Heavens, what a man!

Before she could gather her scattered wits, his gaze raked over her with insolent thoroughness.

“You’re very lovely, but I don’t recall asking for your business.”

Phoebe gasped at the man’s effrontery. Her hands balled into fists, but she strove to control her temper.

So this was the great Gabriel Cutter. The same man who had decided to deny the mail-order brides their rightful passage on his train.

Her anger seethed anew.

“It is I who has business with you, Mr. Cutter.”

He didn’t seem impressed by her statement. Instead, he began circling her, scrutinizing every inch of her frame in a way that reminded her of a hungry lion she’d once seen being fed at the London Zoo.

The Other Bride

Harlequin Historical #658

Praise for Lisa Bingham

“Lisa Bingham breathes life into your wildest fantasies!”

—Romantic Times

“Lisa Bingham captures perfectly the spirit of late nineteenth-century America.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Her characters are delightful, full of dimension and individuality and make you laugh, cry and leave you sleepless while you try to read just one more page.”

—Affaire de Coeur

#655 BEAUTY AND THE BARON

Deborah Hale

#656 SCOUNDREL’S DAUGHTER

Margo Maguire

#657 WYOMING WIDOW

Elizabeth Lane

The Other Bride
Lisa Bingham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and LISA BINGHAM

The Other Bride #658

Other works include:

Harlequin American Romance

Nanny Jake #602

The Butler & the Bachelorette #635

The Daddy Hunt #651

Dana and the Calendar Man #662

The Princess & the Frog #692

And Babies Make Ten #784

Man Behind the Voice #835

Twins Times Two! #887

Harlequin Intrigue

When Night Draws Near #540

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

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Devon, England

April, 1870

“Louisa! Louisa, where are you?”

The call was distant, urgent, riding on the back of a gusting wind that threatened to obscure the query altogether.

From her hiding place beneath the willows at the edge of the graveyard, Louisa Haversham debated whether or not to respond. The storm would be here any moment. If she waited long enough, the rain would come and the student who had been sent to find her would balk at entering the cemetery, and return to school. Then she would be alone once again.

“Louisa! Mr. Goodfellow and Mrs. Pritchard are looking for you!”

Louisa grimaced. She didn’t really care if her absence angered Mr. Goodfellow, the owner of the school, or Mrs. Pritchard, the headmistress. They might scold or keep her from her meals, but they wouldn’t dare to exact a punishment harsher than that. Not when her father was their principal benefactor. In her years with the school, Louisa had been anything but a biddable student. She’d been an angry, hurt child when she’d first arrived, and her temper hadn’t improved much over the years.

“Lou-i-sa! Your father is here!”

Several seconds passed before the meaning of the words permeated her brain. Jumping to her feet, she scrambled in the direction of the school, racing pellmell through the sodden grass, until she arrived breathless and disheveled at the side door.

Mrs. Pritchard waited for her there, her body quivering in displeasure. “Into the chapel,” she snapped. “Your father is waiting.”

Louisa hurried to comply, her knees growing weak with anticipation and anxiety. Her father was a rare visitor to Goodfellow’s and his sudden appearance didn’t bode well. The truth of the matter remained that Oscar Haversham despised Louisa and had despised her from birth. She hadn’t been a boy and had therefore proved useless to him.

But the last laugh is on you, Father, a tiny voice within her whispered. Her father, who had married five times in an effort to produce a son, would soon die “without masculine issue.” The ravaging effects of consumption would claim him soon enough.

The irony wasn’t lost on Louisa, nor could she ignore the tragedy of the situation. She was the only child of one of the wealthiest men in England, yet she’d lived a life of virtual poverty within the walls of Goodfellow’s School for Girls. Only at Christmas-time was she permitted to return home—a fact that had been more of a burden than a delight. For seven days, she was dressed in clothes and jewelry chosen by her father to impress whatever business associates had been invited to Haversham Hall. She was expected to keep to herself, refrain from speaking, and appear suitably grateful for the scraps of attention he threw her way. Then, as soon as the New Year dawned, she was hustled back to Goodfellow’s posthaste.

So why was her father here now?

Hearing the distant sound of voices, Louisa froze. Could she dare to hope that she was about to leave Goodfellow’s School for Girls and return home for good? Or was her father on his deathbed? Was he frantic about the inevitable disbursement of his title and the bulk of his business empire passing to a distant male cousin rather than a son?

Louisa wove her fingers tightly together to still a burst of trembling. Her panic grew so intense it nearly choked her. Damn her father for his meddling, for his hard-heartedness. But most of all, damn him for his inability to love her for something she could not change—being a female. If she ever managed to get free of his clutches, she would never allow another human being to have such control over her.

Especially not a man.

Louisa was but a few feet away from the chapel when the door suddenly swung wide, revealing the sour face of Mr. Goodfellow.

“In here, child,” he said curtly, clearly holding his tongue to avoid criticizing her in the presence of her father.

Moving on quaking limbs, Louisa crossed the threshold. In an instant, she took in the tall figure of the local magistrate, her dour cousin Rodney, her father in his rolling chair, and an unknown woman in black, her face obscured by a mourning veil.

Louisa’s heart thumped in her breast.

What was happening? Why had her father come to Goodfellow’s—and why had he brought Cousin Rodney and another woman with him?

As if sensing her thoughts, her father, the eleventh Marquis of Dobbenshire, spoke. “You’re to be married by proxy,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and quavering like a man of eighty rather than his mere fifty years. “Your husband-to-be, Charles Winslow III, is a business associate of mine in Boston. He was unable to make the crossing—” Haversham paused, struggling for breath “—so he sent word…that you were to be married anyway, with Rodney standing in as the groom.” Again he paused, and the pallor of his skin alarmed even Louisa. “At the end of the week, you will board a ship for America. Once there…you’ll have a proper church wedding.”

Married?

By proxy?

Ice began to seep into her muscles. Her mind worked frantically, trying to grasp the meaning of her father’s pronouncement. But with each inescapable tick of the clock, she was able to grasp only one fact.

Her father was a brilliant man. The last time she had seen him, he’d railed at the fact that his wealth, power and title were to be passed on to an “ungrateful cousin” rather than his own flesh and blood.

But by selling his daughter to the highest bidder—and she had no doubts that was exactly what he had done—he could pray that he would soon be supplied with the heir he craved.

A grandson.

Louisa opened her mouth to protest, but all sound choked in her throat before it could even be uttered. It was clear from the jut of her father’s chin that this marriage would occur, one way or another.

Run! an inner voice urged.

But where would she go? How could she ever hope to escape? She was totally at her father’s mercy. She had no money of her own and no references that could lead to employment. Furthermore, at the first hint of disobedience, her father would see to it that she was locked up—either here at school or a convent. If she managed to elude him, his money and power would provide the means for her to be found.

Hope faded like smoke rising from a snuffed candle. She would not escape this marriage. She would exchange her prison here for one in America, with a stranger of a husband as her keeper.

Her father made a brusque gesture toward Rodney and the magistrate. “Let’s get this…over with.”

Numbly, Louisa took her place. In a daze, she heard the magistrate speak.

“Dearly beloved…”

Was there no way out of this? None at all?

But as she scrambled to find a way to derail her father’s machinations, her only solace lay in the fact that this marriage by proxy would offer her time.

Time for what? Another solution? And what would that be?

Your new husband won’t have seen you, her inner voice whispered again. Someone could take your place.

The thought was so sudden, so startling, that Louisa jerked.

Rodney, who had been asked to take her hand, took the movement for an attempt to pull back, and tightened his grip until her bones felt as if they would crack.

Could she do it? Could she find someone who would be willing to marry a stranger and assume her identity in exchange for…

For what?

Her inheritance. Her title.

But who would that woman be? Who would be willing to submit to a loveless marriage? Worse yet, Louisa would have to find someone who had a passing likeness to her in case her father had described her in his correspondence.

“Louisa!”

“Yes?” The word was spoken before Louisa knew what she’d done. Too late, she realized she’d been asked if she would “take Charles Winslow as her husband.”

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Louisa’s thoughts suddenly scattered. Shocked, she realized that the ceremony was over and she had barely heard a single word.

“Sign the papers, Louisa,” her father panted. “I want to get out of this…dank air before it finishes me. Then I’m off for an…extended stay in Italy to improve my health.”

It was the magistrate who said to Louisa, “I hope you will be happy, Mrs. Winslow.”

Winslow. Louisa Haversham Winslow.

The magistrate took her hand. “Don’t worry, dear,” the man said with a reassuring pat. “I know a woman of your background balks at the informality of a civil ceremony. But as your father has said, once you’re reunited with your husband, you’ll have a church wedding with all the trimmings.”

Reunited? So the magistrate had been led to believe that she had met Charles Winslow.

“Sign the papers, Louisa.”

Moving on wooden legs, Louisa crossed to a side table set with a sheaf of documents, an inkwell and a pen.

Dear God, help me. Help me to find a way out of this. Help me to find someone who might be willing to take my place.

When she’d finished, her father eyed her with disdain. Clearly, he still wished she’d been a boy.

He held out an imperious hand to his valet. Immediately, the servant crossed to Louisa, handing her a hinged, wooden box. She opened it and gasped, recognizing several pieces of her mother’s jewelry as well as a heavy signet ring with the family coat of arms.

She gasped. The gift was so unexpected. Her mother’s jewelry!

“Father, I don’t know what to—”

He cut her off.

“I won’t have you besmirching the family name with an absence of jewels. I’ve only provided you with a few items of lesser value. The rest will be given to you or your heirs upon my death.” He paused. “If I feel you deserve them. I’ve provided you with a good husband, Louisa. Be grateful.”

She clamped her teeth together, wishing she had the courage to speak her mind about her father’s “arrangements.”

“Charles is a solid business associate. He’ll make your life…an easy one.” Her father coughed, his whole body jerking with the effort. When he’d managed to catch his breath, he added, “He asks only that you…supply him with a male heir.”

Charles wished for an heir? Or did her father?

