his mouth, sank his strong white teeth in it and ripped off a piece. He waved the remaining strip in her face. “Try it.”

She reluctantly took the leathery thing from his hand and sniffed. A faint beefy scent made her mouth water.

With his rifle beside him, Jack sat down cross-legged. “Indians smoke and dry venison strips so it doesn’t spoil.”

Not beef, but deer, then. Olivia tried to nibble but found it impossible. She had to rip a bite away and then chewed and chewed.

Her civilized eating habits were already gone. What else would be gone by the end of the day? She surreptitiously cast a glance in Jack’s direction. He stared off into the darkness as he chewed. Was he thinking of lying with her? Was he looking forward to it?

Olivia knew nothing of what actually occurred in the marriage bed. Her curiosity was likely to be satisfied, but Jack was a stranger. He’d said little. If he was eager to bed her, it wasn’t at all clear.

Would Jack be gentle or would he be impatient? Olivia watched him for clues. All she could tell was that he didn’t seem terribly interested. He hadn’t really kissed her after they were wed. Just a peck on her cheek.

Her mind swirled back to the brief exchange following the ceremony.

“What did the minister mean when he said he won’t file the certificate for a month?” she ventured.

“He meant that if the marriage is a mistake, he’ll tear up the certificate rather than officially record the marriage.”

“What?” She felt punched in the gut. “Like a trial period?”

Jack shot her a narrow-eyed look. “Simpler than a divorce if it isn’t going to work.”

“I didn’t know such things were done.” Her hushed voice shook. A coldness crept into her chest and took root. Was she married or not? She sucked in as much air as she could.

“Not everyone is suited for life in the Rockies.”

She bit on her lip until she tasted blood. Would this marriage be as temporary as every situation had been since the deaths of her parents? “D-does that mean it would be like the marriage never happened?”

“Officially, yes. There wouldn’t be a record.”

She’d thought she would finally have a permanent home. The coldness in her chest spread as if she’d been shoved outside naked into a blizzard.

“Did you want him to tell me that?” she squawked.

“No. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to alarm you.” His voice was tight. Jack leaned forward.

Olivia jumped.

He put another pine branch on the fire. The needles flared and snapped, echoing the turmoil inside her. Her stomach quivered, and even if a decent meal had been offered, she didn’t think she could have eaten.

“Don’t fret. It is just a precaution in case you cannot handle life out here.”

Or he didn’t want her. Pulling her knees tighter to her chest, she looked down at the ground. Did he want her to leave?

“Is the jerky that bad?” Jack asked.

Olivia looked at the remaining piece in her hand and forced herself to take another bite. Her stomach protested. Was he waiting for her to finish eating before taking her to bed?

Jack pulled out another strip from a pouch and contentedly ate. The strong line of his stubble-darkened jaw caught her attention. His hair was shorter than when photographed, but the ends curled, defying the neatness of the fresh cut.

She knew so little of him, beyond that he lived in the mountains, trapped and traded with the Indians for furs and wrote of the mountains with reverence. She wanted to learn about him. Perhaps the distance between them could be bridged. “I really want to like it here.”

Jack grunted.

Not exactly encouragement to talk.

Abruptly, Jack stood and brushed his hands on his pants. He looked over his shoulder.

His expression turned determined, as if he had an unpleasant task ahead of him, Jack lifted the lantern. “I’ve made a pallet of sorts in the wagon. We have a long day tomorrow if we’re to make it home.”

Home. The word felt foreign. She had been heading to a new home in Boston when the train wreck had derailed her life. She wanted to go home, but wasn’t sure such a place existed for her. Perhaps sharing the night with him would allow her to feel less like an unwelcome intruder into his world.

Olivia shakily rose to her feet. The stars twinkled in the sky and she couldn’t delay any longer. The jerky sat in her stomach like a lead ball. Jack put his hand on the small of her back. She stumbled forward.

The march across the twenty feet felt like miles, yet they reached the wagon too soon. Her heart tripped. She rubbed her damp palms on her skirt. Jack stood so close she could feel his heat. His hand on her lower back seared through the layers of clothing, and her knees turned to jelly.

Setting the lantern on the seat, he slid his hand to her shoulder and turned her to face him. Her body moved woodenly. He cupped both her shoulders. She felt so strange, floaty and yet tense. She wished he would tell her what to expect, that he would take care of her, that she had nothing to fear, but he was silent. Not knowing where to look, she stared at the V at the neck of his shirt.

