“Just where do you expect me to sleep?” Letter to Reader Title Page JACKIE MANNING Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Copyright

“Just where do you expect me to sleep?”

Luke angled the flat-crowned Stetson low on his head and squinted at her.

“You must find other shelter. It’s simply not decent—”

“Decent?” Luke sat up. “Is it decent to ask me to spend the night out in the rain?” He shook his head. “Sorry, lady. I’m quite comfortable just where I am.” He leaned back and settled his hat over his face again.

He heard an indignant sniff. In his mind, he could imagine those morning-glory eyes sparkle with outrage. He knew the only thing that kept him from Noelle’s tongue lashing was that proper Eastern upbringing of hers. And he’d bet a grubstake that she could really let loose, if she wanted.

Suddenly he wondered what that volatile passion that flared beneath her Goody Two-shoes facade might be like in bed.

His bed..

Dear Reader,

Entertainment. Escape. Fantasy. These three words describe the heart of Harlequin Historicals. If you want compelling, emotional stories by some of the best writers in the field, look no further.

This month, we are delighted with the return of author Jackie Manning, who has ventured beyond her usual English settings for a jaunt to the Wild West in her sparkling new novel, Silver Hearts. Since her debut in 1995 with Embrace the Dawn written as Jackie Summers, critics have described her books as “captivating.” “marvelous” and “five-star reading!” Here, a doctor turned cowboy with a soft spot for women rescues a feisty Eastern miss from the trail, and their paths just keep crossing! Don’t miss it!

Be sure to look for Joe’s Wife by the talented Cheryl St.John. It’s an emotional Americana story about a bad boy turned good and his longtime secret crush, now a widow, who proposes a marriage of convenience to him. In My Lord Protector by newcomer Deborah Hale, a much older man offers the protection of a temporary marriage to his absent nephew’s betrothed—never intending to fall in love with her....

The Bride of Windermere marks the debut book of the talented Margo Maguire. In this tension-filled medieval tale, a well-connected knight has been sent by King Henry V to escort a beautiful and mysterious young lady to court. Intrigue and passion abound from start to finish!

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical®.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell, Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Silver Hearts

Jackie Manning

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JACKIE MANNING

believes in love at first sight. She and her husband, Tom, were married six weeks to the day after they first met and he proposed, many happy years ago. Home is a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old colonial in Maine where they live with their shih tzu and Aussie terrier. When Jackie isn’t writing romances, she’s researching and visiting interesting places to write about. She loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at P.O. Box 1739, Waterville, ME 04963-1739.

This book is dedicated to the many readers who hope to

someday write a book. Go for your dream, you’ll never

be sorry. And to my sisters in Romance Writers of

America, especially to the New England Chapter, the

Maine Chapter and to the future published authors of my

critique group.

And, of course, to my darling Tom.

Chapter One

Nevada, 1867

Noelle peered through the prairie schooner’s dusty curtains and studied the black speck emerging from the sun-bleached horizon. Hope brought tears to her eyes, despite the reality that the image might be a mirage. She’d known that heartache before.

By habit, her fingers clenched the Hawken rifle. But as the shape loomed larger, the unmistakable rhythm of horse and rider emerged before her eyes. No, the horseman wasn’t a fixation of her mind. Mr. Douglas was returning, just as he’d promised.

“Thank You,” she prayed, unsure whether to laugh or cry with relief. “Forgive me for doubting You.” But when the back wheel of her covered wagon broke down yesterday, and Mr. Douglas had left to find help, both knew that the mission might prove futile. Then later, when she noticed the jug of medicinal whiskey was missing, Noelle wondered if Mr. Douglas had planned to go on without her.

She’d heard tales of trail guides who took advantage of single women left with all their worldly goods within the cumbersome prairie schooners. But Noelle had faith in Mr. Douglas, and he hadn’t failed her.

She laid the rifle down beside her in the wagon, then wiped the trickle of sweat from her temple with her apron. No need for her driver to see that she’d been crying. With shaky fingers, she tucked the stray wisps of blond hair under her poke bonnet. When she looked as presentable as possible, she stuck her head through the curtains to wait for him.

The noon heat caused the green dots of sagebrush and mesquite to shimmer into wavy patterns along the prairie. The endless heat. Thank God she still had half a barrel of water. More than enough to last until they reached Crooked Creek.

She ignored the trickle of sweat running down her spine; her gaze fixed on the advancing horse and rider.

Mr. Douglas’s gelding was a chestnut brown, not a grayish tan horse with black mane and tail!

Noelle’s heart pounded; her breath caught in her throat. The stranger who was riding toward her wasn’t the man she knew and trusted.

For good measure, she pulled out the old spare rifle that Mr. Douglas had brought with them. Two rifles were better than one, even if one was a relic.

Her hands shook while she clutched the powder horn and loaded the old weapon. Willing her fingers to stop trembling, she forced the panic from her mind. With teeth clenched, she laid the spare beside her and grabbed the Hawken, poking the barrel through the crack in the canvas.

The rider was well within her sights.

Dear God, she had never shot a man. But Mr. Douglas had coached her on what to do if the need arose. She pushed back the images of what terror might have befallen him. If only the wagon wheel hadn’t broken...

She could shoot a man if she must.

The rider, dressed in black, brought the horse to a stop. Although Noelle hid inside the wagon, she sensed the man knew, somehow, that he was being watched.

Tall in the saddle, the dangerous-looking stranger studied the wagon. Maybe, she hoped, he’d think the prairie schooner was deserted and leave.

She pressed the walnut stock against her shoulder until it hurt. No, if he thought the wagon abandoned, he might rummage through her goods for anything of value.

“Put down your rifle. I mean you no harm.” The man’s deep voice rang with authority. He dismounted and ambled toward her. Sunlight glinted off the pistols riding low on his gun belt. She saw with alarm that his right hand hovered close to his holster.

Tall, with a black hat tipped low over his eyes, the man’s face remained hidden. She was certain his features were ugly. Only ugly, dangerous men sauntered in that sneaky way.

When he was within twenty feet of the wagon, she yelled. “Stop right there or, I swear, I’ll shoot.”

He froze. He raised his head. Dark eyes glittered menacingly below the black hat’s wide brim. She knew he was deciding how to separate her from her weapon.

“Save your gunpowder. I’m here to help.” Noelle’s only answer was the click click of the hammer of the Hawken rifle.

“Are you alone?”

“No,” she lied. “My men have you covered.”

His deeply tanned hand shoved the wide brim from his forehead, revealing an unsmiling, lean and angular face. His dark brown eyes trapped her with their unblinking stare. The well-defined jaw and chin was hidden beneath a week’s growth of black beard. Her scalp tightened in reaction.

A black eyebrow lifted. “If your men are hiding behind your skirts, they’re not the sort who’ll do you much good.” His mouth curled, creasing the dimple like scar under his cheekbone.

“Get back on your horse or I’ll shoot you dead.” Noelle’s voice held a control she didn’t feel.

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Charitable of you for offering to put me out of my misery.” He took a step forward, his dark brown eyes glittered in earnest. “Found a man on the trail. Need to know if he’s one of yours.”

A well of fear ran through her. “Mr. Douglas?” she cried out before she thought.

The man scuffed the prairie sand with his scarred boots. “Was Mr. Douglas about fifty, sandy grey hair, and did he come to about my shoulders?”

Noelle’s breath caught; her heart pounded. “Yes. Is he all right?” she added, hoping to sound less desperate than she felt.

The man took off his hat, the breeze parting his longish black hair. “Sorry, miss. He’s dead.”

The stranger’s image blurred with her tears. She bit her lip, forcing back the reality of his words. “Why should I believe you? If he’s dead, where’s his body?”

The stranger’s right hand brushed his gun belt, then slipped behind to pull something from his hip pocket. Noelle tightened the grip on the Hawken. But when the man retrieved a square cloth to wipe his face, she realized how tense she felt.

“I covered the body with rocks until he can have a proper burial. When we get to Crooked Creek, you can give the sheriff the necessary details.” The man glanced at the sun, high in the cloudless sky. “We better get a move on. It’s a good day’s ride.”

He took a step toward her.

“Stay where you are.” She poked the end of her rifle farther into the sun. “How do I know you didn’t shoot him and aren’t planning to shoot me, too?”

“The man wasn’t shot. Heart attack, from what I could make out.” He cocked his head to one side and raised his hands in the air. “You’re holding the rifle, not me. Besides, what would I want with a prairie schooner with a busted wheel?” He squinted one eye and waited, as if challenging her for an answer, but she gave none.

Finally he said, “Look, miss. You’d best ride back to town with me. I noticed Indian tracks following your Mr. Douglas’s trail back here. Only God knows why the Indians veered from the hunt. Otherwise, they’d have attacked by now.” He put his hat on, then gathered the reins of his horse.

Tears welled at the corner of her eyes, and she fought down the whimper in her throat. “All I know is that Mr. Douglas was a decent, God-fearing man, even if he liked a nip or two. All he spoke of was wanting to see the Pacific.”

The stranger shook his head. “Damn fool greenhorns come out here...” He paused, then pulled the hat brim low over his eyes. “Hurry, lady. We’re losing valuable daylight.”

“I won’t go with you.”

She heard him swear under his breath. “I’m sorry about your loss, miss. Truly I am. But patience isn’t my strong suit. Now gather your water jugs and any whiskey you’ve got. Hop on back of my horse, and I’ll give you a ride into Crooked Creek.”

“You don’t understand!” She poked her head out from the canvas opening. “I can’t leave the wagon.”

“Pardon?” He tipped his hat at a rakish angle and studied her. The sunlight bounced off his cheek, and he didn’t appear quite so menacing. “We’re in big trouble, miss. Those Indians could attack any minute. Now, I’m riding out of here, with or without you. If you stay, you’ll end up just like your Mr. Douglas, only—”

“He’s not my Mr. Douglas. I-I mean, Mr. Douglas is...was my trail guide, not...” She felt embarrassed to explain anything to this man. “I-I won’t leave. You’ll have to fix the wagon wheel.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Won’t leave? Why the hell not?”

“I’m carrying precious cargo. That’s all you need to know.” She brushed her fingers across her damp collar. “And I’d prefer that you speak to me without profanity, Mister...?

“Savage.” She sniffed.

His mouth curled, revealing the dimpled scar. “Luke Savage.”

“I’m Noelle Bellencourt. I’d be obliged if you’d fix the wagon, then guide me into Crooked Creek. I’ll pay you most handsomely.”

His black eyebrows rose, and wary dark eyes appraised her. “Miss, I’ve been on the trail for six straight days. All I want is a bloody steak, a bottle of rye whiskey and a bed with a...” He paused, as though weighing his words. “Real sheets,” he added without looking at her.

She felt her cheeks warm, aware that he’d meant a woman—a painted-hussy woman that she’d heard about. She delicately cleared her throat. At least he’d been enough of a gentleman not to say so.

“I’ll more than pay you what it’s worth, Mr. Savage.”

“I’d help you without payment, if I could. But it’s a matter of life or death that I make Crooked Creek by Friday noon. Now put down that rifle and gather your things. We’re losing time we don’t have.”

Noelle raised her rifle. “It’s you who does not understand, Mr. Savage. You’re not leaving without me and the wagon.” Her voice held strong. “I’m a good shot, but even if I wasn’t, at this range I couldn’t miss shooting your head off.”