As if sensing her thoughts, her father’s narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to a chilled sliver of sound. “Take great care as you embark on this life, Louisa. Charles walks in…important circles. As his wife, you must guard every word, every deed. If you prove…an asset to him, I’m sure your life will be a happy one.”

Louisa knew her father wasn’t overly concerned about her emotional welfare. Instead, he was offering her a none-too-subtle warning to behave.

“Charles has made great concessions on your behalf.”

Again Louisa bit her tongue. In her opinion, Charles Winslow had done little more than instruct someone else to take his place.

Her father’s voice grew brittle and his gaze flicked in the direction of the magistrate. “He has supplied you with…a wardrobe befitting your role as his wife. Traveling trunks…feminine frippery…”

Lord Haversham held out an imperious hand to the lady who had been waiting in the shadows near the door. “This woman…is also on her way to America, where she will be wed. Charles and I have arranged for her to be your companion.”

At that moment, the woman stepped more clearly into the light surrounding the altar. The glow pierced the folds of the veil that draped from her mourning bonnet, and a gasp of surprise lodged in Louisa’s throat.

No. It couldn’t be. God couldn’t have answered this one prayer when he had ignored so many others.

But as the woman lifted the veil and stopped mere feet away, one inescapable fact lodged in Louisa’s brain.

She looks like me.

Chapter One

New York

June 1870

Gabriel Cutter caught the line being thrown over the bow of the ship. Tying it to the skiff, he clambered up the rope ladder to the deck and accepted a helping hand.

“Gabriel Cutter?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me, sir.”

Gabriel did as he was told, being careful to keep his hat pulled low and his face averted from a striking pair of redheaded women who were standing nearby. He had no wish to capture the attention of anyone on board. And if he were to be seen, he didn’t want anyone to remember him too clearly.

The sailor led Gabriel to the lower cargo decks, then motioned to another figure waiting in the shadows. Without another word, the sailor withdrew.

“Gabe Cutter?” the second man asked.

Taking a leather folder from his pocket, Gabriel held his Pinkerton identification card beneath the glow of a lantern.

The man heaved a relieved sigh. “It’s good to finally meet you, sir.”

Gabriel extended his hand in greeting. “I appreciate the work you’ve done so far, Roberts.” Lloyd Roberts had been one of the Pinkertons assigned to guard the shipment during the crossing.

“I’ll be happy to have you take control of the shipment, I can tell you,” Roberts said, leading Gabe to a cargo hold, and from there to a stack of crates that had been under constant guard.

“Sir.” The acknowledgment came from a second ruddy-faced guard, who stepped from the shadows where he’d been hiding. The fellow was little more than a kid.

Gabriel grimaced. He had requested that the Pinkerton offices give him experienced agents for this assignment. They’d sent him a boy who was barely out of short pants.

Gabe supposed he shouldn’t be surprised by the home office’s decision. He’d grown used to fighting for every concession he could get. Despite Gabe’s abilities as an agent, there were too many men above him who remembered him from the war. It wouldn’t matter that Gabe had a sterling reputation with the Pinkerton Agency. The memory of his wartime desertion would outlive any successes he might have had in the succeeding years.

“What’s your name?” Gabe asked brusquely.

The boy blinked and shifted uncomfortably beneath Gabriel’s narrowed glare.

“P-Peterson, sir. Luke Peterson.”

“How long have you been with the Pinkertons?” Gabriel asked. A brief glance at the boy’s grip on his rifle confirmed that he was quaking.

“Th-this is my first job.”

Gabriel took a deep, calming breath, then asked, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

Peterson blinked, clearly confused by the question. “I—I’m guarding these crates.”

“Why?”

The kid sent a pleading glance toward Roberts. “B-because they told me to.”

At the frank answer, Gabriel’s lips twitched in the beginnings of an unconscious smile, but he quickly controlled the impulse. It wouldn’t do for the boy to grow too relaxed around him.

“There may be some hope for you, Luke. Continue to do as you’re told and we’ll get along together just fine.”

The boy offered him a shaky grin. Then he drew to attention as if remembering that the job was a serious one and Gabriel…

Gabriel had a reputation of being a bastard.

Gabriel was fully aware of his reputation. He was a tough taskmaster, demanding infinite obedience from his men. Nevertheless, it wasn’t his role as a senior Pinkerton agent that alarmed Luke. Gabe could gauge the moment Peterson remembered everything he’d been told. Bit by bit, the warmth faded from the boy’s eyes, to be replaced by a horrified curiosity. Gabriel could almost read Peterson’s thoughts.

Was this Gabriel Cutter? Was this the man accused of desertion?

“Any problems?” he asked, turning his attention back to the elder Pinkerton.

“None. I doubt anyone even knows we transported the shipment of gold.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Gabriel’s tone had a hard edge to it.

To date, four payroll shipments destined for the Overland Express had been stolen en route to the construction sites in the Oregon Territory. The laborers were growing restless and threatened to revolt if they weren’t paid, leading Josiah Burton, the owner of the Overland Settlers Company, to enlist the aid of the Pinkertons in transporting the latest shipment.

“Stay on your toes. There have been four previous robberies. Whoever is responsible will be watching, have no fear.” Gabriel nodded in the direction of the shipment. “You’ll be relieved of your posts in an hour. I’ve got rooms reserved for you at the Golden Arms Hotel under the names Walters and Williams, but I’ll expect you to be here when the ship docks in the morning. At that time, you’ll meet up with the rest of the crew and see to the transfer of the crates. You’ll have little more than a few hours to rest and relax tonight, so get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

Peterson offered a muffled, “Yes, sir.”

Roberts merely nodded.

“I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon then.”

As he turned to leave, Gabriel motioned for Roberts to follow. Once they were out of earshot, he asked, “How’s the boy?”

“He’s young, but he’s eager to please and he’s capable. He served with the First Pennsylvanian Battalion during the war.”

Peterson couldn’t be more than nineteen, yet he was a veteran in a war that had ended more than five years before. The fact didn’t surprise Gabriel. There had been so many boys who had run away from home to join the cause—either by serving as drummers or lying about their ages so they could enlist in the infantry.

“Keep your eyes open, Roberts, for your sake and the boy’s. He might have served in the war, but his hands are sweating—and we haven’t even docked yet. Veteran or not, he’s too wet behind the ears for my taste.”

Gabriel waited until Roberts had returned to his post. Then, tugging his hat more firmly over his brow, he wound his way through the narrow corridors to the deck again.

The sooner he left the ship, the better.

Gabe had barely climbed to the first class cabins when a door a few yards away suddenly opened.

The figure that emerged was clearly that of an aristocrat.

Immediately, he recognized her as being one of the women who’d been on deck when he’d climbed aboard. She was willow slim, with red-gold hair coiled in an artful arrangement that did nothing to disguise the natural curls that many women would have found “unfashionable.” Her indigo silk gown was simple, with stark, tailored lines. Except for a small amount of lace that circled the collar, and an elaborate strip of pleats at the cuffs, her bodice was unadorned with the usual manner of feminine frippery. The lines were tight and form fitting, ending at a skirt festooned with elegant swags of fabric that puffed over a full bustle.

In all, Gabriel wasn’t prone to admiring the latest fashions. But as this woman turned, offering her back, Gabe acknowledged for the first time that there was one clear advantage to the exaggerated silhouette. Indeed, as she moved and the bustle twitched, he found himself infinitely aware of the sway of her hips and the tiny circumference of her waist. To his disgust, he felt an immediate masculine reaction.

The thought caused him to draw back and curse his own wayward imagination. Damn it, he was exposed here in the corridor. If the woman were to turn around, she would see him clearly—and such an eventuality could lead to complications he didn’t want to envision.

But even as he berated himself for the waywardness of his thoughts, Gabe’s eyes slid back to her again.

She was a striking woman, in his opinion—although some might consider her a bit on the plain side with such pale features and that red hair. Moreover, there was a jut to her chin that showed a streak of obstinacy.

Or was it passion?

Gabe took a step forward as if to follow her. But in that same instant, another shape appeared in the doorway—another redhead, this one smaller and more voluptuous. A sister, perhaps? The similarities between the two women were astounding.

“Louisa?” the woman called from the doorway. “Don’t you think you’d better take your shawl? It’s chilly outside.”

“I’ll only be a moment, Phoebe.” The one named Louisa turned, and Gabriel shrank deeper into the shadows, praying that she wouldn’t look in his direction. “I left my drawing book and my shawl on deck. I’ll return directly, I promise.”

For one more moment, Gabe was able to study the woman wearing sapphires and silk—the elegant contours of her profile, and eyes that were a deep, stormy blue. Then the smaller woman closed the door, and Louisa turned, hurrying toward the companionway in a rustle of skirts.

Not really understanding his own motives, Gabriel followed her. He wanted—no, he needed to be near her for a moment longer. And even though caution nagged him to return to his duties, he trailed her as she made her way into the chill evening air.

All too soon the woman found the items. Shrinking into a space created by two stacks of crates, Gabe grew still, knowing that she would return to her cabin as promised.

But to his infinite surprise, the woman didn’t immediately go below deck. Instead, she tipped her head up to the stars as if she could feel their scant light upon her cheeks like the warmth of the noonday sun. Then, wrapping the shawl around her, she gripped it tightly to her chest.

“Tomorrow,” Gabriel heard her whisper. “Tomorrow, I will be free.”

Free? He frowned. Free from the ship? Or something more?

Gabe scowled at his own musings. What had come over him? He didn’t have time for any of this. Tomorrow morning, the dummy shipment and the actual payroll would be transferred onto the boxcars bound for California. Before that could happen, he needed to brief his men, review guard schedules, meet with Josiah Burton.

Flipping his collar up around his chin, Gabe shook away the invisible sensual threads that had begun to bind him. He had a job to do, and he was determined to do it well. His name was at stake. His reputation. Moreover, he wasn’t the kind of man to keep company with someone of “quality.” He’d grown too crass and coarse for anyone from such rarified air—and he was honest enough to know he was the sort of man that mothers warned their daughters about.

