KATE BRIDGES
THE PROPOSITION

This book is dedicated with everlasting thanks and

deepest respect to my agent, mentor and friend,

Charles Schlessiger. Thank you, Charles, for

taking a chance and believing in an unknown writer.

It’s a pleasure working with you.

I’d also like to thank my friend and fellow writer

Janine Whalley for her generous contribution of time

and advice on the matter of horses. Thanks, Janine,

for patiently answering every question I had regarding

stallions, broodmares, foals and training.

Any mistakes I may have made in the story are my own.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Chapter One

Alberta, July 1892

Unaware of it, the man astride the horse dominated her attention. For three days running, Jessica Haven had watched Sergeant Major Travis Reid exercising the stallion on the oval track inside the fort, desperately trying to have a word with him, and for three days running the officer had ignored her. Today she’d force him to listen.

Sitting in the bleachers beside her, awash in early-morning sunlight, a small group had gathered to watch. The men concentrated on the dangerous bucking of the unbroken mustang, but Jessica knew the women focused on Travis.

“It’s a pity he’s leavin’ his horses,” said the banker.

“Sad shame what happened to his wife,” whispered the commander’s sister.

The officer twisted in the saddle. Leaning forward in concentration, his dark head tilted and body flexed, he melded with the sculpted lines of the horse. Dressed in the work clothes of the North-West Mounted Police—loose white shirt tucked into tight black breeches—he ran a large hand over the stallion’s neck and whispered something into its mane.

His hard muscles coaxed the animal into submission.

Jessica fanned her heated face and rearranged her flowing cotton skirts around her ankles, uncomfortable that it was obvious the man stirred her. Her absence of two years hadn’t changed his ability to dominate her senses.

Roughrider, his men had nicknamed him, a man skilled at riding untamed horses.

The name suited him, she thought, watching him dismount. He was rough. Travis was a master horseman, the Mounties’ best. Jessica had heard he also excelled at tracking outlaws, that he’d been promoted four times in three years. He’d risen from corporal to sergeant major faster than prairie lightning.

“Sergeant Major!” she shouted, jumping out of her seat and racing into the stables behind the intimidating man and beast.

Rows and rows of horses filled the stalls. Warm gashes of sunlight filtered through plank walls; the soothing scent of fresh straw and oats drifted around her.

“The girth wasn’t tight enough. I had to fix it.” Swinging one long leg off the saddle, Officer Reid spoke to a stable boy. “The stallion has a tricky habit of holding his breath when you saddle him, keeping his chest expanded. Next time walk him a few paces till he exhales, Shamus, then tighten the girth again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“May I help you, Miss Haven?” Another Mountie, carrying a pitchfork, stepped into her path. “You’re looking exceptionally fine. Welcome home. Is anyone escorting you to the pub social this eve—”

“No, thank you.” Panting, Jessica dodged through the workmen. “Officer Reid!”

Travis eyed her, then turned sharply on his black leather boot, broad shoulders twisting, ready to leave.

The insult burned deep. The man still had a way of brushing her aside. “Travis! I’d like a word with you! Please!”

She dashed out and nearly stumbled over a cluster of barn cats. Four small kittens froze in her path, the smallest one, a tawny fur ball, hunched its shoulders and peered up at her.

Laughter bubbled in her throat. She lifted him, tucking his entire body into one palm. Pressing her face into the downy neck, she enjoyed the tickle on her skin and its barnyard scent. “You’re so soft. A child would adore you.”

Travis turned around. The rippling shadows beneath his white shirt tightened in wary response. He said nothing, simply stared down at her as she drew closer. Her bonnet, sliding off her head but tied at her throat, bobbed along her spine. Her blond hair, braided neatly at the side, brushed along her shoulders.

Don’t be nervous, she told herself. Remain cheerful and simply ask the man.

Stroking the kitten, Jessica swallowed in a stew of emotions. Travis had the same solid jaw and firm cheeks she remembered. She looked lower. And there was something compelling about the physique of an active man, the straining and stretching of ropy muscles knotted from hard work and perseverance.