His deeply tanned face showed no sign of her threat as he studied her. “Where you heading, anyway?”

“My uncle, Marcel Bellencourt, lives in Crooked Creek. He’s a very wealthy silver miner who struck it rich during the fifties. He’ll reward you for your trouble, Mr. Savage.”

Luke scratched his week’s growth of black beard. “Funny. I know all the folks in Crooked Creek. Never heard of a Marcel Bellencourt, rich or poor.” He eyed her in that suspicious way that made her uneasy. “Sure it’s Crooked Creek where your uncle lives?”

“Of course. My family received Uncle Marcel’s letters from there since he arrived in Nevada. When my father died, my uncle asked me to make my home with him.” Noelle felt a warm blush rise to her cheeks. She hadn’t told a fib, exactly. But what difference did it make if Luke Savage thought her uncle’s request had been recent rather than a general understanding? Her father made her promise that if something were to happen, she should go West to live with Uncle Marcel. All that mattered now was that she persuade Luke Savage to help her.

Luke scratched his head and frowned at the broken wheel. His deep sigh spoke louder than words. “That wheel’s busted up good, miss. I’ll take you to town, then you can find your uncle and have him come out here with another rig.”

He sighed again. “You’ve no proper tools to fix a wheel. Didn’t your Mr. Douglas tell you that?”

“I’ve brought my possessions all the way from New York City. I’ve traveled the last three and a half months by steamboat, railroad and wagon train, and I’m not giving up this close to Crooked Creek, Mr. Savage.”

“Miss, I don’t want to scare you, but Indian pony tracks were all over the area where I found your trail driver.” He brushed his hat with his hand, waiting for her reaction.

She raised her chin a notch.

“If those Indians meet up with you, they won’t just take your clothing and rifle like they did your trail guide.”

Noelle gasped. “Took his clothing?” Her stomach almost turned with revulsion.

“Can you describe the clothing Mr. Douglas was wearing the last time you saw him, miss?”

Noelle steadied herself. “A b-brown leather vest, grey trousers and shirt. A g-gold pocket watch and ch-chain...” Her voice broke.

“I’m truly sorry about your guide, Miss.”

She felt her throat constrict with tears, but she fought back with anger. “If these Indians are as beastly as you say, then you’d better hurry and fix the wagon wheel.”

“You’re either the most stubborn woman or—”

“I’ll fix you something to eat while you’re working.”

“I tell you, I can’t fix the damn thing!”

“Please, there’s no need to yell or swear in my presence, Mr. Savage.”

“All right, all right.” He mumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

She felt grateful that he thought to spare her.

“I noticed a stand of cottonwoods over that yonder ridge.” He tipped his head in the direction of a high rise covered with sagebrush. “Maybe I can cut a few trees, run one over the wagon’s front and under the rear axle, then maybe we can walk the wagon into town. Got a saw or an ax?”

Relief and hope swelled within her. “Yes, mister...” She swallowed back the lump in her throat. “There’s an ax in the trail box.”

“I’ll get it.”

Her relief was short-lived when she remembered the stories told by the emigrants in the wagon trains loading at Leaven worth. Many guides took advantage of the lone women who drove rigs. After taking their money, the guides would break from the caravans, deserting the helpless women after only a few miles.

But Luke had ridden out of his way to backtrack Mr. Douglas’s tracks to the wagon.... Luke Savage was no gentleman, but she felt she could trust him. There was something about the way he looked at her when she reacted to the news of Mr. Douglas’s death.

When Luke returned with the ax, he tied it to the horse. “Best you come with me to the ridge in case Indians come. Bring the oxen, too.”

She jumped down from the wagon and began unhitching the animals while Luke slipped the handles of the water jugs over the pommel. Luke’s horse fidgeted back and forth, kicking clouds of dust into the air. When Noelle had unfastened the oxen’s yoke and hooked on their leads, Luke motioned her toward his horse.

“I’ll help you mount.”

She glanced up in suspicion. “What if you’re only saying that you’ll fix the wheel so I’ll leave with you? Why should I trust you?”

He lifted the brim of his hat up a notch. His dark brown eyes glittered with speculation and something else that caused a fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach.

The buckskin whinnied impatiently. Luke grabbed the oxen’s leads, then mounted his horse. Staring down at her, he said, “Miss, I’m the only ace you got up your sleeve. Get on the horse, ’cause I’m leaving. If you decide to come, bring the rifle. You’ll be the lookout while I chop down those trees.”

Reluctantly, Noelle grabbed her rifle. He was right; she had no choice. She took his hand, but averted her gaze as she swung up behind him.

She heard him mumble under his breath. She didn’t have to see Luke’s solemn face to imagine his begrudging expression as he wheeled the massive buckskin in the direction of the high ridge.

Luke lifted the ax sideways and swung the final blow that brought the quivering young cottonwood crashing to the ground. The rush of air provided a fleeting respite from the oppressive heat. He inhaled the fresh wood smell while he mopped a bandanna across his brow.

This log and the one he’d previously cut would be enough to fix the wagon. It had taken him nearly an hour, he reckoned—time he didn’t have.

The buckskin shied nervously, its eyes huge.

“I know, Deuce. I sense ’em, too.” Luke glanced at the spreading cottonwood about a hundred feet away where Noelle sat on a limb, rifle in hand, her gaze scanning the sun-baked range like a hawk. She turned toward him, then shook her head.

Luke nodded, but he doubted that Noelle would know what to look for. He had explained about the telltale dust funnels announcing unseen riders, but if the Indians had seen them ride over here, they could sneak up along the ridge without warning.

One thing was certain, the Indians were out there.

Luke swore again as he hitched one log to each of the oxen, bracing the load to drag behind the animals. He wiped the sweat trickling down his chest.

North and east, the flat, shimmering prairie would be too open for Indians to attack. But the west ridge, dotted with tall mesquite and sagebrush, would easily provide cover to hide the Indians and their ponies.

“I’m a damn fool to get caught up in this,” he muttered to his horse. “Beneath all her bluster, she’s a real greenhorn.” He shook his head, recalling bow her hands had trembled while she held that old weapon on him.

Luke led the oxen to the thick shade of the cottonwood tree where Noelle perched on a massive limb, rifle in her lap.

“What’s in that long crate that you guard like a she-cat with a new litter?” he asked, adjusting the oxen’s load.

“A gift for my Uncle Marcel,” she said, her eyes fixed on the green-dotted prairie.

“If he’s as rich as you say, why wouldn’t he have the goods shipped with an armed guard of men, instead of a—”

Noelle lifted her chin. “It’s none of your concern, Mr. Savage.”

Damn right it wasn’t. He swore under his breath. What he should be concerned about is how he’d make up the time to get to Crooked Creek by Friday noon. Lady luck had turned against him, and there was no sign that she might change her fickle mind.

Luke’s thoughts returned to Noelle Bellencourt. He knew women as well as he knew not to draw to an inside straight. Better, in fact. And he’d bet all the poker chips in the Silver Hearts Saloon that Noelle didn’t have a rich uncle waiting for her. But whatever her story, once she saw Crooked Creek, Nevada, she’d turn tail and head back East.

At the sound of his footsteps, Noelle turned toward him.

“When we get to town, you’re on your own,” Luke said. “If we walk all night, we’ll reach Crooked Creek by morning.”

“Why do we have to?”

“Because I’ve got to stop Blackjack from hopping the noon stage to ’Frisco. That slippery rascal isn’t getting away from me this time.”

“Blackjack?”

“My business partner, or I should say, was.” Luke mopped his face, then knotted the bandanna loosely around his neck. “Cheated me out of a string of gambling concessions. He knows I’m on his trail, but he’d never dream I’m this close.” Luke smiled as he thought of the surprised look on Blackjack’s face when he saw Luke, waiting for him with the sheriff.

“What type of business are you in, Mister Savage?”

He grinned. “Gambling, Miss. I’m the best poker player in all of Nevada.”

Noelle’s face paled. “And this...Blackjack? Is that his profession, too?”

“That, among others. But after I’m through with him, Blackjack will be shuffling his next deck in jail.”

Luke strode to the logs tied to the oxen. Satisfied, he moved toward the horse. The buckskin shied uneasily.

“Did you hear something?” Noelle asked uneasily.

“Yeah.” Luke felt it, too. It was as if someone were watching them. He’d had the feeling ever since he found Douglas’s body.

“Think it’s just the wind.” Luke hoped she’d believe him. “If Indians are out there, the open country affords no chance for ambush. We’re safe for the time being,” he added, hoping to reassure her. No sense having a hysterical woman on his hands.

He helped Noelle mount the horse, then walked beside her, leading the oxen as they lumbered along, handling the cottonwood logs easily.

Luke’s thoughts strayed back to the lone prairie schooner, stranded like a wounded white dove, and the woman riding beside him.

Before they reached the top of the ridge, a rifle shot, coming in the direction of the prairie schooner, cracked the silence.

Luke’s horse whinnied, then reared. Before he could reach Noelle, she had slackened the reins, leaned her weight forward, and grabbed Deuce’s mane to keep from falling.

Grateful that she’d had the sense to control the buckskin, Luke secured the oxen’s reins to a mesquite bush, then mounted the horse behind Noelle. He grabbed the reins, then kicked his heels into the animal’s sides, charging the horse over the rise in the direction of the wagon.

Chapter Two

Ayeee! Hoop hoop hoop! Ayee! Coo-wigh!

Anger and fear raged within Noelle, but fury won out as she listened to the rising shrieks behind her wagon. Several spotted ponies stood nearby. A tall, lanky Indian, dressed only in a buckskin breech clout and knee-high leggings stood, reloading a rifle. His head shot up when she and Luke galloped within sight.

In a lightning-fast motion, Noelle positioned her rifle, ready to take aim.

“Don’t shoot!” Luke yelled in her ear. “That’s Little Henry, the chief’s son.” Luke pointed to the lanky Indian, who by now had grabbed the rifle and ducked behind the wagon to warn the others.

“I don’t care if he’s President Andrew Johnson!” Rancor sharpened her voice. “He’s attacking may wagon!”

Although she was breathless with rage, she didn’t resist when Luke took the Hawken from her.

He drew the six-shooter from his holster and shot into the air, the acrid smell of black powder was everywhere. A stockier Indian, a few years younger than the first, jumped from the wagon bench and staggered to his knees. He hesitated, shaking his head as though dazed.

Noelle gasped, her blue eyes wide. Her small hand flew to her mouth as she stared. Luke glanced at the brown leather vest and gray shirt the savage wore. From Noelle’s stifled cry, he knew the garments must have belonged to Mr. Douglas.

Luke stopped the horse a safe distance from the wagon. After he dismounted, he gave Noelle a stern glance. “Stay on the horse,” he commanded, not trusting her to remain out of the fray. “Don’t aim, but keep your rifle handy.”

Renewed anger lit her eyes, but she nodded. Her teeth clenched as her wide-eyed gaze returned to the stocky Indian bent over on the ground.

Another Indian, wearing a black cowboy hat, stuck his head from the front of the prairie schooner. He shook his fist, then shouted a blood-curdling scream as he tossed an earthenware jug into the air. The bottle bounced along the sand, finally breaking in two.

Whiskey! Luke swore under his breath. Damn the luck. Even peaceful Indians, when drunk, were unpredictable.