But even as he would have retreated toward the rope ladder, he hesitated. A gust of wind brought a hint of sound that sounded suspiciously like…

Weeping.

Gabe would have been the first to admit that the sound of a woman’s tears generally tended to drive him in the opposite direction. But there was something about the noise, about the efforts Louisa exerted to keep her emotions private, that caused him to hesitate.

Hairs prickled at the back of his neck and he cautiously searched the darkness. What had happened? Was she in trouble? The woman had altered from joy to sadness so quickly that something must have affected her deeply. A terrifying memory, perhaps?

His jaw clenched.

He knew all too well how flashbacks from the past could arise without warning. He’d become an expert on such matters. Over the years, he had discovered that a hint of spring lilacs could wipe away the intervening years so that he was standing again in the orchard, staring down at the sprawled, battered bodies of his wife and son.

No. He mustn’t think about that now. He had to keep his mind on the job, only the job.

But as he took a step backward, he looked at the woman in blue and a wave of protectiveness surged within him. If she were being threatened or intimidated, he would…

What?

What would he do? He didn’t know the woman and he had no business interfering in her affairs.

Gabe’s hand tightened around the butt of his revolver and he hardened himself to the sounds she made. Blast it all, he was a man who prided himself on finishing a job without interference. If that were true, why had he allowed himself to be so easily distracted now, at a point in his career where one false move could mean the end of everything?

The woman’s sobs intensified, but Gabe steeled himself against their appeal for help and steadfastly stared at her back. He had troubles of his own to tend to. He didn’t have time to worry about those of a stranger.

And yet…

Damning himself for his weakness, he didn’t walk away. He couldn’t. Instead, he stepped forward, slowly, quietly.

Although Gabe could never have been accused of rescuing damsels in distress in the past, he reached into a pocket, removing a clean handkerchief. Shaking it free of its folds, he extended it to the woman over her shoulder.

She started, clearly unaware of his approach. But when she would have turned, he took her shoulders in his hands, forcing her to remain with her back to him.

“No. Don’t,” he said, so quietly that he wondered if she would hear. “Let the interference of a stranger remain just that…the actions of a stranger.”

He didn’t know where the words came from. His voice was gruff, telling. Kindness had become a foreign emotion to him. For so long he’d been angry at the world and most of the people who inhabited it. And yet at this moment, with this woman, he found his anger slipping away, leaving him bereft, hollow, and infinitely sad.

Long, long ago, in another lifetime, his wife had hated to be caught crying—and uncomfortable with such womanly emotions, Gabe had been happy to let her vent her grief in private. Now, years later, he didn’t think that he could bear to see this woman’s cheeks stained with tears. He didn’t want to remember her that way. Days from now, months, years, he wanted to recall the way he’d first seen her in the corridor.

Beautiful.

Happy.

The woman sniffed, taking the handkerchief. “Thank you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m not normally so…what I mean is I…”

Her hand waved in the air, a bright patch of white from his handkerchief and a darker, eloquent shadow caused by her gloves. Inexplicably, Gabe wished that her hands were bare. He wanted to see the velvety texture of her fingers. From his vantage point behind her, she was little more than a shadow. Only the lighter patch of her hair and a brief glimpse of the skin at the nape of her neck helped to remind him that she was flesh and blood.

Gabe’s heart floundered sluggishly in his chest. Years of avoiding even the barest hint of attraction seemed to dissolve, leaving him aching with loneliness. He suddenly felt like a shell of a man. The anger that he had carried with him left a taste on his tongue like ashes.

Dear God, what had this woman done to him? In the space of a few minutes, she had exposed his life for what it was—an endless struggle to forget. Nothing more. Nothing less.

But could it ever be anything more? He’d had his one chance at happiness, and through his own carelessness, his wife and son had died. It was his fault that he hadn’t sent them away to safety during the war. He should have forced Emily to leave their farm—or at best, should have ensured she’d had someone with her for protection.

A breeze caught at the tiny curls that had escaped the coils of the woman’s hair. The scent of lilies wafted around him, making him ache with sadness.

So delicate…so feminine…

So real.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t pollute her presence with his own. She was so clean and fresh, while he…he was a mere shell of a man, one who had brought more than his fair share of shame and pain upon his family.

Even as he tried to remind himself that he wasn’t worthy of a woman like this, a yearning began to pulse within him. He wanted to feel the softness of a woman against him, caress the velvety texture of her skin. But he soon realized that the hunger had far less to do with a sexual need than with a hunger for companionship and compassion.

Instantly, he shrank away from the idea. No. Hadn’t he learned his lesson already? Could he so easily forget that such indulgences could bring a searing pain along with the pleasure? Could he forget his responsibilities?

He was tired, that was all. He’d already decided that this would be his last job for the Pinkerton Agency. He’d grown increasingly restless within the structure the job required.

But where did he intend to go? What was he looking for that he didn’t already have?

Not a woman, surely. He wasn’t a man worthy of a good woman, and he’d already sworn to himself that he would never allow another female into his heart. He owed Emily that much. He might not have been the husband she’d needed during her short life, but he would grieve her properly now that she was gone.

Which was the very reason he needed to return to his duties and forget this woman, this moment.

But just as he would have released her, Louisa shuddered, and in that instant, he knew he had no recourse but to remain for a few minutes longer. If he didn’t, he would regret his aloofness for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry,” the woman sobbed again.

Reaching out, he briefly laid his fingers on her arm. “There’s no need to explain.” He didn’t want to know what had upset her. Once he learned the cause of her pain, a bond, no matter how innocent, would be formed between them.

Louisa looked down, then took a shaky breath.

“I don’t know why I’m crying. I have everything ahead of me. Everything I’ve ever wanted.” She offered a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and pressed his handkerchief to her mouth. “I guess that the strain of worry has merely worn me down.”

Not sure how he should respond, Gabe stated, “You’ll be on dry land tomorrow.” Despite his matter-of-fact observation, he stroked her hair with his thumb, and one of the tendrils wrapped around his knuckle as if to trap him there.

She nodded. “Yes, but I still have a long journey ahead of me.”

“Eventually you’ll arrive at your destination.”

“I suppose that’s true. I’ll be glad when I have a home of my own.” Her tone was wistful.

A home of her own.

Gabe could understand the woman’s longing. There were times when he failed to work long and hard enough to exhaust himself before sleep. On those evenings, he remembered when he’d belonged to something other than himself.

A family.

Dear heaven, why think about that now?

Just as suddenly as he had been swamped with the need to follow this woman, Gabriel now had an overwhelming urge to walk away. In the scant moments they had been together, she had managed to stir emotions that he had buried in the same cold earth that now held his wife and son. If he didn’t leave her now…

He tore his hand free from the capricious tendril that would have held him captive.

“Will you be all right here alone?” Although he kept his voice a soft whisper, he couldn’t completely conceal his sudden brusqueness.

The woman stiffened in obvious embarrassment. “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry.”

She made a move to return his handkerchief, but he quickly said, “No. Keep it. You may have need of it sometime in the future.” And he didn’t need another reminder of how quickly this woman had infiltrated his defenses.

He hesitated only a moment, feeling that he should do more, offer more. But with a final light touch to her hair—an action that was more caress than dismissal—he retreated into the darkness, stepping behind a stack of crates.

He waited there for long moments, his heart pounding inexplicably, until he finally heard the rustle of silk.

Then she was gone, hurrying below deck, narrowly missing Gabriel’s hiding place in her haste.

Berating himself for being ten times a fool, Gabriel made his way to the skiff. He had a job to do, and he’d best be keeping his mind on the matters at hand. He didn’t have the time or the energy to worry about a mysterious woman whom he would never see again.

Nevertheless, as he rowed into the shadows, his mind returned irresistibly to the woman in silk and sapphires. What had brought her here to New York?

And what kind of freedom awaited her that would make her call out in happiness, then cry as if her heart were broken?

Dawn was still hours away when the woman stretched sinuously, her hand sliding over the cool silk of the sheets.

“I should go,” she murmured, lifting an arm to plant a kiss against the spine of her lover.

She wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t slept long. He was a restless creature—and with everything on his mind, he was bound to have a few sleepless nights. It was just that…

She stifled an inner sigh. What worried her was that he seemed removed and distant, even in the heights of passion—as if she weren’t enough for him.

Brushing the thought away, she ran her hand over his taut flesh. Scars crisscrossed his back, but she carefully avoided drawing attention to them. She had learned long ago that to caress them would cause a black mood to descend over his features. At those times, he could be cruel.

“Isn’t there a way you could arrange for the brides to take the train West?”

He grew tense and she immediately wished that she’d kept her complaints to herself.

“No.” His tone was curt. Cold. “From what I’ve been told, Gabriel Cutter is adamant. The mail-order brides will have to make other plans. He absolutely refuses to allow the women to make the journey.”

She frowned. The gold would be on that train. She could feel it. Gabe Cutter, the trail boss for the Overland Settlers Organization, had decided at the last minute that the mail-order brides would not be allowed to accompany the rest of the group—and his arbitrary decision merely strengthened her suspicions.

Damn that man and his meddling. Since it would prove suspicious for her to travel on her own, she had agreed to pose as one of the brides so that she could journey West with her lover. She’d been left out of so many raids against the Overland Express that she didn’t want to miss this one as well.

Her gaze darted around the luxurious hotel suite with its hand-painted frescoes, gilt and antique furnishings.

She loved money and everything it could buy. By becoming this man’s mistress, she’d been showered with riches such as she had never imagined. But she feared that her lover was beginning to grow restless—not with her, but with the effort of stealing so many payroll shipments. He had decided that this would be his last raid.

She shivered, knowing that there was more to the enterprise than mere greed. This time, with an old enemy guarding the shipment, the plots had become personal.

Her lover meant to have revenge.

Which was also her greatest fear. If he managed to punish Gabriel Cutter and ruin the man’s reputation, she feared that her lover’s darker needs might be met…

And he would suddenly find her superfluous.

No. She wouldn’t let that happen.