“Hello, Travis.”

His lips tugged into a cool line. “Back from charm school, are you?”

Her face heated, even as she nodded in agreement. Charm school. It was what her father had told everyone to cover his shame, but so far from the truth it was laughable. And her own shame made her go along with the story.

Travis’s deep blue eyes, almost navy in color, flickered. “The mayor’s daughter has returned to Calgary. Let’s all bow and bid her good welcome.”

He tilted his head in mock acknowledgment, a finger of his black hair falling on his forehead.

Hiding her humiliation, she lowered the kitten to the ground, near a bowl of water where his bigger black-and-white brothers and sisters were drinking. “Make way for the little one,” she coaxed. The kittens parted and she smiled softly.

She felt Travis’s gaze beating down on her tilted head. She wished she could erase the past.

He’d once called her a spoiled young woman. And shamefully, it’d been true. It had begun five years ago when she’d convinced her father to outbid Travis on a feisty stallion so they could buy it and she could learn to ride. Travis hadn’t had the money to compete, but he’d tried to convince her the horse wasn’t suitable for an inexperienced girl because of its size and temperament. She remorsefully admitted now that the stallion had attracted her simply for its color—a speckled gray with almost purplish mane and tail. And Travis had been right. She hadn’t been able to handle the horse and got such a fright she was still put off by large animals.

She had been rude. Self-absorbed. But in her defense, she’d also been young and inexperienced, and she’d learned a lot of things in the grueling years since.

Remain cheerful. “I heard you’re leaving for Devil’s Gorge tomorrow.”

“How do you know? I told very few people where I’m headed for my leave.”

“The commander’s wife told me. They joined us for dinner a few nights ago.”

He clicked his tongue in disapproval.

Unaffected, she continued. “I came to offer you a proposition. To pay you to take me along.” Her mouth parted with a silent plea. He had to say yes for her world to regain its balance.

“Absolutely not. I’ll pass on your proposition. This is a personal leave and a difficult seven-day journey. Ask at the livery stables if you want to hire a guide.”

The fluttering in her stomach tightened. Desperation trembled in her voice. “I already have but they’ve got two men out on trail and only one left. He leers at me and I just couldn’t spend an entire week…Even though I’d bring a chaperon. You know our family’s butler, Mr. Merriweather.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Travis stalked down the middle of the stalls, ducking buckets and workmen. Horses’ heads turned to watch him as he passed. “Ask at the big hotel. They hire out to travelers and tourists.”

She raced behind him, barely keeping up with his long stride. She’d worn her best dress to make a favorable impression, a shimmering linen with dancing blue flowers, but now felt like a silly child tagging behind.

He glanced to his left at a groom brushing the coat of a splendid Clydesdale, then stepped into the stall. Travis took the brush and demonstrated. “Press harder. You’ve got to put muscle behind it. You’re grooming not only the coat, but you’re massaging the muscles beneath. The mare enjoys it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Travis’s caressing hands worked over the horse. His hands were soiled and massive. Dirt streaked his palms, gilded the hairs on his knuckles, yet there was something pleasant and mesmerizing in watching him. He came from a working-class family of three rough-and-tumble brothers—with one younger sister—while Jessica came from a quiet political family of two daughters. Watching Travis’s transfixed gaze, it was obvious to her how much he cared for these animals. Anyone who fell beneath his masterful touch would feel adored and needed.

“Officer Reid?” called another man. “The palomino in the corner is coughing.”

Travis reared his head. “When did that start?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Any other horses coughing?”

“No.”

“Take him to the smaller barn and isolate him immediately. I’ll take a look as soon as I’m done here. Only light exercise for the next three days.”

“Yes, sir.”

Travis came out of the stall and she leaped forward to appeal to him once more, but a movement on the straw floor caught her eye. The tawny kitten peered up at her. She laughed softly. “Watch out, you’ll get trampled.” She lifted him. “Are you following me?”