He slid his hands across her back and brought her against his body. He was solid, warm and, oh, so strong. She didn’t know what to do, how to respond. So she did nothing, her arms hanging awkwardly at her sides. Tension screamed through her body as strange tingles spread along her skin.

He expelled a breath before pressing his lips to her forehead.

With a quick movement, he scooped her up.

She gasped.

He hoisted her above the wagon bed’s rim and lowered her. A small place behind the seat had been hollowed out, but the space was only enough for one person, unless he intended for them to pile on top of one another as the chicks did. Hot and cold streams ran down her spine.

Setting her down on the pile of skins and blankets, he said, “Good night, Olivia.” He returned to the fire, then settled cross-legged by it.

She sat stunned. “You’re not sleeping here?”

“I’m not sleeping. I’m keeping watch.”

Shadows all around concealed any menace. The strange boulders looked as if they’d been marbles tossed out by the hand of a giant. What lurked in their shadows? Her heart hammered. The wind soughed through the trees. “Watch for what?”

He picked up his gun and laid it across his lap. “Animals.”

Bears? Olivia nodded slowly and turned to burrow into the bedding. He was her husband and protector. She could relinquish her worries to him.

Underneath her relief at not facing the mysteries of the night, disappointment curled in her stomach. She tried to tell herself Jack just had a duty to protect her and the animals. But she suspected she had been such a disappointment he didn’t want to make her his wife.

Chapter Four

I haven’t traveled since my youth, but I have always dreamed of seeing the Rocky Mountains. I was born in New York. In 1853 my family was moving to Boston when the train had an accident. The engineer missed the signal that the drawbridge was open and the cars fell into the water. My parents did not survive and I never made it to Boston. I would like to know more about your home.

The fire burned low. The temperature dropped. Jack pulled a hide over his legs. In a perfect world, his wife would be nestled beside him keeping him warm, and they’d be farther from the road where Kincaid and his ilk could chance upon them. Predators came in all shapes and sizes. He added a branch to the fire. The pine needles flared.

Olivia’s dread of the intimacies couldn’t be clearer. Since leaving town, she’d been unnaturally quiet. Several times she’d jerked away from him. When Jack had hugged her, she’d kept her arms rigidly at her sides.

When she’d allowed him to touch her, she always stared studiously at his chest rather than angle her chin for a kiss.

The last thing he wanted was a wife who submitted but would make it clear she hated every second of intimacy.

But as the hours after midnight ticked by, Jack’s concerns diminished. His thoughts shifted to the strange creature nestled in his wagon. Why had Olivia married him? She should have married a banker or lawyer. She had yet to study the mountains she’d been eager to see. She certainly didn’t look at him. Instead, she pinned her gaze on her clasped hands in her lap.

The wagon creaked and Jack stared in her direction. He forced himself to look away. The dark copse of trees, the meadow and the road remained empty of threats. The horses bowed their heads, sleeping undoubtedly. If he had made the bed bigger he could have crawled in the wagon with Olivia for a few hours of shut-eye.

As he nestled the chick’s warming rocks in the coals, Olivia shifted again. Jack stood and stretched. Fighting sleepiness, he paced.

Was Olivia restless?

After a few minutes, he rolled out the rocks, rewrapped them and placed them in the crate with the chicks. The chicks piled on top of the stones.

Rustling noises emanated from the wagon. Olivia slowly climbed down. For a second she teetered, then found her balance on a wheel spoke. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, she approached.

Was she seeking out his company? His spine tightened. He swiveled toward her. “Can’t sleep?”

“I should keep watch the rest of the night so you can sleep.” Her answer came out in a puff of white mist. She stretched shaking hands toward the orange coals.

She wouldn’t know the first thing to look for.

“I could wake you if there is anything amiss.” She covered a yawn.

He doubted she’d manage to stay awake. But she was trying. Jack sank down and patted the hide next to him. “Sit.”

She stared at the bit of hide left open for her.

Giving her more room, he scooted to the edge, although she didn’t need it. His patience, already thin from too long without sleep, cracked. He ordered, “Sit. I won’t bite.”

She sat down fast. A good six inches remained between them. Six inches and a grand canyon.

Her teeth chattered. While the night air was cool, it wasn’t desperately cold. But Olivia was like a hothouse flower that had never had to endure the out-of-doors. This land might destroy her; she was such a pale piece of fluff.

He pulled her onto his lap and wrapped a buffalo skin around them. She tightened like a drawn bowstring. He found her glacial hands and slowly rubbed them. “Don’t fight the cold. Breathe deep.”