Biting her lip, she reached for her own clothes, knowing that it was past time she returned to the boardinghouse. Once there, she would begin her role as a mail-order bride anxious to head West.

She could only pray that someone would find a way to get Gabriel Cutter to change his mind and allow the brides to travel with the train as originally promised. She wanted—no, she needed—to be there when all of their plans came to fruition. Then her lover would turn to her again, this time in exaltation.

Chapter Two

The moment the woman formerly known as Louisa Haversham debarked from the ship, she donned her new identity. Although she was a few inches taller than her former cabinmate, she wore Phoebe Gray’s clothes. She’d claimed the other woman’s more modest trunks as her own, and had even signed Phoebe’s name on the ship’s register.

I am Phoebe in word, deed and thought, she repeated over and over to herself. Now and forever.

Despite the serious nature of her transformation, “Phoebe’s” heart was light as she joined the throng of people at the quayside and arranged for the delivery of her belongings to a local boardinghouse. Once there, she would meet the other mail-order brides destined for the Oregon Territory. Tonight she would sleep in a real bed with real pillows, and tomorrow she would board the train for the West.

Her steps were almost jaunty as she wove through the throngs of passengers eager to make their way into New York proper. She paused only once to turn and wave to her friend and fellow conspirator.

“Louisa” returned the greeting, looking every bit “the lady” in her silk visiting gown and tiny bonnet, and Phoebe knew her friend’s eyes must be snapping with mischief.

In the short time they’d spent together, Louisa had grown to love Phoebe Gray and look upon her as an adopted sister. The woman was impulsive, witty and nearly as headstrong as Louisa. But where Louisa tended to defy authority and carry her grudges like a badge of honor, Phoebe hid her frustrations with laughter, an eccentric imagination and a tendency for retribution.

Physically, Phoebe was very nearly Louisa’s twin, and throughout their journey, the two women had often been mistaken as sisters. They were of the same age, slim, fashionably pale, their features regally exotic. Mere inches separated them in height. But while Louisa had curly red-gold hair and eyes that were more blue than gray, Phoebe had deep auburn tresses and eyes that were more gray than blue.

So alike.

And yet so different.

Phoebe smiled ruefully. Her father would be appalled if he could see her now—blithely throwing away her birthright without a second thought and allowing a stranger to take her place. She’d kept only a few reminders of her past—the indigo gown she’d worn the night before, two sets of delicate underthings and two pairs of shoes. The items were hidden deep in one of her trunks, along with a few pieces of her mother’s jewelry and the signet ring her father had given her as a wedding present.

She grimaced. She doubted that the heavy piece had been a sentimental endowment. Instead, she was sure that the ring was meant to remind her of the name and title her father intended to pass on to her firstborn son. He would never discover that his daughter had abandoned his legacy until it was too late to rectify the mistake.

Pausing for a moment, she opened the catch to a carpetbag and withdrew the paper where she’d copied the boardinghouse’s address. There she would meet the eight mail-order brides who would make the journey by rail. Once in San Francisco, she would wed Neil Ballard—a simple farmer looking for a woman to take care of his house.

“Let go of me! Unhand me, I say!”

“Watch out, miss! Move over!”

At the sound of a scuffle behind her, Phoebe flattened herself against the wall. To her horror, she saw a grizzled old man being hustled down the street by a pair of uniformed policemen.

Phoebe recognized the old man instantly. Poor Mr. Potter. Halfway through the Atlantic crossing, the scruffy octogenarian had been discovered on board as a stowaway. Within minutes, he’d been locked in one of the lower cabins. He’d spent the remainder of the journey there or shackled in chains on the deck of the ship.

“Lass, lass!” the man shouted as he passed her. “Tell them I’m too old to be sent back to England. Help me, please! Don’t let them do this to me! I’m good for the fare!”

Startled, Phoebe found herself unable to say anything, so Potter turned his attention to the policemen on either side.

“If they’d only let me have a day or two, I could raise enough to pay for my passage. Tell them that, will you?”

But neither gentleman seemed inclined to listen. Instead, they bundled him into an enclosed wagon with iron bars over the windows. Phoebe could only wave to him as the team jolted into a quick walk and the vehicle lumbered away.

Inexplicably, the glow of the sun seemed slightly tarnished. What would become of Mr. Potter? He’d wanted to go West, and in that respect, Phoebe had felt a kinship with him. That was why she’d taken to sneaking him bits of food whenever she could.

“Out of the way, miss!”

She jumped, noting that she was about to be overrun by a pair of men attempting to load a heavy crate marked Farm Equipment onto a wagon. For a moment she stared at the men, noting the way their faces gleamed with perspiration and their bodies strained to lift the heavy box.

Eager to be on her way, Phoebe crossed the street, avoiding the foot traffic and buggies that tangled the thoroughfare. Although she would have enjoyed lingering on her journey to the hotel, time was of the essence. She needed to meet with the other mail-order brides and ensure that her trunks had been delivered. Then she would make a few purchases to augment those items from her friend’s wardrobe that had proved to be too small. She would need sensible shoes and hose, as well as needles, thread and other sewing supplies to alter the hems of those garments that were too short.

Phoebe hailed a hansom cab. Although she was “purse poor” and likely to remain so for some time, she decided that the extravagance would be worth the time saved.

Climbing into the cab, she clutched her carpetbag in her lap, straining to see as much as she could of the city through the narrow window. But even with the plethora of sights, she found her mind wandering back to the night before.

To the stranger.

The memory had the ability to make her skin tingle. How she wished she had found the courage to turn and face the gentleman who had come to her aid on the deck of the ship. He had been so kind….

And yet there was far more to the encounter than a chance meeting with an unfamiliar man who had offered her comfort. His nearness had thrilled her in a way she had never experienced before. From the moment he had spoken to her, she had been tuned to his nearness, his height, his strength. His muffled voice had been deep and warm, yet had retained a harder edge—like velvet over steel.

If only there had been more time.

If only she’d seen his face.

“Here you are, miss.”

The cabby pulled to a halt so abruptly that Phoebe was nearly jolted from her seat.

Her face grew hot. The time had long since come for her to gain control of her wayward thoughts. She was engaged to a farmer in Oregon. She had no business mooning over a stranger she’d encountered during her journey.

Straightening her bonnet, Phoebe jabbed the hatpin through the brim with a bit more force than necessary, then dug into her reticule for the amount she owed the cabby. She would do well to remember who she was. Phoebe Gray, a mild, hardworking Christian woman with a long journey still ahead of her.

Reminded of her new persona, Phoebe thanked the cabby for his efforts, adding a penny tip from her neat stash of coins. Hefting her satchel, she marched up the sidewalk and twisted the gleaming brass doorknob.

“Come in,” a distant voice called from within.

Stepping into the dim interior, she allowed her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness, but even before they did, she absorbed the smells of lemon-scented furniture polish and baking bread.

A plump woman wearing a brown wool day dress, an oversize apron and a lace cap bustled into the room. “Hello, dear. May I help you?”

“Yes. My name is L—” Phoebe’s face flamed. Here was her first encounter with a stranger and she’d nearly made the mistake of using her real name. Never, never, never, she chided herself. You are Phoebe now. Phoebe Gray.

Clearing her throat, she began again. “My name is Phoebe Gray. I was told to meet with—”

Phoebe didn’t have a chance to finish. The woman began clucking in concern. Taking the satchel from Phoebe’s fingers, she looped her arm through her elbow and drew her irresistibly toward a narrow staircase.

“I’m Mrs. Cates, the proprietor.” She clucked again. “My dear, my poor, poor dear. You’ve arrived at last and just in time to discover that your journey is over before it’s begun.”

A moment passed before Phoebe caught the full meaning of what the woman was saying.

“Over? What do you mean, over? Did the Overland group leave earlier than planned? Did I miss the train?”

Mrs. Cates wagged her head and her many chins trembled. “No, dear. It’s worse than that. Far worse.”

Mrs. Cates steadfastly ushered her to the top of the staircase, but once there, Phoebe planted her feet and refused to budge. “Mrs. Cates, please. Tell me what’s happened.”

The proprietress sighed. “The other girls are in here,” she said, gesturing to a small sitting room visible through a pair of double doors. “I’ll let them explain everything, poor darlings.”

With that, she urged Phoebe forward and into the parlor.

Upon stepping across the threshold, Phoebe found the room cluttered with luggage and women. Like her, some of the girls were still dressed in dusty traveling suits, while others must have been in residence at the boardinghouse long enough to grow comfortable with their surroundings.

A quick count assured Phoebe that there were eight women present. The youngest, a delicate blonde who stared wistfully out the window, looked to be barely more than fifteen. From there, the average age of the women seemed to range from Phoebe’s twenty-one to a tall statuesque woman of at least fifty.

“Ladies, here’s the last of your group. Miss Phoebe Gray.”

The women turned to greet her. But even as they smiled or nodded, it was clear the mood of the group was glum.

“Miss Gray, may I introduce Twila Getts.” Mrs. Cates referred to the statuesque older woman with silver-blond hair combed sternly away from a center part. “She’ll be marrying a minister in Oregon.”

Twila extended a hand and gripped Phoebe’s firmly.

Mrs. Cates continued. “These lovely ladies, as you can tell, are twins. Maude and Mable Wilde.”

The twins appeared to be in their mid-thirties, with mud-brown hair drawn into identical swirling knots at their napes.

“We were teachers at a private school in London before deciding the educator’s life wasn’t nearly as keen as we’d hoped it would be.”

The sisters grinned as if sharing a private joke.

“They’ll be marrying a pair of twin brothers in the Willamette valley,” Mrs. Cates offered. She then turned to another pair of women. “This is Greta Schmidt, from Germany, and Heidi Van Peltzer, from Austria.”

Greta had white-blond hair arranged in two round rolls over her ears. Heidi’s hair was only slightly darker and had been wound in plaits around the crown of her head.

“They don’t speak English,” Mrs. Cates whispered—as if by lowering her voice, the announcement would be less shocking. “They’re bound for a dairy farm run by a pair of Scandinavians.”