Luke strode cautiously toward the chief’s son. “Little Henry,” he said in the native tongue of the Paiute. “Take your braves and go peacefully.”

The dark eyes studied Luke for a long moment, appraising the man and the situation.

Luke noticed the gold watch fob and chain dangling from Little Henry’s left braid. No doubt the chief’s son took what he deemed the most valuable of their booty. Luke also knew that Douglas’s horse must be tethered nearby.

“Tell your father, Captain Henry, that the yellow-haired woman sends her compliments to him, and wishes to give the horse you found, which belongs to the lady, as a gift for raising such a fine son as yourself.”

Little Henry’s almond eyes lit with surprise, then he glanced back at Noelle, who waited anxiously on Luke’s horse. When he gazed back at Luke, his expression, wiser than his eighteen years, held a question. “You will tell my father of this happening?”

Luke took his time answering. He knew that a lengthy spell was required to show Little Henry that his question was considered serious. Luke stared into the deep-set eyes of the brave who would one day become chief of the Paiute Nation.

Little Henry had showed good sense in waiting to search the wagon after Noelle and Luke had left. Besides, Luke understood the young brave’s need to prove himself. When the Indian found Douglas dead, with his chestnut alone on the prairie, Little Henry knew a horse was the highest honor to give his father.

“I have given your question great thought.” Luke spoke the words solemnly. “I find no reason to speak to your father of this happening. If you leave peacefully with your braves and do not bother us again, I believe the matter should be forgotten.”

Little Henry began to untie the watch fob when Luke stopped him. “No. That is yours. A gift to you from the yellow-haired woman.”

Without any sign of emotion, Little Henry strode to the dazed Indian, still stooped over in the sand. He helped the brave onto a pony. Without a word, Little Henry leaped onto his pony, the other braves following his example. Amid the ponies’ whinnies, they rode off, yellow dust kicking up at their hooves.

Before Luke could stop her, Noelle slid from the saddle and dashed toward the prairie schooner.

“Let me go inside first! There may be others,” Luke shouted, racing after her. Before he reached the wagon, he heard her cry out.

Noelle shuddered a gasp and stared at the shambles inside the wagon. “Oh, my God!” She rushed to the splintered crate leaning on its side.

Those savages had touched her mother’s things. A jolt of revulsion raged so violently inside her that she thought she might be sick. She touched the china cabinet, its fragile door still swaying from the broken hinge. Delft earthenware, once her mother’s pride and joy, was reduced to a heap of blue-and-white shards, littering the shelves.

Noelle shook her head, refusing to give in to the threatening tears. The clamor of Indians’ taunts and galloping ponies’ hooves still rang in her head as she stared at the wooden crates and wicker cartons ripped open, mounds of clothing scattered everywhere.

Behind her, the wagon’s floorboards creaked. She jumped, expecting to see another...

Luke’s long shadow appeared across the bleached canvas sides as he stepped inside the wagon. She let out a muffled cry of relief.

Luke’s jaw tightened as he glanced about. “They’ve gone. No need to be afraid.”

“What if they come back?”

“No. The chief, Captain Henry, is a friend of mine. Little Henry will know that to do so will dishonor his father as well as himself.”

“Those friends of yours were wearing Mr. Douglas’s clothing. How do you know that they didn’t surprise my guide and frighten him to death?”

Luke picked up a broken teacup, turning the delicate china in his hands. “Because I know.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because the cadaver showed no signs of fright. Death came from a massive heart attack, brought on by extreme exertion—”

“You’re not a doctor. How do you know—?”

“I was once, miss.” Luke regretted the words as soon as he saw Noelle’s eyes widen with surprise. He saw the questions forming in her mind.

How he knew those questions. Those questions had kept him awake more nights than he could remember.

“But I’m a gambler now. Not much difference between gambling and doctoring, really.” He grinned, trying to make light of something that he’d refused to think about any more. Damn, what was there about this woman that brought the past back like the deep ache of an old wound?

“It’s nothing I want to talk about, so forget I mentioned it.” He placed the broken cup fragments upon an overturned crate.

He turned his back on her as he stepped to the rear opening. “Maybe you should file a report about the Indians at the sheriff’s office, Miss,” he suggested over his shoulder. “What you do is none of my business.”

“B-but...you’re a witness.” She shouted after him.

“My witness. Just look what those fiends did.” Noelle’s hands trembled when she bent to pick up a black leather-bound book. “My Mother’s Bible,” she cried. Her eyelids closed as she caressed the gilt-edged tome to her chest. “I can still smell those savages.”

Luke turned back and leaned inside the wagon. “Most of that is whiskey smell.” He glanced around.

“Any more whiskey in the wagon?”

“No. The only jug I had was for medicinal purposes. Mr. Douglas took it with him when he left to get help.” No need to tell Luke that Mr. Douglas hadn’t asked her permission.

“Recognize the empty crock jug...broken, on the ground outside the wagon?”

She glanced out the front of the wagon, then darted back inside. “Y-yes, it’s the same jug.”

“The Indians probably found the jug where they found Douglas’s body. Drank the whiskey while they staggered along Douglas’s backtracks.” Luke stroked the dark stubble along his jaw. “That’s why it took so much time for them to get here.”

“What do you mean?”

“The whiskey. They drank the liquor first, then came looking for more.” Luke’s mouth quirked. “That whiskey might have saved your life, miss. You’re one lucky lady.”

“Mr. Douglas is dead. I’m stranded with a broken wheel a day’s ride from Crooked Creek. And you’re telling me I should be thankful for a jug of whiskey, Mr. Savage?”

His smile faded, and she regretted her words immediately. He was only trying to make her feel better.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound cross.” A rush of gratitude welled within her. “I appreciate your kindness. You came to help, and I’m indebted to you. I don’t know what might have happened if you decided not to follow Mr. Douglas’s tracks.”

“What’s in these boxes that’s so valuable?” Luke asked, as though purposely changing the subject. His dark gaze raked across the carelessly thrown floral gowns, red and black petticoats, black beaded jacket and a man’s formal top hat.

Noelle rose, then straightened the small trunk containing her father’s handmade props that he had used in his magic act. Shaking it gently, she felt relieved when nothing inside rattled. She forced a weak smile and glanced around the wagon. “My belongings are of little worldly value, but priceless to me and my uncle Marcel. It was my father’s dying wish that I deliver what was left of their magic act. How could I refuse?”

Luke shuffled his feet uneasily. “Maybe some of it’s salvageable.” He straightened a squat wooden box from its side. The crush of broken glass made him wince.

Noelle squeezed her eyes shut. The mingled scent of rosemary, oregano and peppermint told her that the herb cabinet had fallen, her precious herb jars smashed.

“What’s this?” Luke asked, peering into the largest crate of her father’s.

Noelle glanced at the padded lid, ripped from the long wooden box. “Father’s mirror!” She dashed beside Luke, forcing herself to be brave enough to view the damage. “My father and Marcel used the looking glass for their most famous act—the disappearing man.”

Luke’s brow furrowed. “The disappearing man?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Thank God, the mirror’s not broken.” She studied the mirror carefully, her pale, serious expression staring back at her. Luke stood behind her, unwrapping the stiff packing. She was immediately aware of how large he was. Broad shoulders, powerful forearms. Her blond head barely reached the middle of his chest.

She felt Luke’s warm hand when he placed it on her shoulder. “I’ll help you straighten this mess later.” He turned and his dark gaze met her blue eyes in the glass. For a moment, she thought his dark brown eyes might stare through her. He was so very attractive, in an uncivilized rugged way. His thick, wavy black hair framed his sun-bronzed face. Far away, the straight black fans of lashes gave a piercing look to his expression. But up close, Noelle saw the soft, mahogany velvet of his eyes, like warm, rich coffee.

The heat from his hand felt strangely comforting, and she made no move to remove it. For a moment, she thought of how consoling it might be to lay her head upon his chest and cry.

The shocking idea jarred her back to reality. No doubt, it was the sudden brush with danger, the loss of her possessions and the death of Mr. Douglas that beckoned such a foolish idea.

She turned from the mirror to meet Luke’s darkening gaze. He removed his hand, then averted his eyes. “While it’s still daylight, I must fetch the oxen.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Fifteen minutes later, Luke found the oxen, still tied with their loads, grazing peacefully on needle grass. With a sigh of relief, he waved an okay sign to Noelle, who waited in the distance. She glanced around cautiously, then followed with the buckskin while Luke led the beasts, dragging their load, back to the wagon.

“Fix something to eat while I water the animals,” Luke said when they returned to the wagon.

Noelle wiped her palms on her apron, then climbed into the wagon. She blinked away any trace of emotion as she made a path through the shambles of her worldly goods to prepare their meal.

By the time Luke had returned, the campfire was crackling, and the aroma of strong coffee filled the air.

Noelle glanced up from tending the fire to watch as Luke hung the empty pail on the water barrel. A welcoming sense of relief flowed through her as she realized Luke could repair the wagon wheel. Soon, she’d be with her uncle.

Noelle’s gaze lingered along the sparse knots of prairie grass while she fed the cattle chips to the fire. She’d purchased the bag full of animal droppings from a passing Conestoga wagon over a month ago. Survival had forced Noelle to quickly forget any squeamishness at using dung as fuel. In fact, she was proud of all she’d accomplished—more than she would have thought possible—since leaving New York City.

Her mouth felt as dry as the endless dust. What might have become of her if Luke Savage hadn’t arrived? But he was here, and he’d promised to see her safely to Crooked Creek. Yes, she was very lucky, indeed.

Beside the wagon, Luke balanced the half-empty coffee mug on a rock while he shimmied the cottonwood bolts into place. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the thought of Noelle Bellencourt out of his mind. But the harder he tried, the more those startling blue eyes made him want to take her in his arms and protect her.

Damn, he wanted to do more than that, if he was honest. But women like Noelle spelled trouble, in any language, and he was too smart to get caught up with the likes of her, again.

Once had been enough for a lifetime.

Noelle looked nothing like his fiancée, Alice. But the Eastern manner of speaking and thinking were the same. Luke shook his head at the comparison. Alice had wed his best friend while Luke had been in the war. At the time, Luke thought he’d never get over the betrayal, but now, he realized that if he had married Alice, he would have been miserable to be part of that Philadelphia social circle.

It takes a special breed of fool to be enticed by a woman, regardless of how alluring. And damn, he was no fool.

Luke propped up the side of the wagon where the broken wheel had been. Greenhorns. They come out West, their wagons full of wares, their heads full of dreams, only to find their hopes busted like a broken wheel at the end of the trail.

He swore under his breath. Why was he thinking about Noelle? His mind should be on Blackjack and getting his money back, not on a greenhorn woman who’d be on the next stage back to New York when she first set her eyes on Crooked Creek.

“Supper’s ready, Mr. Savage.”

His stomach growled. The tantalizing aroma of panfried biscuits and something else he couldn’t quite identify nearly drove him crazy. He grimaced.

He dismissed his wayward thoughts as he took the tin plate of fragrant baked beans and biscuits she offered, and sat upon a flat rock a few yards from the campfire. Never had beans and biscuits smelled so delicious.

“More coffee, Mr. Savage?”

He shoved his hat back from his forehead. “Yes, miss,” he said with a jaw stuffed with biscuit. He watched the feminine curve of her hip as she leaned forward, pouring the dark brew into the cup. Where had she learned to cook like that? What else might she have learned about how to please a man?