She shuddered violently and leaned away from him. He pulled her back against him. “Relax, I’m just warming you.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Jack winced. He ducked his head against her elaborate coif and sighed. Her repulsion made him feel like a coarse, disgusting reptile. Part of him wanted to peel back the layers of material between them and make her his wife, here under the stars with the cold air against his heated skin. Yet he hated to think what her response might be.

He’d planned on waiting until they returned to the cabin, so she could have the privacy of four walls and the comfort of a bed, but he suspected the wait might be much longer. He’d never felt a strong urge to bed a reluctant woman, not when shared desire was so much better.

Even as cold as Olivia was, she wouldn’t appreciate the warmth generated by an exchange of body heat. She held herself rigid. His coarseness might be too much for her. He wasn’t a dapper popinjay and never would be. If she’d thought by bringing him a fancy shirt and coat she could refine him, she was wrong.

Her soft hair tickled his nose. She smelled of lavender soap. He traced his fingers over the wedding band. She had a lady’s hands, soft, smooth, suited for playing a pianoforte or tatting lace, not hard work. Still he resisted the urge to nuzzle her slender neck. He didn’t want to inflict his attentions on her.

She balled her hand and the ring wobbled on her finger. He prodded it back and forth.

“I can get this resized.”

“I’ll wrap yarn around the inside so it doesn’t fall off.”

Did she not want the ring to fit? He tensed. “I’m sure the jeweler won’t mind.”

“Where you bought it?”

“Where I had the ring fashioned from gold I found in my creek.” Jack wished he could take back the words. If she thought the gold band too simple, she now knew he was solely responsible. He’d put a piece of his home on her finger and had the ring specially made for her.

“Is there more gold in your creek?”

For the first time since he married her, she sounded eager. Cold seeped inside him, jabbing under his breastbone. Jack stopped rubbing her fingers. “I haven’t looked for more.”

If she wanted riches, she shouldn’t have come to the Colorado Territory. Even if a man had money, he couldn’t buy luxuries found in an Eastern city. Or get purchases to his cabin. He’d had a hell of a time hauling in the cookstove purchased from settlers who were giving up.

He hadn’t wanted a woman who expected gifts for the privilege of touching her, but he should have given Olivia a wedding gift. She’d brought a shirt and jacket. His puny purchase of a tea tin seemed pathetic. Even though the ring was gold, he hadn’t bought it, either.

“Are you warmer?” He heard anger in his voice and regretted that the lack of sleep made his emotions raw.

“Yes, of course.” She stood and wrapped the blanket tightly around her. “Thank you.” Her voice was stretched taut.

Jack rubbed his scratchy eyes. He hadn’t meant she had to get off his lap. He hadn’t meant that at all. He stood, too, and he supposed the dark and the tiredness and the disappointment made him say, “Why did you marry me?”

“I had to. The mill closed,” she blurted.

Stunned, he stood still. “The mill closed,” he repeated slowly. For the first time since they’d been married, she really looked at him. The brassy glow of the fire illuminated her wide soulless eyes.

“When?”

“December. The cotton shipments stopped. Because of the war.”

Before she’d written him back after receiving his photograph.

Her pale features twisted in anguish and that perfect Cupid’s-bow mouth opened to speak or squeak as she was wont to do. “I had to—”

“Don’t make it worse.” He warned. The words of caution were for him as much as for her. Her beauty should have been the first clue. She wasn’t a regular mail-order bride. But like a sore tooth, he couldn’t resist probing it. “The mill closed. And you had no other options?”

“No.” She ducked her head again, and perhaps that was better. She hadn’t come West because she wanted to be married. No, she had considered marrying him a last resort. Given that she wasn’t suited for life out here, she wouldn’t last long if her heart wasn’t in it.

He leaned over and snatched up the rifle and stalked toward the wagon. Blood roared in his ears, and his stomach churned. She didn’t want to be here. The neatly penned words of eagerness were lies.

God, how could he have been such a fool?

* * *

Olivia wished she hadn’t blurted out about the mill closing. She had picked him from all the other advertisements, but saying so seemed to leave her too exposed. She sank down.

When she received his letter and photograph, she’d been so grateful. She’d thought he wanted her.

But his impatience was tangible. Her shortcomings overshadowed everything else. Not being wanted shouldn’t surprise her. She wasn’t calm natured or brave, or much of a helpmate in this unfamiliar environment, but she could learn. He just needed to give her a chance.