Mrs. Cates tugged Phoebe in the direction of a swooning couch. A beautiful dark-haired beauty reclined against the tufted velvet. Despite the introductions, she continued to read a book.

“This is Doreen Llewelyn-Bowes.”

Doreen briefly glanced up from her novel. She offered a smile that was somehow lacking in warmth, then returned to the volume of poetry.

Mrs. Cates seemed relieved to be so summarily dismissed. “This is Edith Diggery,” she said, her tone bright again. She drew Phoebe toward a delicate blond girl at the window.

“She’s an orphan, poor lass,” Mrs. Cates said under her breath. “Her father made provisions for her to marry the son of a friend.”

Edith offered Phoebe a nervous half smile, and Phoebe’s heart ached for the girl. Surely this youngster wasn’t ready for the demands of marriage, especially to a stranger.

“And this is Betty Brown.”

Betty jumped from her spot on the settee and bounded toward them.

“I’m from Long Island, so I haven’t come very far at all, but I’m destined to marry a schoolteacher in Oregon whose name is Harry. Isn’t that a rather funny name? Harry? I wrote to him and asked if it was short for something, Harold or Horace, but he wrote back to say, no, it’s just Harry. Plain old Harry.”

Phoebe immediately warmed to the gregarious girl with the snapping blue eyes.

“It doesn’t matter what his name is,” Doreen drawled from the swooning couch. “You won’t be seeing him anytime soon.”

The joy dimmed from Betty’s eyes as quickly as it had come. “Oh,” she offered forlornly. “That’s right.”

“What’s happened?” Phoebe breathed, almost afraid to discover what calamity could be preventing their journey.

“It’s that blasted Overland Settlers Company,” Betty said with a sniff. “They’ve absolutely forbidden us to accompany them on their trip West.”

Phoebe felt her stomach lurch. A fuzzy blackness swam in front of her eyes, but with a great strength of will she managed to push it away.

“Help her to the couch, ladies, or she’ll swoon!” Mrs. Cates sang out. Several helping hands moved her to an overstuffed settee near the window.

“Water! Get her some water!”

Before she knew what was happening, a glass was being thrust into her hand. Phoebe took a sip, then gulped greedily when the water tasted cool and fresh—unlike the stale, barreled supplies she’d been forced to drink on the ship.

“I’ve got smelling salts if you need them,” the woman named Twila offered, extending a small vial in Phoebe’s direction.

Even a faint whiff of the stuff was enough to clear Phoebe’s brain, and she pushed it aside, saying weakly, “No. Thank you.”

Phoebe stared at each of the women in turn, her blood turning to ice.

She wouldn’t be going West.

None of them would.

“What happened? Why won’t we be allowed on the train? Our husbands-to-be have made all the arrangements.”

Doreen sighed as if she’d been called upon to explain a difficult concept to a child. “Apparently, it doesn’t matter.” Doreen’s voice adopted a peeved note. “The trail boss hired to take the group West has forbidden us from joining them.”

“But why?”

“He refuses to take a group of unaccompanied women on the journey,” Maude explained.

Phoebe was still confused. “What do you mean, unaccompanied? We’ve arranged to travel together.”

“She means that we haven’t got a male chaperon,” Mable explained with a sniff.

Phoebe eyed the glum faces that surrounded her. “There has to be a mistake. The Overland Company has already accepted payment for our passage, knowing full well that we wouldn’t be under the auspices of a male companion. Surely they wouldn’t go back on their word regarding their earlier commitment.”

Doreen sniffed. “Well, they have, and there’s no changing their mind. We’ve been in touch with the Overland offices, and they refuse to hear our complaint. We’ve sent letters, notes, telegrams, and they refuse to budge.”

“What about the trail boss who made the stipulation? Has anyone talked to him? Can we find a way to change his mind?”

Phoebe took heart from the answering silence, and noted the quick spark of hope passing from woman to woman.

“We’ve written to him, naturally, but we haven’t tried to contact him directly,” Doreen stated archly. “Personally, I don’t think such a course of action would be…appropriate.” She looked down her nose at Phoebe and her simple traveling suit. “A woman of proper breeding must draw the line at a face-to-face confrontation. It isn’t seemly.”

Righting the angle of her bonnet, Phoebe ignored the fear and weariness that tugged at her heels and urged her to sit on solid land and rest, if only for a minute.

She had to leave on that train or everything would be ruined. If she didn’t…

If she didn’t, too many things could go wrong.

“Propriety be hanged,” she muttered, draining the glass of cool water and jumping to her feet. “If that man thinks he can brush us aside like a swarm of bothersome flies, he’s about to get a rude awakening.”

In no time at all, Phoebe was striding down the boardwalk again. But this time she was far from alone. In her wake came Maude and Mable, Edith, Twila, Betty, Greta and Heidi. Doreen, who still contended that it wasn’t proper to instigate such a confrontation, had stayed behind.

Phoebe glanced down at the tiny scrap of paper Mrs. Cates had given her, then said, “We need to find 65 Fairfield Lane. The location should be fairly close to the station.”

The walk to the railway station took much longer than Phoebe had anticipated. The genteel surroundings of the boardinghouse had gradually melted away, and the poorer section of town they entered became more and more tawdry.

Despite her outer bravado, Phoebe felt her skittishness increase. After all, who was she to say that they had nothing to fear from taking matters into their own hands? Only weeks before, she’d had little experience of associating with the masculine gender at all. And here she was, charging through a maze of tangled streets and alleyways as if she knew what she was doing. If any of the women who accompanied her were to discover that her bravado was feigned—

“There’s the proper street!” Maude exclaimed.

“The address must be straightaway and to the right,” Mable added, pointing in the direction with her walking stick.

Now that their goal was close at hand, Phoebe felt her stomach flip-flop in reaction. She’d volunteered in a moment of passion to speak to the trail boss, but she suddenly realized she had no idea what she intended to say.

Phoebe’s worries scattered when Edith suddenly gasped in horror. Looking up, Phoebe saw a huge, gaily painted placard proclaiming Golden Arms Hotel.

This time it was Phoebe’s turn to utter a choked cry. Without thought, she stopped in her tracks so suddenly that the other women crashed into her like dominoes.

“What in heaven’s name—” Twila grumbled.

Phoebe gestured to the placard with its brass lettering and a painting of a woman in a shocking state of dishabille.

“No,” Phoebe whispered to herself. “It couldn’t be.”

But a glance at the paper assured her that the address she’d been given as a temporary office for Mr. Cutter was the same as the title emblazoned on the sign.

Phoebe’s face grew hot with embarrassment. Surely she wasn’t expected to find the man in a bawdy house.

Immediately, her irritation ignited into a white-hot anger. The entire situation was intolerable. Intolerable! Due to the edicts of an unknown trail boss who hadn’t even displayed enough decency to meet with the mail-order brides, they’d been put in the dire straits confronting them now. They were stranded in a strange city with no funds, no way to quickly communicate with their intended spouses—most of whom lived in areas miles from the nearest telegraph—and no way to make alternate arrangements. To add further insult, in order to voice their appeals, they had been brought here to…

A house of low morals!

Phoebe heard the women behind her begin to shift in discomfort.

“I say,” Mable drawled in a droll tone. “We’re in a bit of a pickle now, aren’t we?”

Phoebe took a deep breath. “No. We’re not ‘in a pickle,’ as you say. That’s what they want—or at least what Mr. Cutter wants. He’s decided that we are an inconvenience to his expedition. He’s thrown us into a dither without so much as a by your leave, and I, for one, don’t intend to let him have his way. We’ve paid for our passage in good faith. Unless he agrees to reimburse us for all expenses—including room and board—then we intend to be on that train. Isn’t that right?”

If she’d expected her rallying words to instill her companions with confidence, she was sadly disappointed. The only response she received was Betty saying again, “You don’t mean to go in there, do you?”

Phoebe brushed at the dust collecting on her skirts, jabbed the hatpin more securely into her bonnet and tugged at the hem of her bodice.

“Yes, I do. I wouldn’t put it past the man to be purposely avoiding us by closeting himself in such an establishment. After all, what respectable person houses his offices at a…Well, you know what I mean.”

The women nodded.

Phoebe took Twila’s hand. “Come with me.”

“Me?” Twila grew pale. “Why me?”

“Because you’re a widowed woman with a knowledge of such…”

Twila looked frantic. “But Miss Gray…” She leaned close to whisper, “I was widowed before my husband and I…before we could…” She took a deep draft of her smelling salts before continuing. “We were married during the war. He had a two-hour leave. We never…”

The woman was already weaving on her feet, so Phoebe gave up. “Fine.” Frantically, she searched around her, finally catching a glimpse of a small park in the distance. “All of you wait over there. I’ll join you again as soon as I speak to the man.”

Reluctantly, the women made their way down the walk, leaving Phoebe to wonder how she’d managed to become embroiled in such a mess.

Anger swept through her as she realized how the careless edicts of one man were responsible for her current dilemma. Emboldened by the emotions bubbling within her, Phoebe strode in the direction of the Golden Arms.

Golden Arms. She should have known something was wrong by the name alone. But she’d thought that…

Never mind what she’d thought. She had to keep her mind on Gabriel Cutter.

As she neared the hotel, Phoebe heard the faint sound of music—not the tinny raucous sort that she had read about in penny novels, but an elegant piano arrangement. She snorted softly to herself, wondering if the proprietors thought that a bit of Mozart would add a note of respectability to the hotel. As far as she was concerned, a full-scale orchestra couldn’t hide the fact that this building housed men and women who—

No. Despite the fact that she would be marrying soon, she couldn’t even think about it. She wouldn’t.

Whispering a prayer under her breath, Phoebe resolutely climbed the stone steps to an ornate door inset with colored, beveled glass. The brass knob turned easily beneath her fingers, and before she quite knew what had happened, Phoebe found herself moving into an elegant foyer. Rich black and white marble floor tiles gleamed at her. The shiny surface reflected the twinkling candles of a chandelier lit even in the middle of the day. To one side, rich maroon draperies were drawn back from the threshold of a reception room, where dapper gentleman spoke in low voices with women in various stages of undress.