He frowned, totally disgusted with himself for his inability to ignore her.

She smiled as she returned to the plate she had dished up for herself. Before she lifted a spoon, she bent her head and said a few words under her breath.

Luke felt like a heathen. But he recalled a time, not so long ago, when blessings, manners and polite talk had been a part of his life. He scraped the last of his beans with a spoon. He’d prefer feeling like a heathen than remembering the past.

He soaked up the bean juices with the ragged edge of the biscuit. Manners, be damned. West of the Mississippi, manners could get you killed if you took your mind off your six-shooter for long. No room for fancy manners in Indian country, Miss Noelle Bellencourt.

“Mighty tasty,” he said instead. “Last time I had biscuits that melted in my mouth was in Philadelphia when—” His voice halted, as though he had divulged a great secret.

“You’re from Philadelphia?” Surprise lit her blue eyes.

He nodded.

“Is that where you had your doctor’s practice?”

“It’s not polite to ask questions of strangers,” he answered. He saw her cheeks color, and he felt ashamed for his rude remark. Yet if he admitted that he’d begun his practice in Philadelphia, she’d only ply him with more questions that he wasn’t ready to answer. He took a swig from his coffee mug.

“Your voice doesn’t sound as though you’re from Philadelphia,” she said after a few minutes.

Luke reached for the last biscuit, broke it in two and popped half into his cheek. “Best to talk like the locals. That way, you don’t go bringing attention to yourself.” He washed the mouthful down with more coffee.

“Are you hiding something from your past?” Her eyes brimmed with questions.

“Nope. Trying to forget.” He sensed her growing inquisitiveness. In the lengthening silence, he wondered if she could control her curiosity. After a long time, he discovered that her strong will had won out.

“So, what will you do if you can’t find your uncle?” Luke asked, despite his refusal to get involved.

She lifted her head and stared at him as if the idea never crossed her mind. “I thought you said it was impolite to ask questions of strangers.” Her mouth tilted into a smug little grin.

“Of course I’ll find him,” she volunteered anyway.

“Marcel Bellencourt. Never heard the name, miss. Where’s this silver mine of his suppose to be?”

“I’m not certain. I do know that he owns a grand house with a small army of servants.” She laughed, and for the first time, he realized how very pretty she was. He wished he hadn’t noticed.

“I’ve written to the lawyer in town, telling him of my arrival.”

“Mike O’Shea?”

“Yes, do you know him?”

Luke nodded. O’Shea was a good enough lawyer for fixing miners’ quarrels, but he didn’t have the experience for much else. No need to tell her that, Luke decided.

“Mister O’Shea will escort me to my uncle.” She smiled again in that confident way that often worried him.

Luke ran his fingers across his chin. “You know, miss. It’s not unheard of for a man to work the mines for years, then not strike color—”

“Strike color?”

“It means not to find gold or silver.”

She nodded, intent on his every word.

“Not strike color,” Luke continued, “but write to his family back East, and with a gut full of the Silver Hearts Saloon’s finest whiskey, compose a boastful yarn or two.”

Her chin lifted defensively. “What are you suggesting, Mr. Savage? Hundreds, no thousands of men and women have struck it rich in Nevada. Are you insinuating that my uncle is lying?”

Damn, she and her uncle were none of his business. “Didn’t mean any disrespect, miss.” Luke scratched his beard as he glanced at her. No sense adding his abject speculation to what she’s already been through today.

“Sounds like you’ve got this all figured out.” Luke gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. He stood up and drained the last of his coffee. “We’ll leave as soon as I finish fixing the wagon. In the meantime, why don’t you pack away your gear and throw out all the broken crockery.” He glanced up at the growing clouds in the west. “We might be in for a storm.”

Luke put the cup on the empty tin plate. “Before nightfall tomorrow, you’ll be safe with your uncle, God willing.”

The thought brought a soft glow to her face. She smiled and leaned back against the buckboard. “My uncle is all the family I have left,” she said wistfully.

A ripple of uneasiness coursed over Luke. He’d wager all of the money Blackjack owed him that Marcel Bellencourt wasn’t a wealthy miner living in Crooked Creek. But there wasn’t anything he could say to a woman as stubborn as Noelle. She’d have to learn from her mistakes, like all the other tenderfeet. But she sure made a doozie of a mistake when she decided to come West.

Luke cleared his throat. “Miss, I’m afraid you’ll have to part with some of your things. The wagon should be relieved of as much weight as possible. That mirror of yours is heavy and cumbersome—”

“No!” She looked as shocked as if he’d asked to kiss her.

He groaned. “Besides the mirror, those trunks and boxes—”

“Mr. Savage?” she said, her eyes glittered with determination. “I’ll walk alongside the wagon, but what I have left that’s intact remains aboard.”

“Miss, that cottonwood dragging along the ground isn’t as strong as a wheel. The stretch of dust up ahead has no trees, in case another wheel breaks—”

“We’ll just have to chance it.”

Luke swore under his breath as he pulled his hat low on his head. No need wasting a man’s breath on a stubborn woman. “Then help me shift the load to the side of the wagon with the two good wheels.”

“A fine idea, Mr. Savage.”

Noelle smiled in such a heartfelt way that he almost forgot his anger. He mumbled to himself as he stepped up on the trail box and pushed one of the trunks to the opposite side of the wagon.

Damn, Luke thought. Why couldn’t he have just kept on riding?

Noelle listened to the slow, steady pounding of Luke’s makeshift hammer while she dried the last frying pan and tied down the equipment with ropes.

Tomorrow. How she dreamed of the day she would finally arrive in Crooked Creek. But after the tragic experience with poor Mr. Douglas, then Little Henry and his band, she felt nothing but relief to finally end the long, perilous journey.

This rugged country was full of wild, savage encounters, and she prayed she’d seen the last of them. She stole a glance at Luke Savage.

Wild, larger than life, almost as savage as his name.

No, she decided, after a thoughtful pause. Beneath his rough exterior, Luke Savage could be dangerous, she was certain. But he held to the Code of the West. She felt safe with him. She sensed he was a decent, good man, despite a certain reluctance.

The man was fascinating. Beneath the rough manners were intelligence, keen insight and strong hands that had once had held a scalpel. She sensed that he was hiding something. A dark past, no doubt. I wonder how he came by that dimpled scar below his cheekbone? A knife fight, no doubt.

Noelle bit her lip. She stood motionless, her arms clasped over her midriff as she watched him work. His large, steady hands drew the timbers into place. He then began lashing the log to each axle. A few minutes later, Luke tested the log by applying his weight to it between the wagon and where it touched the ground some ten feet behind the wagon bed.

Luke Savage was a genius. Self-consciously, she straightened the folds of her apron. Her gaze met his. “Please forgive my earlier bad manners. I was quite rude. I hope you accept my sincere thanks.”

He lifted a dark brow. “You’re not under your uncle’s roof, yet, miss. Best hold your thanks until we get there.”

A flash of her earlier pique ignited. Why couldn’t he say, you’re welcome, instead of adding another dose of his cynicism?

“You should be more optimistic, Mr. Savage. Those who dwell on the misfortunes of the world often receive what they expect.”

“That’s because the pessimists are so busy helping the optimists out of one fix after another.” His dark eyes glittered with amusement. “You’re just lucky this pessimist happened along when I did.”

She couldn’t help but smile when she saw the teasing light in his eyes. “I don’t believe you’re as cynical as you pretend, Mr. Savage. After all, you’ve fixed the wagon wheel, my load is intact, and we’ll be in Crooked Creek by tomorrow night.”

He strode to the oxen. “We’ve got to be there by tomorrow noon. Night will be too late if I’m going to catch Blackjack.”

“But we can’t travel that fast—”

“It’s a fifteen-mile walk to town from here, Miss. If we leave now, we’ll have ample time before the afternoon stage leaves Crooked Creek.” A muscle in his cheek twitched.

“I won’t have my oxen driven into the ground because you have to meet a stagecoach.” Noelle straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin. “You said yourself, without a fourth wheel, the animals will have to pull harder. They can’t plod that far without resting.”

“You’re forgetting the Indians. The sooner we get to town, the safer we are.”

Her eyes glittered with disbelief. “I’ve heard that Indians don’t attack at night.”

“Some do.”

She said nothing while she ran her fingers along the curly foreheads of the oxen. By the way they closed their eyes and stretched their necks in pleasure, Luke guessed the beasts were used to the attention.

“Miss Bellencourt, if you care so much for the animals, remember that they’re food on the hoof to anybody who decides to shoot them.” He felt guilty as the horrifying reaction reflected on her face.

“We’ll get a few miles behind us before dark. After we rest a few hours, we’ll start up before dawn. It won’t be too much for the beasts, I promise.” Luke felt relieved when the tight mask of worry faded from her face.

Luke’s spurs jangled as he walked to his horse, but before he put his boot in the stirrup, he paused. “What the hell is this?” He yanked out the white linen cloth from under the buckskin’s saddle and held it at arm’s length like it might bite.

“That’s a tallow cloth.” Noelle bustled around the wagon. “It’s prevents animals’ hides from chafing during long rides.”

Luke frowned. “Tallow cloth?” He scratched his beard.

“Yes, Mr. Savage. I wrap them around my oxen’s necks under their yoke. Once your horse becomes accustomed to it, you’ll never want to be without one. It’s very simple to make. Just a linen square dipped in melted tallow.”

He took a deep breath. “Miss, I hardly think...” He paused, as though considering. He muttered under his breath and tucked the cloth back under the saddle blanket where he found it. He remained silent while he mounted the horse, then cut out for the expanse of prairie grass outside the wagon’s circle.

Noelle watched him leave, then quickly scanned the low rise of sand and mesquite for any sign of movement. Despite the early evening beauty, she knew that wolves, coyotes, snakes and scorpions were there along with Paiutes and desperadoes.

Luke was right. The sooner they left here, the better.

Chapter Three

Darkness came suddenly, along with a driving rain. By the time Luke had finished gathering grass for the oxen, he couldn’t see one boot-length in front of him. Exhausted, hungry and soaked to the skin, he unsaddled his horse, untied his bedroll, then ran to shelter beneath the wagon.

Luke spread the buffalo hide in the dry space under the wagon when Noelle appeared. She grabbed the coal oil lantern, hooked on the trail box and carried the lamp inside the wagon. A few minutes later, a flickering glow slanted through the floorboards above his head.

Over the wind and rain, he heard her while she readied for bed. She must be near dead from exhaustion, he thought, remembering how she endured the storm without complaint.

After positioning the horse blanket on top of the buffalo skin, Luke laid down and rested his head on the horse’s saddle. “I’m right within a holler if you need something, miss.”

The bustling noise above his head stopped. “You can’t sleep beneath my wagon.” Her words barely carried above the storm. “It’s simply not... proper.”

“Just where do you expect me to sleep?”

Noelle climbed down from the back of the wagon and leaned toward him. The wind and rain plastered the loose hair from around her face, but she made no move to pull it back. “I-I would think you’d be gentlemanly and find a dry spot under a bush, or something.” She flicked her hand in a pointless gesture.

Luke angled the flat-crowned Stetson low on his head and squinted back at her. “Not this gentlemanly cowboy!”

“You must find other shelter. It’s simply not decent—”

“Decent?” Luke sat up. “Is it decent to ask me to spend the night out in the rain?” He shook his head. “Sorry, lady. I’m quite comfortable just where I am.” He leaned back and settled his hat over his face, again.