Rocking back and forth, she fought the chill that was not only from the night air, but deep in her heart. Since her parents’ deaths, she hadn’t been wanted anywhere.

She would show him marrying her hadn’t been a mistake. Just as she had convinced them at the mill she was worth keeping. The shock of hard work had almost made her fail, but she wasn’t a pampered young teen anymore.

A decade ago she thought she’d marry a man who wore suits and worked in an office like her papa. Men like that in Norwalk regarded mill girls as social inferiors and steered clear. While no man in Connecticut had ever approached her, the men in Denver City had swarmed her. He had to see that she had value.

Jack returned and nestled an iron skillet down in the coals and set a heavy lid on the top. “We might as well get an early start. Seeing as how we’re both awake.”

Demonstrating her lack of cooking skills wasn’t the best way to show her worthiness. Uneasiness curdled her stomach. She stood. “What should I do?”

He grabbed the lantern and lit it. The light illuminated his stoic expression. He strode back to the wagon and shoved things around. “Just sit. I’ll get things done faster if you aren’t in my way.”

“I know I’m not what you expected,” muttered Olivia as she sank down onto the buffalo hide.

She wanted to curl into herself and disappear. “When you sent your photograph, I wanted...wanted to marry you.” She could hardly speak to a man for most of her life and now she blurted out the most pathetic details.

The rattling in the wagon stopped. “Because of a photograph—” incredulity rang in his voice “—you decided to marry me?”

Olivia twisted her hands together. “You looked like a man who could face the world and survive.” His appearance of solid strength drew her like metal filings to a magnet. Yet his descriptions of the beauty of his home showed he was not a brute. “I thought you could protect me.”

“I can’t protect you, Olivia.” His rustling resumed. “I spend weeks at a time trapping. Life here is demanding and a woman needs to hold her own. I thought I was clear about that.”

He sounded resigned.

“You were clear,” she mumbled. She was the deceiver.

“You had choices. There are men in town looking for brides.”

“Because not being able to cook would have been an asset in town,” she spit out.

“You’ve never cooked at all, have you?” he asked with a deadly quiet to his voice.

“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d marry me if I told you.”

He bent forward and didn’t say anything for a bit. Then he picked up the shirt she’d made for him and held it up. “A lot of the miners in California are wearing rags. A shirt like this would fetch a dollar, maybe five. They can get material, but they don’t know how to sew.”

How would she have known? But that was neither here nor there. She lifted her chin. “I chose you. I only wrote to you.”

“Lucky me.”

Selina had written to at least three men and Anna never would say how many different advertisements she answered. Olivia swallowed hard. Surely she hadn’t been the only one to respond to his request for a wife. He must have chosen her, too.

“I didn’t want to live in a tent or a...or a dugout.” She had to hold her hands tightly to keep from waving them around to make her point.

“Fine,” he said with finality, as if the subject had been exhausted. “It’s done now.”

But it wasn’t done. The preacher had said they had a month to decide. Jack could still reject her. Tremors rolled down her spine and her stomach knotted. She bit her lip. “Do you intend to take me back to Denver City and pretend this marriage never happened?”

“Is that what you want me to do? Have you decided you’ve made a mistake?” he asked, his voice rough.

Had she made a mistake?

“N-no.” She shook her head and stared down at her clasped hands. “I’m not the one who is disappointed.”

“Yes, you are, if you expected a full-time protector.” He left the wagon and his boots stopped in front of her.

She drew in a deep breath, hoping for an olive branch. Her gaze traveled up his buckskin-clad legs. Her breath left her in an unexpected whoosh. He was the embodiment of the man in the photograph. Strikingly attractive, strong yet domesticated with a pot cradled against his ribs... Just grouchy. His eyebrows knit. He had stayed up all night protecting her and the livestock.

Jack dropped a tin pan beside her. Outstretched in his hand was a chunk of butter. “Here.”

She stared at the butter. What was she supposed to do with it?

“Grease the pan with that.”

Olivia picked up the tin and carefully took the butter. She smeared the butter in a circle in the bottom of the pan.

Jack dropped to his knees beside her.

He hadn’t denied being disappointed in her. She fought back the bitter familiarity of failing to meet expectations. Determined to show she could do a good job, she dragged her fingers in left and right lines. She tried to erase her finger marks only to leave new trails.

He combed a fork through a whitish mass in the pot he held against his stomach. “Get the sides, too.”