The kitten meowed and she was snared. “It’s a sign we’re meant to be together.” Her pulse rushed with eagerness. She blurted to the stable boy passing by, “Is he for sale?”

Travis groaned.

“He’s still too young to be separated from his mother,” replied the youth. “Won’t be ready for a coupla weeks.”

She gulped at the comment. “I wouldn’t want to separate him from his mother. But when he’s ready, may I buy him?”

“I reckon you could have him,” said the boy, taking the kitten from her. “I’ll save him for you.”

Jessica smiled. She hadn’t felt this sense of happiness in a long while.

Travis shook his head and the gentleness in him evaporated, replaced by ice. “Still trying to buy the pretty things that attract your eye.”

Travis had no right to be rude. “It’s not for me—” She stopped herself.

“Goodbye, Jessica.” Two hundred pounds of power and brawn pivoted away from her.

“Wait!” She chased after him. “There’s no guide at the big hotel as qualified as you. And now that my father has discovered my plans, he won’t let me go unless I’m escorted by a Mountie. Devil’s Gorge isn’t a light jaunt into the mountains and no one seems eager to go.”

He spun around. “Then why do you?”

She had prepared for the question for days, but it still prickled her skin. “I’m trying to locate Dr…. Finch.”

Travis frowned. “I know him. He’s been through here before. He’s helped a lot of folks.”

Helped was not the right word. “I’ve—I’ve been tracing him for the last year and a half and I hear he has a base in Devil’s Gorge.”

“I thought he set up his practice on the West Coast, north of Vancouver.”

Is that what the Mounties thought? She fumbled with her drawstring purse. “But I heard it from someone in Montreal, and another source since.”

“At the charm school?”

She looked away and nodded.

“Why are you looking for him?”

“I’m writing an article on doctors for the Pacific Medical Journal.” On quacks and charlatans.

He assessed her. “You’re a medical journalist?”

She nodded.

“Why would you need to work?”

“I enjoy it. It’s something I’m good at, and…I’m needed.”

He pondered that for a moment.

“It’s an interest I began in Montreal. I’m still learning, but they’ve published three articles already.”

Dr. Finch had hurt a lot of people. She believed he’d gone by another name in Montreal—by Dr. King. When she found him, she’d expose him and Travis could jail him.

The blue in Travis’s eyes deepened, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was no longer solely occupied with ball gowns and fancy dinner shows. “And I imagine by speaking to him, you could write a better article, perhaps land an interview and a better paycheck.”

There was always a monetary bonus to getting an interview with any subject, but she’d fight her way to Dr. Finch for no money.

“I told you,” he said. “The only thing I want on my leave is to be left alone.”

He stalked past her. The stall boards rose to just above his waist level, but met her at shoulder height.

“I know you’re delivering your horses. You’re selling your three prize broodmares to a buyer who will be meeting you there.”

He stopped and faced her.

“The superintendent told me. Why are you selling them so far away? I would think there’d be plenty of buyers here.”

“I did sell them here when the buyer was visiting, but he lives there. And it’s as far away as possible, which is fine with me.”

She didn’t understand his answer. “Why?”

“That’s no one’s affair but my own.”

“I thought breeding horses was…You seem so good at what you do. You seem to love—”

“It’s no one’s affair but—”

“Your own,” she finished. “Listen, I’m prepared to pay you as my part of the bargain. Lots.”

He walked away.

“One hundred dollars,” she shouted after him. “And another hundred on safe delivery!”

He turned toward her, his eyes misty. “It’s always about money with you people, isn’t it?”

Her throat clamped. “Not always.”

Not anymore. But no one knew about her problem—or at least believed how Dr. Finch had deceived and devastated her.

She followed Travis as he walked around the stalls. “Mighty fine horse,” she said about the beautiful bay in the corner. Its muscles glistened reddish brown.

Travis didn’t respond, but she saw him grow rigid.

“I said, it’s a mighty fine mare.”

He cleared his throat, but his head didn’t turn in the bay’s direction. “She’ll bring in a fine dollar.”