He heard an indignant sniff. In his mind, he could imagine those morning glory eyes sparkle with outrage. He knew the only thing that kept him from Noelle’s tongue-lashing was that proper Eastern upbringing of hers. And he’d bet a grubstake that she could really let loose, if she wanted.

Suddenly, he wondered what that volatile passion that flared beneath her Goody Two-shoes facade might be like in bed.

His bed.

Relieved that she couldn’t see how quickly she affected him, Luke rolled over on his back and pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes. Through the cracks between the floorboards, he could see her, if he was so low-down rotten as to take advantage of the situation. He grinned, wondering when she’d notice, and notice she would.

He heard the clatter of her boot steps above his head, then the wagon jarred as she jumped from the tailgate. He muttered to himself as he lifted his hat and saw her leaning down, staring at him.

“Get out from under there, or so help me, I’ll shoot you.”

Luke sat up and stared at her. A shawl covered her head, and she aimed that antique of a rifle on him.

“Is this how you thank me for fixing your wagon?” He scowled back at her. In the lantern’s glow, he noticed a wide black smudge extending from her left eyebrow to her chin. Noelle must have gotten soot on her hands when she touched the blackened campfire rods, then wiped her face.

As self-righteous as a new preacher in a town full of sinners, Noelle studied him, her one blackened eyebrow lifted with superiority. He couldn’t help but grin.

Noelle motioned with the rifle barrel. “And what’s so amusing?”

Luke forced his most practiced poker face. “Tell me, Miss Bellencourt. How does one tell a refined city lady like yourself that she has soot all over her face?”

Noelle relaxed the rifle. “I beg your pardon!” Luke smiled. “My my, little lady. The last time I saw a face like yours was at a minstrel show in Kansas City.”

She moved the weapon to one side and glanced at her hands. She gasped, and Luke knew that she finally realized that her face was covered with soot.

“You don’t look like a cactus blossom, yourself.” Noelle lifted her smudged chin in that defiant way that was becoming all too familiar.

Luke scratched his three-day growth of beard and shook his head. “Won’t argue with you there, Miss.” He shot her a side glance.

As serious as a preacher scrubbing away the devil’s footprints, Noelle furiously wiped her face with her drenched apron, all to no avail. The sight of her jaw clenched in steely pursuit as she wiped at the black circles, which now spread across her nose and cheeks, caused Luke to chuckle.

“You’re despicable!”

“I-I’m sorry, but—” A round of helpless laughter overtook him. “I’m not laughing at you, it’s just that I can’t remember when I’ve been so damned tired, so damned wet and so damned miserable.” He gasped before laughing again. “Go ahead, Sunshine. Shoot and put me out of my misery.” Another fit of hilarity overtook him.

Noelle’s mouth tilted with a hint of a smile. “I guess I do look rather... disheveled.”

“Rath-er.” He pronounced the word in two exaggerated syllables, then fell back, laughing.

Noelle’s smile deepened. “I’ve never been so utterly miserable, myself.” Her lips parted, revealing perfect, pearl white teeth. She laughed, and the light tinkling sound reminded him of his summers during the family picnics along the Delaware River. The image gave him a start. He hadn’t thought of his childhood since his brother, Chad, died.

“Good night, Mr. Savage.” Noelle retreated inside the wagon.

Jarred for a moment, Luke muttered, “G’night.” After Noelle had washed and prepared for bed, she listened to the rain pounding the canvas ceiling above her head. She eyed the covering warily. This was the first rain she’d endured since Nebraska, while she and Mr. Douglas traveled with the main wagon train over six weeks ago. What would she do if the priceless objects she had brought all the way from New York became ruined with water?

As though to assure herself that her things were safe, Noelle opened the creaky lid and peeked inside the metal trunk. Cocooned in paper lay the blue satin gown and feathered bonnet that she planned to wear when she finally met her uncle. How she wanted him to be proud of her.

Despite all the upsetting events, ending with Mr. Douglas’s death, she knew that her troubles would be over once she found her uncle. Tomorrow. She would have a family again.

Noelle hummed softly as she covered the hat with paper and straightened the blue satin hair ribbons before closing the trunk lid.

If only she could wash her hair, but she knew better than to waste precious water with such frivolity.

Raindrops hammered a steady rhythm as she towel-dried her wet hair. Suddenly, she had an idea. Noelle rose, wrapped a blanket around herself and stepped from the shelter of the wagon into the storm.

Luke’s hat lifted from his face when he heard her steps on the tailgate. “Where are you headed?”

“I’m going to collect rainwater.”

He raised his head and watched her. “Why?”

She sniffed. “I need to wash my hair, if it’s any of your business.”

Luke shoved his hat over his face and laid back. “No need to gussy yourself up for me, miss. You look as pretty as a filly.”

She knew he was teasing, and she refused to take the bait. “I care nothing for what you think,” she huffed, but she knew that wasn’t true. As if to validate the lie, she added, “My uncle would expect a Bellencourt to arrive looking respectable, Mr. Savage. I shall not let these primitive surroundings affect my personal standards, but I wouldn’t expect someone with your sensibilities, or lack of them, to understand.”

Luke watched her unhook several enamel wash basins from the side of the tail box and place them along the ground. “We’ve got another hard day of travel ahead of us, lady. You’re going to get all dusty again. You can clean up at the public bathhouse in Crooked Creek. Only costs a nickel.”

“Good night, Mr. Savage.”

Luke knew he had been dismissed. Well, let her get gussied up for whomever she thought would be waiting for her in Crooked Creek. For once, she wasn’t bothering him.

He rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but the ping of the rain pelting the metal washbasins echoed above the storm like rifle shots.

“Jeezzo, woman! What other kind of torture will you think up next?”

Noelle chuckled as she slipped inside the thin bedroll and blew out the lantern. Outside, the wind and rain droned like a coyote howling at the moon. Despite the storm’s fury, she felt safe and protected, thanks to the disquieting man who slept beneath her wagon.

Noelle bolted up from her bedroll, wide awake. She glanced about. Thunder rolled. Lightning flashed, then another clap of thunder boomed. The wagon creaked against the wind. Brushing the loose tendrils from her face, she laid back against the makeshift pillow. Would the rain prevent them from reaching Crooked Creek by tomorrow? If so, would Luke go on ahead without her?

Another crack of lightning lit the sky, then earsplitting thunder. Suddenly, Noelle remembered the basins of rainwater. A gift from heaven.

Wrapping the shawl about her shoulders, Noelle braced for the storm. Wind tore at her as she wedged her way to the ground. As quietly as she could, Noelle crept to the enameled pans. Delighted to find them almost full, she lugged each container back inside the wagon.

Excitement rushed through her as she realized this was her first preparation for the most important event in her life since her father died. Of course, deciding to leave New York City had been the most important decision, but finally to meet her uncle—the only relative she had. Yes, it was decidedly the most important event.

Noelle carefully poured the precious essence of lilac into the cold water. The fragrance always restored her spirits with happy memories. She smiled as the sweet floral essence filled her lungs. She felt as if she were ten years old, hand in hand with her mother, strolling Central Park after attending Noelle’s father’s Saturday matinee performance at the Niboli Theater. How her mother had loved the hedge of blooming lilacs along the park.

A sudden sadness wrenched her as she remembered her mother’s tearful surprise when Noelle purchased the essence of lilac for her mother’s birthday. Noelle had tutored students in Latin and mathematics to earn the extra money. She knew the perfume was extravagant, but that was why she bought the gift She knew her mother would never lavish something so expensive on herself.

Noelle blinked back the sting of tears. The smell of lilacs also reminded Noelle of her own wish. Someday, she’d have a house and garden, just like the one her mother had always wanted. But Noelle would have her dream, unlike her mother, who had no choice but to settle for the rented rooms above Harrison’s Saloon where Noelle and her parents lived.

Noelle put the thought from her mind as she poured the soft water over her head. Then, she soaped her long hair, enjoying the simple luxury. When she’d finished, she carefully squeezed the thick, white lather from her coils of hair before dipping her head into the rinse bucket. The rainwater felt silky to her fingers. Definitely a gift from heaven.

Soap stung her eyes. She muffled a cry as she squeezed her eyes shut while carefully feeling in the darkness for the towel she had carefully laid on top of the trunk. Suddenly, the water bucket tipped and a whoosh of water spilled into her lap. She forced her eyes open.

“What the hell!” Luke yelled, coughing and sputtering below the prairie schooner.

Oh, no! Noelle felt her way in the darkness for the lantern. She reached on the top shelf for the Mason jar filled with matches. “I-I’m so sorry, Mr. Savage,” she offered. Her eyes stung with soap as she forced herself to see. “I-I tried not to disturb you—”

“Disturb me? Jeez, woman! You just drowned me.” Her fingers shook as she lit the lantern. “I-I’m so sorry, Mr. Savage.” She winced at the thought of him beneath the wagon, jarred from sleep by the deluge of water between the floorboards of the wagon.

She crouched down beside the sputtering lantern, moving clothing and boxes out of the way of the spilled water.

Suddenly the curtain jerked back and Luke stood, glaring at her. Black hair streamed down his face, his shirt and vest were splotched with white suds, his leather pants and boots glistened with dampness, and essence of lilac permeated the air.

“Mercy!” Her hand shot to her mouth as she took in the sight of him.

“Where’d you think the water was going to go?” Luke’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. His anger vanished, replaced by a feeling like a boot kick to the stomach. In the soft yellow lantern light, Noelle bent over the spilled water bucket. The neckline of her gown dipped provocatively over one shoulder. He caught sight of the dark cleft between her breasts.

Cursing himself for the effect she had on him, Luke tried not to look at the wet-stained bosom where a long tangle of hair, the color of saltwater toffee, fell over one shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated, jumping to her feet. Her nipples were hard beneath the thin, wet nightgown. Suddenly aware of her appearance, she grabbed her shawl and pulled it modestly around her. Unfortunately, the gesture did nothing to halt his imagination of how she would look, naked beneath him.

She rose to her feet, clutching a thick towel. Before he could say anything, she took a step toward him and daubed his wet shirt and vest with the cloth.

“I-I’ll do that,” Luke managed to growl, yanking the towel from her. Their fingers touched, and he felt as if he’d been struck by the lightning streaking outside the wagon.

Noelle released the towel as if it were a hot branding fork. She stepped back, suddenly self-conscious for touching him. “I-I didn’t mean—” Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. “I-I’m so sorry.” She stroked her wet hair, as though she didn’t know what to do with her hands. He wondered if she could possibly feel the same way as he did.

Of course she didn’t. She was a proper New York bluestocking, and she trusted him, damn his soul. She had no idea what low-down thoughts were going through his mind faster than a Nevada jackrabbit.

He forced his gaze away, but in his mind, he could still see the way her breasts strained against the drenched, sheer cotton nightgown. “I’ll dry myself off with the horse blanket.” He chanced a darting glance at her. “Here, you need this worse than I do,” he said, tossing the towel back at her.

Noelle shivered, catching the towel. For the first time, Luke realized that she might take a chill. He took off his jacket and dropped it over her shoulders.

“Dry your hair and change into warm clothes. I’ll bring you some whiskey to chase that chill.”