In the predawn darkness, Jack’s gaze weighed heavily on her. Her throat felt thick. Could she just get one thing right? Why hadn’t she paid attention to the kitchen servants when she was younger?

Jack reached for the bucket of water and cracked the thin layer of ice on the top. He dipped a towel in the water and held it out. “Clean your hands.”

Could he be any more condescending? He treated her as if she was three. Olivia wiped butter residue off her hands.

“How does it happen you’ve reached the age of two and twenty and never cooked?” Jack scooped a handful of water into the mixture. He ended up with a sticky dough.

“We had servants,” she muttered.

“You, Anna and Selina?”

Olivia looked up. Jack watched her as he fashioned the gooey mess into pale lumps and put them in the tin on her lap.

“No, my parents. At the boardinghouse, our landlady, Mrs. Richtor, didn’t allow us in the kitchen because she thought we stole food.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Did you?”

Olivia’s cheeks heated and she dropped her gaze. She hoped with the dark he couldn’t see her guilty flush.

He reached across and pressed another lump into the tin. His hand so close to her leg made her feel squishy and soft.

She picked the pan up and held it out to him. “The price of boarding included breakfast and supper, but if we bought dinner, no money was left. So we took extra food at meals. I suppose it was stealing.”

“What about after your parents died? Where did you live then?”

“An older lady in Norwalk took me in.” The elderly Miss Carmichael had failing eyesight and had wanted Olivia to read. Her benefactor had been disappointed when Olivia stuttered. Was she destined to disappoint everyone who took her in?

“She didn’t eat?”

Olivia smiled in spite of herself. The movement of her face felt funny, as if it had been a long time since she’d smiled. “She had a cook. After she died I lived in a mill dormitory for a year and a half. They fed us gruel in the mornings and soup for dinner and supper. I hardly ate for the first week. I really missed good cooking.”

Jack used the dry edge of the towel to lift the lid off the skillet, put the tin inside and settle the lid back on the pot. With the wet end, he brushed off his hands. “You didn’t have any relatives?”

She shook her head. “The only relatives I know of are in Norway, and I’ve never met them.”

He reached out a hand to Olivia. “We have fifteen minutes to wash up before the biscuits are ready.”

Biscuits. If she’d seen him assemble the ingredients, she’d have an idea how to make them. “What did you put in them?”

“Look, I’ll show you when we get home. Right now we need to get washed up so we can leave at first light.” Jack tilted his head back. “It’ll be dawn soon.”

Olivia looked up to discern what he saw. Were the stars perhaps a little less bright? She’d never spent a night out of doors. She had no idea what signs to look for, or what sounds signaled danger.

“Are you coming?” Jack asked, his hand still extended.

She put her fingers in his. His warm fingers closed over hers. Her heart jolted. She jerked her hand back as if she’d been scalded.

Jack’s expression went flat.

Ashamed she’d responded so strongly, she curled her fingers.

He pivoted and headed toward the trees.

Olivia trotted a couple of steps after him before realizing she didn’t have what she needed. “I need my things from my trunk.”

She turned toward the wagon. Jack hesitated.

Her trunk was near the back, but unfortunately the latch faced the side. Olivia pushed and shoved to turn it.

“Move,” said Jack.

“I have it,” she said through gritted teeth. Her shoulder strained. In the months since the mill closed, she’d lost strength, but she was determined to show Jack she wasn’t a helpless liability. She could do things for herself.

With his arm around her waist, he lifted her out of the way. Her backside pressed against his hip as he leaned around her. His chest shifted across her back. Olivia fought the hot tremors that raced down her spine.

Jack yanked the trunk around with one hand and set her back down on the wagon gate. “Hurry.”

Her breath whooshed out, and she realized she’d been holding it. Though she fought to quell it, a kind of terror settled into the pit of her stomach every time he manhandled her. He was so much bigger than her, stronger. He could snap her in two if he had a mind to, yet that wasn’t quite why she was afraid.

She unfastened the buckles and opened the latch. She fished out a paper-wrapped bar of precious lavender soap and a hand towel.

Jack shifted with tangible impatience. “Don’t want to burn the biscuits.”

She scooted to the edge of the tailgate. Jack’s hand at her elbow tugged as well as supported her as she scrambled down. She was eager to wash. She longed for a bath and a chance to wash her hair. Although fifteen minutes was only long enough for the bare minimum.