Phoebe felt her face flame. She couldn’t imagine what would possess a woman to entertain a man wearing little more than her chemise and pantalets.

“May I help you?”

Phoebe jumped. The voice was so soft-spoken and cultured that she was taken aback. A glance at the elegantly dressed woman who had silently appeared at her side did little to settle her nerves.

“I’m looking for Gabriel Cutter,” Phoebe blurted, then wished she’d tamed her tongue and had led up to the subject more gradually. “We have business to discuss.”

The woman seemed amused by Phoebe’s quick reply, but she waved a hand toward a settee positioned against one wall. “Would you care to sit while I get him?”

Phoebe eyed the velvet-tufted sofa. After the difficult day she’d already had, she wanted nothing more than to sit, remove her shoes and rub her aching feet. But she couldn’t allow herself to relax until after she’d met with the trail boss.

“No, thank you,” she said primly.

The woman smiled and glided away.

Curious glances were being cast her way, but Phoebe refused to reveal her discomfiture at her surroundings. With what she hoped appeared to be a bored casualness, she turned away from the reception room with its scantily clad women and debauched gentlemen and stared instead at the painting hung over the sweeping staircase.

She had been given very few opportunities to study art while at Goodfellow’s. Even then, the subject matter had been strictly confined to portraits of sober Elizabethans and bowls of Flemish fruit.

But this…this was lovely. Such vibrant colors, an exotic woodland realm and…

Bit by bit, Phoebe became aware of the prickling of the hairs on her nape. In the same instant, her eyes suddenly registered the content of the artwork in front of her.

Sweet heavens above, she thought in shock as she absorbed the nubile young woman clad in nothing more than a diaphanous silk scarf being ravished by a creature that was half man, half beast.

In shock, her hand encircled her throat, and her gaze leaped to the small brass plaque that read Rosalind and the Satyr.

Gasping, Phoebe whirled to escape the startling lasciviousness of the picture. But her shock was compounded when she found herself face-to-face with a man.

And heavens, what a man.

He was tall, with an angularity to his features that was both harsh and intriguing. Eyes the color of cold silver gazed at her with a piercing intensity that made her hands curl around the strings of her reticule. He was forbidding, of that there was no question. Yet even as she would have jumped to the conclusion that he was completely heartless, she hesitated. The shadows lingering in his eyes, the strain around his mouth and the tense set of his jaw bespoke a pain that was at once eloquent and foreboding.

Before she could gather her scattered wits, the man’s eyes dropped. His gaze raked over her with insolent thoroughness, making her acutely conscious of her rumpled traveling costume and the ever-present dust that clung to her skin.

“You’re very lovely, but I don’t recall asking for your business.”

Chapter Three

Phoebe gasped at the man’s effrontery. Her hands balled into fists, but she strove to control her temper.

So this was the great Gabriel Cutter. The same man who had decided to deny the mail-order brides their rightful passage on his train.

Her anger seethed anew.

“It is I who have business with you, Mr. Cutter.”

He didn’t seem impressed by her statement. Instead, he began circling her, scrutinizing every inch of her frame in a way that reminded her of a hungry lion she’d once seen being fed at the London Zoo.

“You’re a bit on the scrawny side.”

A choked “oh” burst from her lips before she could stop it. “Mr. Cutter,” she said indignantly, then quickly lowered her tone to a whisper when she captured the attention of those in the adjoining room. “Mr. Cutter, I would appreciate it if you would step outside so that I could have a word with you.”

He stopped, placing his hands on his hips. “There isn’t anything outside that can’t be said inside.”

“I wish to have a private conversation.”

“I’d be happy to have a cup of coffee with you.” He gestured to the room beyond the draped arch.

Phoebe felt her face flame at the mere idea. “Mr. Cutter, I couldn’t…I won’t…I—I…”

“Then good day to you, ma’am.”

As he offered her a mocking salute, Phoebe resisted the urge to grind her teeth. Of all insufferable, ill-mannered…

“Mr. Cutter, my name is Phoebe Gray and I have come to speak to you about a matter concerning the Overland Settlers Company.”

Cutter folded his arms and regarded her through half-lowered lids. The intense scrutiny had the ability to make the skin on her arms prickle with gooseflesh. “Ahh. So you’re one of the brides.”

The tone he employed made it clear that the news wasn’t particularly welcome.

His eyes narrowed. “What was your name again?”

“Phoebe Gray.”

“Phoebe Gray?” The intensity of his gaze seemed to harden ever so slightly—and if she didn’t know better, she would have thought that he’d known she was unused to the name herself.

Before she could think of something to say, Gabe stated tightly, “The answer is no. It was no last week, no this morning, and it will be no tomorrow when the train leaves the station.”

“Mr. Cutter—”

“No, Miss…”

“Gray.”

“No, Miss Gray. No, I will not change my mind. No, I will not allow nine unescorted women to accompany us West. And no, I don’t really care that you weren’t informed of the change sooner, or that you’ll all be stranded in New York. Now, good day to you.”

Phoebe was so stunned, so enraged by Gabriel’s pronouncement that it took her a moment to react. By that time, Gabriel Cutter had disappeared down a nearby corridor.

Huffing in indignation, she quickly followed him, discovering that the hallway led past the kitchen and dining areas to a narrow staircase. Sensing the man was heading for his offices, and fearful of losing him, she rushed to intercept him. Gabriel Cutter had just inserted a key in a door and was opening it wide when she burst past him into the room beyond and planted herself squarely in front of him.

“I’m not leaving until we’ve discussed this thoroughly, Mr. Cutter.”

Again his eyes narrowed. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to discuss.”

“At the very least you owe us an explanation for your edict.”

“I think ‘edict’ is putting it a bit strongly. Frankly, someone should have had the sense to point out that it’s sheer folly for a gaggle of women to go such a distance unaccompanied. But since no one else bothered to think things through, it was up to me to set things to rights.”

Her hands balled into fists and she wanted to smack him, but she managed to control herself for a few minutes longer.

“Mr. Cutter, I don’t remember the Almighty appointing you to be our guardian.”

“No, but two hundred settlers have paid me to ensure their safety.”

“As have we!”

“Which, as I’ve explained already, was a mistake. I’m sure the Overland Settlers Company will refund your fares—”

“When?”

He shrugged with a carelessness that caused her anger to burn so brightly she feared her hair would catch on fire.

“That’s none of my concern.”

“Well, it should be!” She was nearly shouting now, and it galled her that this man could have caused her to toss her manners aside and scream at him like a fishwife. Catching herself, she took several gulps of calming air, then began again. “Mr. Cutter—”

“It won’t do you any good to argue, Miss Gray. There’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.”

“But why?” She stamped her foot, then wished she hadn’t when she realized this man probably thought all females were hysterical during moments of crisis. Again she took several deep, fortifying breaths and said as sweetly as she should. “At the very least, Mr. Cutter, I think you should explain your reasoning. I hardly think that a group of women could cause much trouble on the train.”

Cutter began moving toward her, crowding her, so that she was forced to take a step back, then another and another. Too late, she became aware of her surroundings. Horror rushed through her when she realized that she hadn’t stormed into Gabe Cutter’s office as she’d supposed, but his bedroom. As her cheeks flooded with heat, she became overtly aware of the small bedstead with its rumpled sheets, a washstand littered with masculine toiletry items and a satchel stacked with neatly folded shirts and union suits.

“Sweet heaven above,” she whispered.

“It isn’t heaven you should be praying to, Miss Gray,” Cutter said, his voice low and dark, his movements taking upon themselves the prowling grace of a cat. “This is exactly why I’ve forbidden you women to accompany the expedition.”

The way he looked at her, the way her body had flushed hot, then cold, left her in no doubt as to what “this” represented. The room became thick with sensual undercurrents. Her breath hitched in her throat and an odd heat settled low in the pit of her stomach.

“Men and women can’t coexist without this getting in the way.”

He was so close to her now that she could barely think. Bit by bit, he’d closed off all avenues of escape except for the bed.

She licked her lips nervously, then wished she hadn’t when his gaze centered on that very point. “Nonsense,” she retorted, in what she had hoped would be a stern tone. But the word emerged unsure, even to her ears. “Men and women can behave quite civilly and…this doesn’t have to enter into things at all.”

Cutter shook his head as if he were disappointed by her denseness. “You’ve lived too long in rarified social circles, Miss Gray.”

For a moment, her heart seemed to skip a beat. How did he know? How had he guessed? Were her years of being in a strict girls’ school marked on her somehow?

But he continued on, oblivious to her panic. “It’s the same with most women. They’re born with blinders, for the most part. They believe that society’s dictates can control humanity’s baser instincts.”

Too late, Phoebe realized that she’d taken several more steps and become pinned in a corner between the wall and the bed.

Gasping for air, she flattened her hands against the plaster as if she could will it to crumble beneath the pressure.

Cutter took another step, his legs pressing into the fullness of her skirts, his head dipping, his own palms resting on the faded wallpaper on either side of her head.

“But no matter what rules you set, human nature will always surface. A man will always want a woman—and despite what she might have been told, a woman will invariably be drawn to the man.”

She felt herself trembling when his head bent.

He’s going to kiss you!

No, no, he wouldn’t!

But as the space between them disappeared and he came to within a hairsbreadth of touching her, Phoebe was shocked to discover that she wasn’t resisting the possibility nearly as hard as she should. There was a part of her that wanted to be kissed, that wanted to think she could attract such a man as Gabriel Cutter. A primitive man…a handsome man…a—

A sneaky, conniving, no-good rounder!

Just in time, Phoebe realized that she was about to help Gabriel Cutter prove his argument—and without so much as a whisper of protest.

Anger rushed through her again—anger at him, but even more at herself.

In that last second before his lips touched hers, she moved, bringing up a knee in a way she’d once been told to do by Mrs. Pritchard. Her aim wasn’t entirely true, but the surprise of her attack allowed her to push past Gabriel Cutter. In doing so, she snatched at the revolver holstered at his side, then whirled and pulled back the hammer, leveling the gun at him.