“Whiskey?” Her chin lifted a notch. “Amelia Bloomer says that liquor is the devil’s own hell’s broth. Look what trouble those poor Indian braves encountered after drinking Mr. Douglas’s whiskey, besides—”

“Who the hell is Amelia Bloomer?”

She sniffed. “Amelia Bloomer is the publisher of Lily, a very respected ladies’ periodical—”

“You’re in Nevada, Little Miss Sunshine, not New York City. Here, whiskey is medicine, among other things.” He turned and shot out of the wagon while he still could. He swore, then put on his hat while he trudged to his saddlebags. He reached inside, pulled out the bottle of whiskey and gulped a generous swig himself. Noelle’s shadow was silhouetted against the schooner’s stretched canvas, reminding him of her every feminine curve, much to his consternation.

Damn, what did he ever do to deserve this temptation? He swallowed, then strode back toward the tailgate. He could force himself to be a gentlemen for one more day. But once they reached Crooked Creek, that lady was on her own, Uncle Marcel or no Uncle Marcel.

“I said I don’t drink spirits.”

He pulled out the cork and handed the jug to her. “This might be the only thing that will keep you from catching a fever. Just how far will we get if you get sick, huh? Now, take a swig. You won’t go to hell—I promise.”

She shot him a reproachful glance. “Very well, I’ll take one taste if you promise to quit pestering me.” She closed her eyes, held her nose with two fingers, then took a mouthful and swallowed.

Her eyelids flew open, and she gave a choked cough.

Nick grabbed the bottle from her before she dropped it. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? I bet ol’ Amelia Bloomer couldn’t have belted one down any better.”

Noelle managed a scathing glare before she coughed again. Finally, she inhaled a deep gasp of breath.

Nick grinned. “Now get out of those wet clothes. When you’re dressed, blow out the lantern. G’night Miss Bellencourt.”

Noelle heard him climb down the back of the wagon. The whiskey burned a path straight to her belly, and already she felt flushed from the experience. Or was it Luke Savage?

What was she feeling? She wasn’t afraid of him, of that she was certain. Luke was nothing like the men who would frequent Harrison’s tavern late at night, ogling her when she came home from the theater. Maybe that was it. She had never met anyone quite like him.

Her pulse quickened when she recalled how Luke had stared at her. Soaked to the skin, he was justifiably angry. But she recognized the dark and mysterious way that his eyes brightened when his gaze raked over her.

Desire.

She’d admit that it was desire that stirred her being when he grabbed her waist, earlier. When she began to touch his leather vest, she felt him tense beneath her touch, and in that fleeting moment...

Nonsense. What she felt was appreciation, nothing more. She was grateful to him, and Uncle Marcel would repay his services once they arrived in Crooked Creek. Then she could forget Luke.

And they would arrive safely, thanks to Luke. Yes, it was gratitude she felt and nothing else.

She removed her wet garments and put on a high-necked cotton nightgown. After blowing out the lantern, she turned her bedroll over, then curled up to sleep. “Pleasant dreams, Mr. Savage.”

Luke’s low mumbling from beneath the wagon renewed her feeling of safety. She closed her eyes, content.

“Come on, Sunshine, time to wake up!”

Noelle opened one eyelid and peered into the darkness. A few inches from her, Luke leaned on one elbow and smiled down at her. He lay on a rumpled bedroll, the horse blanket hugging his shoulders.

Noelle jerked her head up. “Wh-what are you doing in my wagon?”

Luke’s mouth tipped slightly. “I was sleeping. What did you think?”

She gasped, unable to hide her astonishment. “I didn’t give you permission to—”

“No sense asking for something you can’t get,” Luke drawled. “Besides, only a fool would sleep in a mud hole if there’s a dry space available.” He stretched lazily. “C’mon. The storm has stopped. I noticed you’ve got dry kindling under the wagon. You make the fire, I’ll be back in a while.”

Noelle clasped her shawl in front of her and pointed to the closed curtains at the rear. “Now that you’re awake, get out!”

Luke raked back the hair from his face. “Jeezzo, woman! Are you always this snappish in the morning?”

“Out!” She grabbed his bedroll and blanket, tossing them after him. His deep chuckle made her cheeks burn.

After he left, Noelle took a deep breath, then tried to calm herself. But his words plagued her mind: Only a fool would sleep in a mud hole if there’s a dry space available.

She sighed. What he had said made a logical sense, so very much like Luke. After all, his gear was soaked because of her—although it had been an accident. And with all that he’d done for her, how could she begrudge him a dry place to sleep?

She peered out the back of the wagon. Early dawn hugged the prairie in a stretch of deep violet shadow.

“Mr. Savage?” she called into the stillness.

Only the buckskin’s answering whinny disturbed the silence. The horse was tethered to the side of the wagon. Perhaps Luke had gone to fetch the oxen. When he returned, she’d apologize for her testy words.

By the time Noelle had finished dressing, Luke hadn’t returned. The unbidden thought that something might have happened to him flashed through her mind.

Tossing her shawl around her shoulders, Noelle grabbed the rifle and set out to look for him. Even a man as invincible as Luke Savage was vulnerable to wild animals and Indians, although he probably didn’t think so.

Her shoes sucked in the mud as she strode through the prairie, her eyes becoming accustomed to the half light. Although it should be easy to follow his steps in the wet sand, it was still too dark to see them. The storm rumbled in the distance; the moon hid behind low clouds.

Mesquite and sage hung heavy with last night’s rain, splattering her skirts with droplets as she strode past. She moved along the swaying shadows of brush, while visions of crouching sharp-fanged beasts or Indians with raised tomahawks intruded on her logic. Her heart began to pound. Had a pack of wolves or bandits sneaked up on Luke when he’d untied the oxen?

No, she would have heard something. Then where was Luke? Maybe he was disgusted with her earlier bad temper and felt she needed to be taught a lesson.

No. He wouldn’t deliberately cause her to worry. The idea surprised her, and the thought made her realize that not only could she trust him, but she knew he’d protect her, even with his life.

The thought gave her pause. Luke Savage was basically a decent man, despite the darker side of him that she’d rather not know about. Gambling—the social ill of the lowest kind. But she sensed he’d do her no harm, and for that, she’d be eternally grateful.

A coyote howled in the distance. She trembled, pulling the shawl tighter about herself. Maybe she should have started a fire before she went to look for Luke. Without a campfire to keep away wild animals, the coyotes, hungry and smelling the oxen, were a threat.

The wind picked up, cool and damp with the smell of sage. Noelle sidestepped a large tumbleweed rolling toward her, safely avoiding its sharp prickers.

So, where was Luke? The fine hairs on her forearms tingled. She took a deep breath, wilting herself to keep a calm head as Luke would do.

Suddenly, a whiff of something dreadfully familiar drifted on the wind. Her head lifted toward the scent of death. Since her journey West, she had smelled its presence more times than she cared to remember.

Bracing herself, she picked her way slowly toward the source of the stench. The area of the prairie grew open, flat and sparse of grass. After a few minutes, she hesitated, wondering if she should wander so far from camp. She glanced over her shoulder, astonished at how far she’d walked. She should return to the wagon. Then after sunrise, she would return to pursue her curiosity. Besides, maybe Luke had come back and was searching for her.

Before Noelle had time to turn around, she heard a whisper of movement beneath the wide branches of a mesquite bush. She wheeled around to see a hunched figure in the shadows. Her mouth went dry. She raised the rifle to take aim, while juggling the lamp. Her fingers shook on the trigger as she drew the object into her sights.

“Luke? Is that you?” she called out, hopefully. The only answer was the rustling of branches as the dark shape crept closer.

“Luke?” Her voice rose to an unrecognizable pitch. Her mouth filled with the metallic taste of fear.

A feeble cry shattered the stillness as a wobbly-legged calf staggered toward her. Noelle gasped with relief. She lowered the rifle and the lantern, her heart racing like a runaway mare.

Not more than a few weeks old, she’d guess. She’d witnessed many cattle births while she traveled with the wagon train.

Where was its mother? Then Noelle saw the silent, dark heap of an animal, obviously the calf’s mother, lying nearby. Her throat tightened with the harsh reality of life.

“Come here, precious,” she whispered to the orphaned calf. She knelt beside the furry animal. She rubbed the calf’s velvety white face, and checked the animal’s rib cage for broken bones. She winced at the frail little body, but the animal appeared not to be injured.

“Wait until Uncle Luke sees you,” Noelle said, smiling. She set the lantern on the ground and slung the rifle over her shoulder. When she gathered the calf in her arms, she was surprised at how tame the calf appeared to be. Poor thing. Probably too weak from hunger and thirst to protest.

“You won’t have to worry about those bad coyotes any more,” she whispered.

Its saucer-size brown eyes gazed up at her with such innocence, that Noelle felt her throat strain with unshed tears. She hugged the calf and strode purposely in the direction of the wagon.

When she arrived at the camp, the horse whinnied, but there was no sign of Luke. Her worry returned. Although she wanted to search for him, she decided she’d wait until the sun rose. By then, she wouldn’t need the light, but she wouldn’t forget to retrieve the lantern where she left it in the prairie. She put the rifle down near the wagon.

The calf uttered a weak, mooing sound. She patted its head while she thought. It would be dawn within the hour. If Luke wasn’t back by then, she’d follow his tracks to see where he’d gone.

The calf nuzzled against her warmth, and she rubbed her fingers across the pink nose. The animal grabbed her finger, sucking hard. Noelle felt a pang of sympathy for the starving animal. She felt inside its mouth; a row of teeth protruded along the lower gum, but the upper gum was bare. She picked up the calf and placed it down inside the wagon, then she rummaged through the sparse food supplies. The only suitable food she had was canned milk and cornmeal.

She jumped down from the wagon and opened the trail box, but nothing she found would provide a container to give the calf a drink. The buckskin whinnied nervously, pawing the ground, as though jittery that its master hadn’t returned.

Noelle glanced toward the horse, then noticed Luke’s leather gloves shoved under the ties on the saddle. She took one of the large gloves and tried it on her right hand.

Yes, this would do nicely. She smiled as she strode to the water barrel. First, she’d poke a hole in the finger, then fill the glove with milk mixed with water. At least it would provide the calf with immediate nourishment until she made a gruel out of cornmeal. When they were on the trail and into better pasture conditions, she’d cut needle grass for the poor little thing.

With a knife, she poked a small hole in the fingertip of the sturdy leather. She winced at what Luke might say. But when she arrived in Crooked Creek, she’d ask Uncle Marcel to advance her enough money to purchase a pair of gloves for Luke from her first week’s wages.

Luke’s long strides gained ground as he strode in the direction of the prairie schooner. Coffee. Black and hot. Sizzling bacon and a pile of feathery flapjacks as only Hoot, the cook at the Crooked Creek’s café can make ’em. Luke groaned at the tempting images in his mind as his stomach growled louder than a grizzly.

If only Luke had kept riding instead of following the dead man’s tracks back to Noelle’s wagon. By now, he’d be waking up beside Jubilee at the Silver Hearts Saloon, well rested, with all of his needs deeply sated.

Instead, he’d have one more day of walking through prairie, back to town, leading a team pulling a busted wagon, with nothing to quiet his appetite but beef jerky. He swore as he shoved the binoculars back in the case and looped the strap around his neck.

Appetite, hell. What bothered him wouldn’t be satisfied by food, damn him. Noelle Bellencourt was a hindrance he couldn’t afford. Yet she ignited a flame in him that grew each time he saw her.