Jack released her elbow then grabbed his rifle. He lifted the lantern high enough to cast a circle of golden light around them. He led her across the meadow to the thicket of trees. Olivia raised her knees, high-stepping through the underbrush.

As they neared the woods, the smell of pine filled her as well as the crisp scent of fresh spring growth. Norwalk had never smelled like this, nor had the Manhattan brownstone where she’d lived with her parents.

She inhaled deeply. The gurgling of rushing water lured her deeper into the darkness. The air smelled fresh, like after a rainstorm had cleaned the air. Ghostly white spindly trees vied with the thick pines for space. Wisps of fog and their breath hovered in the air. The grove resembled a primeval world not yet inhabited by man.

Except Olivia was all too aware of the man beside her. His every movement set off a fluttering in the pit of her stomach. He set the lantern on a rock and leaned his rifle against a tree. He drew his shirt over his head. Spellbound, Olivia stared at the bare expanse of his chest. His bronzed skin stretched over rippled muscle.

Jack jumped onto a large rock, startling her out of her reverie. She folded her arms over her chest to settle the odd tightening in her nipples.

Cold, she told herself. The damp air around the stream was cold. Yet oddly heated and loose jointed would better describe her current state.

Jack leaned out over the edge of the rock and splashed water onto his chest and shoulders. The play of his muscles under his skin was fascinating. He dipped his face in the rushing water and then threw his head back. Droplets arced through the air, catching the light from the lantern and then fading into the darkness beyond the circle of illumination.

He turned toward her, shut one eye and swiped water away from his face with a broad hand. “I thought you wanted to wash.”

“Yes, of course.” Olivia stepped gingerly toward the edge of the rushing water. The stream frothed around rocks and boulders. The sides lapped at grassy shoals. She stepped close, but her foot sank and tore grass from the soggy bank. With Jack watching her, she didn’t want to slip.

Jack lathered up with a brown bar.

Wary of the rushing water and the dark shadows concealing who knew what, Olivia stepped onto a large rock. Her chosen perch was not as flat as his. She wobbled, fighting for her balance.

Kneeling on the surface, she reached down into the icy water and flinched. “That’s c-cold.”

“Snowmelt off the mountains.” Jack stood and brushed water from his arms. He shoved the wet tendrils of his hair back from his face. “Streams around here are always cold.”

Scarcely able to look away from him, Olivia cupped water in her rapidly growing-numb fingers and raised it to her face.

“Want this?” he asked. He held out the brown bar.

“I brought my own, thank you.” Olivia unwrapped the perfumed bar of factory-milled soap she’d bought in Connecticut.

“The biscuits are probably done.” Jack leaped off his rock and retrieved his shirt.

Although the icy water made her shiver and shake, Olivia lathered her face and neck. Taking care not to get her clothes wet, she rinsed.

Jack lifted the lantern, casting the stream around her into darkness. Undoubtedly he was impatient to get back. Olivia placed the soap back in its paper wrapper and dunked her hands in the frigid flow. Wiping her hands on her towel, she stood. She stepped toward the side of the stream.

Jack leaned and retrieved his rifle. The lantern swung behind him and the illumination disappeared as she stepped onto another stone. The wet surface of the stone provided no purchase. Her demi-boots were barely meant for walking, and the thin heels made her skid worse. Off-balance, Olivia flayed. The precious soap squirted out of her hand and plopped into the stream.

She twisted to retrieve it. Her heel skidded sideways and slipped off the rock. She pitched forward. She caught her soap just before her face hit the surface. The icy blast made her gasp.

Water filled her mouth and nose. The freezing water stabbed with a thousand pricks. Coughing and sputtering, she thrashed. The rushing stream rammed her, knocking her feet sideways. Her lungs refused to fill with air. Rocks shifted under her hands and knees. Each time she tried to find purchase, the bed shifted. The knifing flow relentlessly tossed her like a cork.

God, she didn’t want to drown now.

The memories of clawing to be free of the underwater train wreckage flashed in her head, jumbling with the pounding of the creek water. The same sense of imminent death coldly knifed her. Her throat tightened. Silent screams echoed in her head.

She had to survive. Her hands scraped the streambed. If she could reach the bottom, surely she could push up. Her lungs fought to expel the inhaled water. Choking, she convulsed, coughing.

No! She wouldn’t die now. Not like this. She scrabbled against the rocky bottom. Her thick, sodden skirts caught the water like sails. Their weight dragged her. The rush of water swept her along. Her head glanced off a rock. Her starved lungs sucked in water as blackness closed in.

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