“Don’t move,” she warned fiercely. Biting her lip, she tried to steady the heavy gun, but her hands were trembling so badly that the tip of the revolver wavered. Nevertheless, she closed one eye and sighted down the barrel.

Cutter watched her with patent amusement, and the fact proved galling. How dare he treat her as if she were of no consequence? She was the one with the gun!

Clenching her teeth, she aimed at the bedpost next to him and pulled the trigger.

An explosion rocked the room. The gun kicked back, nearly causing her to lose her balance. Then her eyes widened in horror as she realized that she hadn’t shot the bedpost as she had supposed, but had nicked the upper corner of his sleeve.

Her stomach churned sickeningly as she waited for the blood to flow, but as Gabriel pulled the fabric aside to examine his arm, it was clear that the bullet had miraculously left him unharmed.

She was shaking so badly now that she nearly dropped the gun altogether. But when Cutter gazed up at her, his gaze dark and speculative, she knew that he hadn’t known her aim was off.

“Next time I’ll draw blood,” she said, mustering all of the bravado she could. “We’re going West with you, Mr. Cutter,” she insisted.

“Not without a male escort.”

The man was infuriating, positively infuriating!

Phoebe was about to argue with him further when she had a sudden thought.

A male.

Any male? Any male at all?

Her eyes narrowed. “What if we can find a male escort who is willing to accompany us tomorrow?”

He snorted in a way that made it clear he thought such an event unlikely. “If you can find a man to traipse halfway across the country with a passel of giggling mail-order brides before nine tomorrow morning, then you’re welcome to join us.”

Her heart pounded in her chest—this time with excitement. “I have your word on that?”

“You have my word.”

“Do I need your promise in writing, Mr. Cutter?”

A little muscle at the side of his jaw flickered. “My word is binding, Miss Gray.”

“Good.”

Without further explanation, she tugged at the strings of her reticule and dropped the revolver inside.

“I’m sure you have other guns, Mr. Cutter. As for this one, I intend to keep it until the end of our journey, to remind you that we aren’t nearly as helpless as you think.”

And with that parting shot, she whirled and marched out of the room, not stopping until she was once again in the hot afternoon sunshine. She had the matter of an escort to arrange.

By this time tomorrow, she would be on her way West.

Hurrying away from the Golden Arms as quickly as her feet would take her, Phoebe found the other brides waiting for her at the park. Judging by their hangdog expressions, it was clear they had prepared themselves for bad news.

“Well?” Mable breathed when Phoebe was nearly upon them.

“He’ll let us go if we supply a male escort.”

The women visibly wilted in disappointment.

“Then we’re in the same pickle we were in a few minutes ago,” Betty mourned.

Phoebe couldn’t prevent the smile that tugged at her lips. “Not quite. I think I know where we can find the perfect candidate.”

The women looked doubtful.

“Where?” Edith finally asked.

“Prison.”

Twila gasped.

The others looked horrified.

“I don’t think we can break a man out of prison just to accompany us West,” Betty said, blinking in confusion.

Phoebe smiled. “We won’t have to stage an escape, you little goose. We just have to gather together a few coins to pay for the man’s passage from England.”

“Won’t Mr. Cutter object to a former prisoner serving as our escort?”

“I have his word that he will allow us to join the company as long as we have a male in tow—any male.” She patted her reticule. “I, for one, intend to see to it that he honors his word.”

Needing action to take his mind off Louisa—not, not Louisa, Phoebe Gray—Gabe returned to the makeshift office he’d made of his hotel room. Despite its tawdry reputation, the Golden Arms had large rooms, the modern amenities and enough privacy to let him get his job done.

Slamming the door behind him, he instinctively squelched his reaction to the memory of Phoebe and leaned over a table spread with maps. But he couldn’t focus.

How long had it been since he’d felt anything in the company of a woman? It had been years since the death of his beloved wife, Emily.

Not that he hadn’t tried to experience even the faintest stir of emotions. Knowing that he wasn’t the kind of man to “taint” a Sunday school teacher or a minister’s daughter, he’d found himself at the Golden Arms more times than he could count. But he’d found soon enough that he couldn’t will his body to respond. Emily’s death had been a blow to him, emotionally and spiritually. All of his tender emotions and sensual instincts had died the moment he’d found the body of his wife and small son in the orchard behind their house.

From that day to the present, Gabe had lived a life of torment. Plunged into an abyss of grief, he had not rejoined his unit for more than six months after his family’s deaths. His actions had branded him “yellow” and “untrustworthy” to his fellow officers, but he hadn’t cared. Once he’d returned to battle, he’d lived each succeeding day on the brink of disaster, purposely volunteering for one dangerous assignment after another. But the Fates had not granted his death wish.

In an effort to exorcise his memories, he’d drowned himself in his work as a Pinkerton. But never in all that time had his heart pounded with anything akin to real emotion.

Until now. In a single confrontation with a hellcat woman intent on journeying cross-country with a passel of mail-order brides, the tender scars on his heart had been torn wide open.

Growling in self-disgust, Gabe vowed that he would not betray Emily’s memory by becoming involved with another woman. He owed his late wife that much, at least.

And he couldn’t afford to drop his guard for a beautiful woman. Especially one who was now using a different name. He’d have to ask one of his men to watch the boardinghouse and follow her if she left the establishment.

Forcing himself to concentrate, Gabe traced his planned route West on the map. Unbeknownst to the passengers, the excursion was not all it appeared to be. Gabe had been hired to organize a group of men to escort a clandestine payroll shipment destined for the western offices of the Overland Express Railroad. The shipment would be made under the watchful eye of Victor Elliot, a high-ranking employee for the railroad.

The addition of Elliot to Gabe’s team still rankled. The arrival of an Overland Express representative was an open slur against Gabe’s trustworthiness, but he hadn’t bothered to argue. Gabe knew he wouldn’t have been offered the prestigious job at all if Josiah Burton hadn’t been an old friend. The assignment was a chance for Gabe to make a name for himself as something other than a deserter. Cracking the case would mean national news exposure.

But if anything happened to the shipment, Gabe also knew that he would be held personally accountable.

The door to his room opened and Gabe peered up at the portly shape outlined by the afternoon sun streaming into the corridor.

Victor Elliot.

Gabe scowled. Although he understood the concerns of Overland Express and their wish to have a member of the company on the railway journey, that didn’t mean that Gabe had to like the man.

“The shipment is safely stowed away until it can be loaded onto the train?” Elliot inquired.

Gabe nodded and returned his attention to the maps. Although he’d memorized the route, he traced the lines again and again as if he could imprint the contours of the land on his brain.

“I’ve got a concern about the men who accompanied the gold from England,” Victor continued, with open irritation at Gabe’s aloofness. “One of them is little more than a boy.”

“I’ll be sure to register your complaint at the same time I offer mine,” Gabe said tightly.

“You picked them.”

“No,” Gabe retorted, “I picked most of the local men. The Pinkerton Agency hired the two men who accompanied the funds from England.”

“Then fire them.”

Gabe looked up then, his eyes narrowing. “On what grounds?”

“They’re both green as grass, man! I doubt they could guard their own mothers, let alone a valuable shipment of gold.”

“They won’t be doing it alone.”

“They shouldn’t be doing it at all!”

Gabe weighed Victor’s concerns against his own, then shook his head. “It’s too late. Hiring two new guards would provide a security breach, and we can’t afford to go shorthanded.”

“But—”

“The matter is finished.”

Victor visibly seethed, but Gabe ignored him. Scooping his hat from the bed, he decided it was time to make the rounds and check on security matters himself. Then he would need to make his way into the city to meet with Josiah Burton in the main office.

Maybe by keeping his mind on the details of the job, he would push the mysterious Phoebe Gray from his thoughts once and for all.

Chapter Four

“You’re going to do what?” Doreen Llewelyn-Bowes blurted when the women outlined their plan to obtain a male escort. “Have you all lost your minds?”

Phoebe was beginning to grow tired of Doreen. The other women had barely returned to the boardinghouse and gathered together their emergency funds before she’d begun a litany of complaints—they’d taken too long, the weather was too hot, New York was too noisy. When Mable and Maude explained the plan to hire Bertram Potter to escort them West, Doreen had stared at them with as much horror as if they’d announced they planned to strip naked and dance in the streets.

“I really don’t know what you find confusing about the plan, Doreen,” Phoebe said. “We need a man—any man—who would be willing to travel West with us in the morning.”

“B-but you said this Potter person was in jail!”

“Merely a formality. He hasn’t committed a crime. Not really. He merely…played stowaway. I heard the captain say that he would forget the charges if Bertram could find a way to raise the necessary funds. If not, they’ll send him back to England.”

“So let them.”

“He’s our only chance, Doreen,” Twila said impatiently.

Without another word, Phoebe dumped the bonnetful of coins they had collected onto an overstuffed settee. Allowing for those expenses that would arrive during their journey, the women had contributed any money they felt they could spare. Now, gathered in the sitting room, they feverishly counted their stash.

“Do we have enough?” Edith breathed.

“If I’ve figured the correct exchange for dollars into pounds, we’re…” Phoebe quickly counted, then bit her lip. “We’re five dollars short.”

Five dollars. She found it ironic that only weeks earlier she had boarded a ship as the daughter of the Marquis of Dobbenshire. If only the title had come with tangible wealth rather than letters of credit.

En masse, the women turned to look at Doreen.

Betty proclaimed indignantly, “You haven’t contributed yet.”

Doreen sniffed. “That’s because it’s a horrible idea. It won’t work.”

“You’ll contribute or we’ll go without you,” Mable said. She clasped the handle of her walking stick in a way that warned she wasn’t so ladylike that she wouldn’t consider using it.

Doreen huffed again, folding her arms tightly beneath her breasts. But her stance had lost some of its bravado. “I don’t have five dollars to spare.”

“Give what you have,” Phoebe said softly, “and I’ll find a way to get the rest.”