He swallowed, remembering how she’d looked when he crawled into the wagon, drenched from last night’s storm. He’d made the mistake to steal a glance at her after he’d fashioned a makeshift bed from his saddlebags and blanket.

Her flaxen blond head nestled against the pillow of blankets where she lay, asleep. Even in the darkness, he’d been able to see her lovely face, framed in the white lace of her nightgown, like an angel in repose.

He’d tried not to stare, but damn, he couldn’t help himself. The memory brought an unbidden rush of feelings, feelings he didn’t want to feel. Women like Noelle Bellencourt came with a high price. Marriage. Home. Children.

He drew a deep breath. She needed a responsible man to take care of her, and she wouldn’t find him in a rough mining town like Crooked Creek. She’d learn that lesson sooner or later, and he didn’t want to be around when she did.

Early streaks of sunlight began to appear along the hilly horizon. The chimney of a lantern glimmered in the sun. Luke’s eyes narrowed as he strode toward the familiar object. When he recognized it as Noelle’s lantern, his mind raced. What the hell had she been doing this far from the wagon? And where was she now?

Luke charged toward the prairie schooner. Deuce tossed his head, nickering a welcome as the animal sensed his master approach the camp. Before Luke reached the unlit wagon and tore open the curtains, he heard Noelle’s humming from inside the wagon.

Relief, as monumental as he’d ever felt, coursed through him. When he returned his rifle into the saddle scabbard, he realized his hands were shaking. He took a calming breath, while he scratched along Deuce’s neck. The sweet sounds of Noelle’s voice drifted on the sage-scented air, and he could hardly keep himself from running inside, holding her to be sure she was all right.

What are you doing, Savage? He took another deep breath, but nothing seemed to burn the image and the resulting thoughts from his mind. He forced himself to face her.

“Miss Bellencourt. I’m back,” he called before climbing onto the tailgate and peeking inside.

Noelle glanced up from her place in the center of the wagon. In her lap was a calf, not much bigger than a large dog. She was spooning a thin, yellow liquid down the animal’s throat.

“Jeezzo, woman—”

Noelle’s smile faded, and she stiffened. “I found him while I was searching for you. His mother had died.” She frowned. “And where have you been? I was worried to death.”

“I’ve been out checking the trail ahead.”

“Why didn’t you take your horse?”

“Too noisy.”

“How could you see in the dark?”

“I was looking for campfires.” Luke studied the scrawny calf. “Besides, I can see in the dark as well as an animal.”

Her brows lifted in skepticism. “Did you see any Indians?”

“Indians are too smart to leave signs. We can only guess that they’re out there. I did see a campfire up ahead, about three hours away. With any luck, they’ll be gone by the time we get there.”

“Do you think they’re friendly?”

“Prepare for the worst.” He glanced toward her. “We’ve got to be on our way. Let the calf go.”

“What do you mean, let him go?”

Luke sighed. “We can’t take the calf. It’ll slow us down. Most of the grass around here is pale green. That means alkali. We’ll have all we can handle to keep the team away from the bad grass, without having to play nursemaid to a calf.”

Luke jumped down from the wagon and strode toward the oxen.

Noelle shot her head out the rear curtains. “Mr. Savage, may I remind you that this is my wagon and my calf.”

“The calf or me, Miss Bellencourt.” Luke’s long-legged stride didn’t falter. “It’s your call.”

Chapter Four

Unreasonable, pigheaded, mule of a man! The words remained unspoken, because Noelle refused to give him the satisfaction of arguing. Besides, she knew Luke was right. The calf would slow them down.

The calf scratched its curly head against her arm. She couldn’t help but smile at the little creature. There must be a way to convince Luke to take the calf.

She raked her fingers along the top of its chin as she thought. “Pay no attention to your bad-mannered Uncle Luke. He has a great deal on his mind. But rest assured, little one. You’ll not be left behind as a meal for the coyotes.”

The calf licked her hand with its raspish tongue, and Noelle smiled. Finding the calf was a good omen. A good omen for Luke, as well.

By the time Luke returned to the wagon from scouting ahead on the trail, Noelle sat primly on the driver’s bench, the oxen were hitched and waiting, and the calf was nowhere in sight.

Luke tied his horse to the back of the rig, then strolled to the driver’s seat. Grabbing the reins of the oxen, he glanced at the woman beside him. “Came to your senses, I see.”

The poke bonnet she wore hid her expression, but he didn’t miss the challenging lift of her chin in response. Luke knew better than to think she’d give up easily on the idea of bringing the calf. He paused, waiting for her reply.

Finally she met his gaze. “We’re losing daylight, Mr. Savage. I thought you were in a hurry—” A long raspy bleat from inside the wagon interrupted her.

Luke jumped up and dashed inside the rig for the calf. But Noelle grabbed the calf only moments before and clutched the bewildered animal to her bosom.

Noelle’s blue eyes glittered defiantly. “Don’t you dare touch him.”

“Jeezzo, woman! Don’t you know that you can’t hold that animal all day? And if you leave him in a moving wagon, he’ll fall and break his neck. Use the sense God gave you and think of the animal.”

Her stubborn glare was her only answer.

Luke swore, then took a deep breath. “Be reasonable, woman. Give him to me, and I’ll put him out of his misery. He won’t feel a thing.”

Noelle’s eyes rounded in horror. The calf shifted awkwardly within her grip. She moved to the back of the wagon, coaxing the animal to her, then grabbed the spindly-legged critter in her arms as she climbed down.

Luke watched as Noelle marched around the prairie schooner, the calf in her arms, and strode in front of Luke as she made her way along the trail. Wind swished the calico skirts about her ankles as she balanced the calf in her arms.

“You won’t last five minutes,” Luke yelled. Angry with himself as much as with her, Luke snapped up the oxen’s reins and urged the team after her.

The wagon creaked and swayed with the load. Luke held his breath to see if the cottonwood log would hold fast as it dragged in place of the rear wheel. He sighed with momentary relief. So far, so good.

Within minutes, Luke and the team caught up to Noelle and the calf. She stepped aside to let him pass, her determined blue gaze focused straight ahead.

Damn, she was an ironclad female! He’d laugh if the situation wasn’t so dangerous. “We’re beginning a stretch of alkali desert with water unfit to drink,” he yelled at her. “Grass unfit to eat that only teases the animals. If we break down, we’ll be forced to leave the wagon and strike out on foot through country fraught with Paiutes, desperadoes and greenhorns who are so frightened they’ll shoot first and think later.”

Her only answer was a quickened pace. He grumbled to himself. “Of course if those culprits were to come upon a woman...” He paused, hoping his words had finally found their mark.

Instead, she clutched the critter as a she-bear clutches its cub. Noelle’s poke bonnet pointed straight in the air as she marched past the prairie schooner, with the calf mooing plaintively from her arms.

“Okay, lady. It’s your choice.”

Luke urged the team to a slow, steady gait along the slope of desert that spread before them. A few minutes later, he stole a backward glance. The calf’s head bobbed as Noelle began to struggle with her load. Her jaunty march had slowed to a dragging shuffle. Beneath Noelle’s loose gown, he could imagine her knees almost buckling with the weight of the calf. But he knew Noelle wouldn’t give up until she dropped. “You’ve been warned, lady. Don’t call to me for help. I’ve got a stage to catch.”

Luke clenched his jaw, determined to be as stubborn as she was.

When he had traveled several more miles, Luke drew the team to a stop. He glanced over his shoulder briefly and felt relieved to see that now the calf ambled beside her. Luke shook his head as he watched Noelle force one foot in front of the other, trail dust from the wagon covering both her and the calf. Damn if he didn’t admire her determination. He’d never met any woman who would have put up with what she had without complaint.

The sun and dust beat through the thin calico of Noelle’s travel-worn gown and apron. Loose hair from beneath her sunbonnet flew across her face. It didn’t matter. Each painful step brought her closer to meeting her uncle. To see the surprised and happy expression on his face when he saw her was worth every sacrifice.

What if Uncle Marcel had married since his last letter over a year ago? Perhaps she might have a new aunt and maybe even a little niece or nephew. The idea almost brought tears of joy to her eyes. Yes, she was tired, but she’d walk through fire to be part of a family again.

Ahead, she noticed that Luke Savage had stopped to rest the team. He leaned against the wagon, drinking from the water barrel and smoking a cigarette. His broad shoulders contrasted attractively with his slim hips and long tapered legs. She felt a frisson of feminine response, chastising herself immediately. She averted her glance to the calf, wobbling along beside her. She would refuse to rest; she would take his offer of water, but nothing else.

“Don’t move!”

Noelle glanced at Luke, who stood about twenty feet from where she walked. He aimed his six-shooter at the calf.

“Whatever are you...?”

“Don’t take another step, I said.” Luke stood as still as the mountain range, aiming his gun at the calf ambling at her side.

“No!,” she cried. “No, don’t—!”

The shot rang out, echoing along the far hills. She froze, afraid to look. She forced her eyes open and glanced at the calf. Within two feet of the animal lay the largest rattlesnake—a sidewinder—she had ever seen. Shot dead.

She hugged the calf, then gazed up at Luke as he sauntered toward her. She swallowed the dry dust in her throat. “I—I thought...” She swallowed the words.

“I know what you thought.” He slid the revolver into his holster. “I think this is the time when you tell me how Uncle Marcel will reward me most generously.” His deep brown eyes glittered with amusement as his fingers slid over his dimpled scar.

She wiped her face with her apron. Lack of sleep, heat and fatigue made her dizzy. A flush of self-consciousness tore at her senses. She lifted the calf in her arms, refusing to give him up.

“You win.” Luke spat the words as he strode beside her. “Give me the runt.”

She glanced at him suspiciously.

He scowled. “Don’t look at me like that. I won’t hurt the critter.” He shot her an arched look. “Besides, I’ve changed my mind. If the animal makes it to town alive, you can sell it. The extra money will help pay your fare back to New York where you belong.”

Noelle pulled back. “I’m not a quitter, Mr. Savage.”

“That’s nice.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, then tossed it to the ground, grinding the butt in the sand with the heel of his boot. “But this land makes quitters out of a lot of strong people. If your uncle isn’t waiting for you in town, you’ll have little choice but to head back where you came from.”

Noelle shot him a fueled look, but she said nothing. He watched her climb onto the driver’s seat and pick up the reins.

Within the next few minutes, Luke had unhitched Deuce from the back of the wagon and mounted the horse, placing the calf across his lap. The grating bleat was its only protest.

Luke watched as Noelle straightened the reins, then settled back against the seat. She turned to give him an appreciative smile. “You’re a decent, kind human being, Mr. Savage.”

I’m a sucker for a pretty face, he thought irritably. Damn, you’d think he’d know better after what he’d been through with women. “Let’s move out,” he said instead.

With one hand, Luke balanced the calf across his lap while he pulled out the gloves he kept tucked beneath his saddle. Pulling on the right glove, Luke glanced down to see his trigger finger poking out of a hole in the leather.

“What the...?”

The critter lifted its head and bleated. In a heartbeat, the calf grabbed Luke’s trigger finger and sucked. Luke stared, then glared at Noelle. He didn’t need the sticky dampness inside his glove as further evidence to know that he was wearing the calf’s nursing mitt.

Noelle’s chuckle further irritated him.

“Don’t tell me.” His words shot back. “I assume you’ll be asking Uncle Marcel to buy me a new pair of gloves.”