It was clear that Doreen didn’t believe Phoebe’s assertion, but she finally sighed with great theatrical emphasis. Bending, she lifted her skirts to remove a small coin purse stitched to the inside of a petticoat. Removing two large dollar coins, she tossed them on the pile.

“I expect my money back when this preposterous idea fails to work,” she proclaimed. “If Gabriel Cutter frowns on women joining his group, he won’t let a felon board that train.” Then, turning on her heel, she left the room in a swish of skirts.

“We still need three dollars,” Mable said, counting the money, then counting it again.

Phoebe mentally reviewed the valuables she’d sewn into her spare corset—a few pieces of her mother’s jewelry and the signet ring her father had given her as a wedding present. The items were precious to her, worth far more in sentimental value than they could ever obtain on the market. But she was at a crossroads. She had no money to speak of, merely the smallest amount she had thought necessary for the journey. Even her friend “Louisa” could be of little help to her until she arrived in Boston and was able to exchange the letters of credit for cash.

So Phoebe would have to sell something.

Spying her dusty satchel still lying on the floor next to the door, Phoebe said, “Can someone show me to my room? I’ll just freshen up a bit, then we’ll find Mr. Potter and obtain his release.”

“But how?” Edith whispered.

Phoebe squeezed her hand in reassurance. “I’ve got a few valuables socked away for an emergency.” She grimaced good-naturedly. “I just hadn’t thought I’d be dipping into them before I managed to leave New York.”

Phoebe’s heart thumped against her ribs as she pondered the audacity of what she was about to do. After taking stock of the treasures she’d hidden in her trunk, she knew there was only one item of value that she would ever be able to sell.

The Dobbenshire signet ring.

By selling the piece, she would be severing the last tangible link with her father. And although she had convinced herself that such an action would be an easy enough matter to accomplish, she was discovering that the thought of forfeiting the ring filled her with a small amount of sadness.

True, her father had never loved her. She’d been an inconvenience to him and a burden—and he’d never lost the opportunity to remind her of that fact.

But he was her father. Didn’t that title alone demand a certain amount of respect?

Shaking free of that thought, she collected her things and followed the other women down the hall to her room, knowing that if she didn’t sell the ring quickly, she might well lose her resolve.

Gabriel waited until he was sure he hadn’t been followed before making his way into the “rarified” area of town frequented by the wealthy.

Checking quickly to ensure that he’d garnered no attention, he slipped into the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel and quickly made his way to a back set of stairs used by the staff. Tugging his hat more firmly over his brow to avoid giving anyone a clear look at his face, Gabriel wound his way through the narrow corridors to the presidential suite. He knocked once, paused, then scratched the gleaming wood three times.

For one beat of silence, there was no response. Then the door creaked open a slit.

Gabriel waited, knowing that he was being studied. This time a far more experienced pair of Pinkertons completed the inspection. He’d trained the two men himself during the past three years.

“All clear, sir?” a voice whispered.

“Clear.”

The space widened only enough to allow Gabriel to slip into the darkened room. Then, with a thump, the door closed and the lock was driven firmly into place.

Gabriel waited, hearing the rasp of a match. A bright flare of light revealed two men dressed like London dandies in creased trousers, silk shirts and brocade vests. With a wry smile, Gabriel noted that the elegant attire contrasted sharply with the ammunition belts draped across their chests.

“Green and Miles.” Gabe nodded to the men.

Isaac Green spat a stream of tobacco into a spittoon on the floor. The shot was made with amazing accuracy, revealing just how long the men had been cooped up in the opulent hotel suite.

“You can call me Sally and pin a bonnet on my head as long as you tell me we can get out of this stinking hotel.” In as long as Gabriel had known him, Isaac had never been fond of being closeted indoors.

“The crossing was smooth?”

Abner Miles didn’t even pretend to misconstrue the meaning of Gabriel’s question. They all knew he wasn’t speaking of the weather they’d encountered while sailing from London to New York.

“No problems, cap’n. I don’t think a soul on board cared if we finished the trip alive for all the attention they gave us. Not much has changed since we’ve arrived here. No one has given us a second glance.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way.” Gabriel examined the trunks and crates stacked in the corner.

Here was where the real payroll shipment was hidden—amid boxes labeled Farm Equipment and battered steamer trunks bearing the names Miles or Green.

From the moment the Overland Express’s payroll gold had been removed from an English vault, Gabe had gone to great lengths to ensure no one would ever know that Roberts and Peterson, the two new Pinkerton agents, guarded little more than crates filled with lead bars. At the same time, on a separate ship, Miles and Green had been unobtrusively making the same journey with their trunks of gold.

Satisfied that the seals on the containers were still intact, Gabriel surveyed the men again. He’d asked them to blend in with the other genteel travelers at the Biltmore, and judging by their attire, the men had followed his instructions to the letter.

“The two of you will need to see to the transfer of the gold before nine tomorrow morning. I’ll send the usual agents dressed as stevedores to give you a hand, but I’ll only be able to watch from afar.”

“No problem, cap’n,” Green said.

Miles nodded, then asked, “The rest of tomorrow’s instructions are as planned?”

Both of them stared at Gabe intently, knowing the trust he’d placed in them.

“Everything else goes as planned,” Gabe confirmed. He studied the men again, noting the ease with which they held their weapons. Despite the duo’s casual stances, Gabriel had no doubts that they could shoot and reload faster than the average man. Their senses were highly tuned to each nuance of sound outside the hotel room. They could sense trouble like a deer smelling a hunter. Such skills had kept them alive during the war and made them invaluable to Gabriel now.

“See to it that you change your clothes before you arrive at the station,” Gabriel said. “The moment you join the group of settlers on the train, I want the two of you to look like dirt-poor farmers who have finally managed to scrape together a few dimes for your passage.”

It was clear that both men were eager to abandon their current mode of dress for the more comfortable gear usually worn on the job.

“Once on the train, we won’t speak unless necessary,” Gabe continued. “You’ll have two men at your disposal—Garrison and Withers—to spell you off every twelve hours. Use them as runners if you need anything from me. Any questions?”

They shook their heads.

“Until tomorrow.”

Gabriel turned to leave, but paused when both men saluted.

He knew the gesture was automatic. After all, Miles and Green had served beneath him during the war. They’d grown accustomed to taking orders. But after charges of desertion had been brought against Gabriel, more than one man in his old regiment had turned against him.

He wanted to say something. He wanted to challenge the men for believing in him when so many didn’t. But he knew the pair hadn’t meant to remind him of things he wished to leave forgotten.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” was all he said. Then Gabriel retreated into the corridor.

The afternoon heat was beginning to mount when Gabe exited the Biltmore and pulled a pocket watch from his vest.

Nearly twenty-four hours remained before the journey West would begin.

Sighing, Gabe resisted the urge to rub away the tension gripping his neck muscles. Instead, he paused outside, leaning his shoulder against the marble facade of the hotel. Hoping to catch a hint of a breeze, he took the hat from his head and wiped his brow with his arm.

Replacing his hat, Gabe looked up, then froze. The man he’d sent to follow Phoebe was mere yards away, sitting on an iron bench with careful nonchalance. What catastrophe had caused the Pinkerton to abandon his orders in order to find Gabe?

“O’Mara,” Gabe said quietly as he approached.

“Cap’n.”

“What’s happened that you were sent to find me?”

The Pinkerton seemed confused. “Beg pardon? I followed the woman here.” The Pinkerton pointed to a jewelry shop across the road. “She’s gone in there.”

The fact that Phoebe had felt it necessary to visit a posh jewelers did nothing to calm Gabe’s suspicions. Why would a woman dress like a pauper to meet with him, then indulge in a whim for pretty baubles mere hours later?

“Go on home, O’Mara. I’ll take care of things from here.”

“You’re sure?”

Gabe nodded. “Perhaps it’s time Miss Gray and I had an in-depth talk.”

As the door snapped shut behind her, Phoebe bit her lip in disappointment. She had instructed the hansom cab to bring her to the “most expensive jewelry store in New York City.” But after gathering her courage and entering the establishment, she had been treated no better than a beggar.

Twenty dollars! That was all they were willing to offer her for the signet ring. Granted, twenty dollars would help her buy the things she needed, but the amount was a tenth of what she had been expecting. She’d been so angered by the patronizing tone of the clerk that she’d stormed from the shop with the ring still clutched in her palm.

What was she going to do? She needed money. Desperately. Quickly.

Stepping out of the way of the passers-by, Phoebe vainly tried to brush as much of the dust as possible from her skirts and bodice, sure that there must be another jeweler nearby where she could try again. But with her gloves as soiled as her dress, her efforts were less than satisfactory.

“Problems?”

Phoebe jumped when a deep, husky voice murmured the word in her ear. For a moment, her heart leaped and she was sure that it was the stranger from the boat. But when she turned, it was to find Gabriel Cutter standing at her shoulder.

Her stomach flip-flopped and her mouth grew suddenly dry. “Mr. Cutter,” she said weakly. Then, with more strength, she added, “Has no one told you that it isn’t polite to startle a person on a crowded thoroughfare?”

His expression remained neutral, but she thought she caught a glint of humor in his steel-gray eyes. “I would imagine it’s impolite to startle a person at any time or in any location.”

Phoebe pressed her lips together, refusing to rise to the bait offered by the lift of his brows. It was clear that he found her amusing and wished to rile her. But she would not argue with the man. She wouldn’t. With her luck, she would make him angry and he would find a way to renege on his agreement.

The thought caused her to frown. “Have you been following me?”

His dark brows lifted even more. This time his gray eyes darkened with something akin to suspicion. “Why would I possibly want to follow you, Miss Gray?”

“Perhaps you should tell me,” she insisted archly. Something about his look made her uncomfortable. So much so that her shoulder muscles grew tight with the effort it took not to run away.

“For your information,” Gabe said, “I had an appointment in the area. Imagine my surprise when I emerged on the street to find you here.”

He plucked a stray piece of fluff from her shoulder, and she stiffened. The action was innocent. So why did that tiny point of contact send a flurry of gooseflesh down her spine?

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