“Mr. Savage,” she said, purring the words. “You’ve been so very kind that my uncle will reward you with a new suit, as well.” She pursed her lips and stroked her chin as she studied his travel-worn outfit. “Maybe a new hat, neck scarf and boots—”

“No need, Sunshine, but thanks.” Luke shoved his hat down over his face and led Deuce into a slow walk. Does she think she can buy her way to whatever she wants?

Damn, he really didn’t want to know what she thought. All he knew was that because of Noelle, he’d arrive in Crooked Creek carrying a bony animal in his arms, which stunk worse than he did. He only hoped he could sneak into town without anyone seeing his trigger finger sticking out of the calf’s nursing glove, and his clothes reeking of lilacs.

Little Miss Sunshine, on the other hand, would arrive fresh as all springtime, her shiny curls bouncing beneath a sprightly new bonnet. She’d probably wear that blue silk gown that he’d noticed after Little Henry and the other two Indians had rummaged through tier trunks.

Luke’s gaze wandered across the muddy trail that sprawled ahead of them. Proves that women like Noelle Bellencourt could take care of themselves. Besides, it was none of his business what happened to her.

But Blackjack on the other hand...

A corner of Luke’s mouth lifted into a smile. If Blackjack was planning to make that ’Frisco stage today, the old man would be waking up just about now, yawning and scratching, never dreaming that by nightfall, he’d be staring out of prison bars.

And with a little luck, Luke might make it to town in time to surprise Blackjack before he embarked on the stage. Yeah, with just a little luck.

About ten-thirty, Luke guessed, gauging the distance of the sun from the horizon. He’d taken the driver’s seat while Noelle had busied herself, preparing for her arrival to meet her uncle at Crooked Creek.

The sun-faded wooden buildings spread along both sides of the main street of Crooked Creek like miniature wooden blocks he and his brother had played with as children.

The curtains behind him swished open and Noelle came to take the reins from him. He glanced at her. Noelle, dressed in the blue silk gown, looked more lovely that he’d imagined. Freshly scrubbed, radiant with excitement, Noelle smiled at him, as though waiting for him to notice.

Their gloves touched when he handed the reins to her. “Changed your frock, I see,” he said, wishing immediately that he hadn’t mentioned that he’d noticed. He kept his eyes on the trail, feeling more flustered than when he was ten years old and forced to attend his first dancing class in Philadelphia.

Luke stepped from the wagon onto his horse in one fluid movement. He knew Noelle was watching him. Probably she was irritated that he didn’t tell her how pretty she looked in her blue dress that matched the color of her eyes.

Seated on his mount, Luke leaned over and picked up the calf from behind the seat. The calf appeared at ease as it laid across Luke’s lap. Within minutes, it curled its head back around to the pommel and went to sleep.

“Thanks to you, Mr. Savage, we have survived,” Noelle said. He felt her appreciative gaze upon him.

“Yeah.”

“My uncle will want to meet you, Mr. Savage. Where will you be staying, if I may ask?”

He pulled out a bag of tobacco, then rolled a cigarette paper with one hand. He didn’t have to see her to visualize her my-uncle-will-make-everything-all-right look on her face.

“Silver Hearts Saloon.”

He heard her slight intake of breath.

“Oh.”

They rode in silence, listening to the creaking and jostling of the wagon and the steady braying of the oxen.

“There’s the jail,” he said, pointing to a one-story, adobe building. Luke’s back straightened as he glanced around for any sign of the waiting stage. “I’ll drop you off at the lawyer’s office above the bank building, then I’ll take your rig over to Shep’s Livery Stable where your uncle can pick it up.”

“I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Savage. I don’t want to think what might have happened to me if you hadn’t come along.”

The smell of lilacs still wafted from his clothing. His perfectly fitting gloves were ruined, and as soon as he yanked Blackjack off the stage and saw that the scoundrel was safely behind bars, Luke planned to head for the public bath. He’d need to soak a month to get the dust from his bones. “My pleasure, miss.”

He gazed at her. The blue silk did match her morning glory blue eyes. With that perky bonnet with the jaunty feather curling above her heart-shaped face, Noelle would captivate the lawyer, Mike O‘Shea, at first sight. Among the widows, prospectors’ wives and hookers in Crooked Creek, there weren’t any single women like Noelle Bellencourt. Yeah, O’Shea would be dazzled, all right.

Luke took a deep breath. Her hands, holding the team’s reins, were clad in delicate sprigged muslin gloves. He hadn’t seen such stylish clothing since he’d left Philadelphia.

Suddenly Noelle’s eyes widened. “Isn’t that the stage you were waiting for?”

Luke tore his gaze from her and stared as the San Francisco stage tore through the main street and angled off in a northwesterly direction.

“Hell’s bells!” Luke’s horse circled around. “Here,” he yelled, dropping the calf into her lap.

“But I—” Noelle’s mouth opened to protest, but by the time she grabbed onto the calf and pulled him onto her lap, Luke had already kicked his horse into a gallop and taken off after the stage.

Noelle stopped the team, then settled the calf behind her inside the wagon. The calf leaned heavily against her back. She watched Luke and the buckskin shorten the distance between him and the stage.

“Come little one,” she said finally, picking up the reins. “Let’s find Uncle Marcel.”

Luke’s single shot brought the stage to a halt. The driver’s smile of recognition widened. “Whoa, Luke. What’s the matter?”

Luke slid from his horse and grabbed the stage door. “Don’t mean to delay you for long, folks,” he said, tipping his hat to the astonished faces staring from the windows, “but I’m only—” Luke opened the door, and in those first few seconds, disbelief filled his thoughts. “Where the heck is Blackjack?”

Willie Hanson, the stagecoach driver jumped down from the driver’s bench. “Blackjack? You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Dammit, Luke. I hate to be the one to tell ya, but your partner went to his justly reward.”

Luke leaned on the open stage door, his boot on the step. “Justly reward? You saying Blackjack died?”

Willie touched his hat brim. “Three days ago, Luke. I—I thought you knew.”

“No, I’ve been at Lake’s Crossing the past two weeks.” He turned back to Willie. “How’d it happen?”

Willie shook his head. “Ol’ Blackjack was headin’ back along the Truckee River when he must have hit a bump, or his horse got scared by a rattler. His rig toppled into the river and he drowned.” Willie removed his hat and stared at his shoes. “Just after the big rain, and the river was swollen by the flash flood.” He shook his head. “Terrible shock.”

“Yeah.” Luke had never thought of Blackjack as being capable of dying. “Did I miss the funeral?”

Willie shook his head. “Never found the body, but his coat and that black top hat he always wore were snagged on a branch alongside the river. Figured the body is long gone to China by now.”

Luke knew a rat when he smelled one. “Are you telling me they never found Blackjack’s body?”

Willie squinted, frowning. “Can’t have a body if it rushed along a ragin’ river, too, can we?”

“How do you know that Blackjack didn’t stage the accident to make us think he drowned?”

“Why’d he do that?”

Luke mounted his horse and turned toward town. “Never mind, Willie. Sorry I held you up for nothing.” He waved, then headed back to town.

Luke knew what he’d do. He’d file criminal charges against his old partner, whether he was dead or alive. But deep in his soul, Luke sensed that Blackjack was somewhere, alive and well. “Not for long, partner. I’ll track you down until you pay me back every dollar that you’ve cheated me.”

By the time Luke reached the sheriffs office, he was grinning. “Just like Blackjack to think he could outsmart the townsfolk. But when I find him, he’ll sure as hell wish he were dead.”

Ten minutes later, as Luke stepped up to Sheriff Wade’s office, Noelle Bellencourt and the town’s only lawyer, Mike O’Shea, were coming out the door.

“Mr. Savage, the most awful thing has happened.” Noelle’s face was pale and from O’Shea’s protective hand upon Noelle’s elbow, Luke knew he had been correct about the lawyer’s reaction to her.

“I’ve had a bit of bad news, myself,” Luke said. Focusing back to her, he asked, “Didn’t your Uncle Marcel arrive yet?”

Tears sprung to her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Savage. My uncle is dead.”

“Dead?”

Just then, Sheriff Wade stepped outside into the sunlight. “Terrible thing, Luke. Who’d ever think that Blackjack would end up being flushed along the Truckee River.”

Luke and Noelle turned to stare at Sheriff Wade.

“Noelle’s Uncle Marcel?” Luke asked.

“And Luke’s partner, Blackjack?” Noelle’s voice was barely a whisper.

“One and the same.” Sheriff Wade glanced at the lawyer.

“It’s true, Luke.” Mike O’Shea pulled out a clean linen handkerchief and handed it to Noelle. “I’ve got his last will and testament in my office. My client’s legal name was Marcel Jacques Bellencourt.”

Noelle’s chin quivered, her fingers tightened around the white handkerchief in her hand. “Mr. O’Shea said that my uncle had called himself by the last name of Bell. And he went by his middle name.” She swallowed. “I think I’d like to see his home now, please.” Her eyes blinked back tears.

“Come this way, Miss Bellencourt. It‘s—” Mike O’Shea exchanged glances with Luke. “It might be better if I found you a place to stay with one of the widows in town.”

Noelle shook her head. “No. If the house is good enough for my uncle,, it’s good enough for me.”

Luke already knew what she had in store. “O’Shea, why don’t you let me show her Uncle Marcel’s home, since I’m going right by there, myself.”

Luke took Noelle’s arm and eased her from the lawyer’s grasp.

O’Shea flared. “As her legal representative, I think the lady should come with me.”

Luke’s only answer was a smile as he led Noelle across the dusty main street and past the half-dozen saloons and dance halls that crowded the main drag of town.

Mike O’Shea glared at Luke as he raced to catch up with them. Noelle’s mouth pressed into a firm determined line, her gaze straight ahead. Luke grinned. Damn, he could hardly wait to see the look on her face when she saw the Silver Hearts Saloon.

Chapter Five

Ike’s tinkling piano rendition of “Oh, Susanna” blared from inside the swinging doors of the Silver Hearts Saloon.

Luke stopped, then swept his arm toward the sign above the establishment. “Miss Bellencourt, may I present your kindly uncle’s abode.”

O’Shea grabbed her sleeve. “Don’t go in there, Miss—”

“I’ll take care of the lady, O’Shea,” Luke said, removing the lawyer’s hand from her arm. “Why don’t you go back to your office and file some claims or something?”

O’Shea glared at Luke like a man who’d just had his claim jumped. “I think the lady should have something to say about that.” He craned his head around Luke’s broad shoulder to peer at Noelle. “I’m certain your uncle would have wished me to act as your protector, Miss Bellencourt,” he said, his left hand straightening his bow tie.

Noelle gave him a proud little smile. “Thank you, Mr. O’Shea, but I’ll be quite all right.”

That’s what you think, Luke mused, though he didn’t want to say anything to scare her. Damn, but she needed a solid dose of the grim reality of what life was like in Crooked Creek, and the sooner she found out, the sooner she’d be on the next eastbound stage.

“Very well. I’ll be in my office, across the street, if you need anything, Miss Bellencourt.” O’Shea’s smile faded as soon as Noelle turned away, then he shot Luke a murderous look.

Luke chuckled back at him. Noelle pushed through the swinging doors and hurried inside the saloon. Luke dashed after her, his hand at her waist, half expecting her to swoon.

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