“What kind of horse is it?”

He blinked but still didn’t look at it. “Some people call them running horses, some call them quarter horses.”

“On account of their speed, ma’am,” said Shamus the stable boy, passing with an armful of straw. “Their muscular legs and rump make them excellent at racing the quarter mile.”

Travis’s gaze followed the boy. A muscle in the man’s cheek quirked. “And also at maneuvering through cattle, which makes them excellent on cattle drives. This one’s sold to a rancher.”

She found it odd that he wouldn’t look at the horse. “Ah, one of the broodmares you’re selling.”

That seemed to make him angrier. He scowled. “Let me make myself clear, Miss Haven. I don’t care what you’re up to, who your friends are or what you do with your time. Leave me alone.”

She felt dizzy and wavered on her feet. She knew his response stemmed from Caroline, and Jessica was sorry that she’d caused the woman any grief. But it was unfair of Travis to blame Jessica for everything.

“I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” she murmured.

He didn’t respond. His mouth tightened.

“I said, I’m sorry to hear about Caroline’s passing.”

“Hmm.” The pain that settled in his eyes was enough to stop her heart.

“Poor Caroline,” she continued. “It was a terrible way to go. I—I know it happened months ago, but I heard it only last week when I arrived on the train.”

“Did you now?”

She flushed at his insinuating tone.

His body stiffened. “Let’s not coat things with honey. You never liked Caroline and she never liked you.”

A flash of tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away. It was too difficult to keep begging him face-to-face. She whispered as she left, “A person can change.”

Later that evening when everyone had left the stables for supper, Travis leaned against the stall and slid his arms over the boards. “Happy anniversary.” The pain of despair gripped him. “Twelve months today.” He cocked the hammer of his revolver and aimed it between the two eyes. “What makes you think I’m going to allow you to live while Caroline died?”

Standing in the stall, the quarter horse looked straight back at him, dipped its head into the feeding bucket and chewed.

A year ago, witnesses had told Travis that it hadn’t been the broodmare’s fault. The raccoon had spooked Caroline more than it had the horse as they’d jumped the fence, but Caroline had lost control. Riding sidesaddle, she’d slipped off and had fallen to her death. With Caroline’s foot caught in the stirrup, the horse had immediately stopped. The mare was a sound animal that had done what it’d been trained to do, but Caroline had died from internal bleeding. Killed on impact, the fort’s surgeon had told Travis, and not the horse’s fault.

Travis looked into the mare’s dark eyes. “Son of a bitch.”

It was more a curse at himself than the beast. He could no more shoot a viable horse than he could shoot a child. The joke was that everyone thought he was a tough leader, always in control of himself and the situation. And so he harbored his grief.

And his rage. It simmered below the surface, ready to jump at the slightest trigger, as it had earlier today at the sight of her.

“Miss Haven says you’re a mighty fine horse.” Travis wiped his mouth on the cuff of his sleeve and smirked. “A mighty fine horse that killed my wife.”

The horse shifted. Straw rustled.

Travis couldn’t stomach looking at the mare, yet it drew his gaze at the oddest moments. He hadn’t once touched its coat since the accident, fed, watered or saddled it, although God knew this wasn’t the first time he’d pressed a gun to its head.

And always, always, he fell short, coward that he was.

Since he allowed the Mounties to train with his horses, they allowed him the use of the stables and it’d been easy to ignore its care. He planned on continuing to ride for the police and training new recruits in tracking and horsemanship, but he’d sell every goddamn horse he personally owned. The fact that he’d dreamed of and acquired a ranch of his own had in effect snuffed out every blissful dream Caroline had held.

They’d only been married for three short months, but those few weeks had filled him with such a glorious anticipation for what life had to offer that he had feared it would someday shatter.

He stared at the horse. He’d already sold his land and six stallions. It’d taken him months to find the right buyer for his broodmares. He’d received other offers, but the bidders all lived in the area, which meant he’d forever be haunted by this broodmare’s offspring. Taking it to Devil’s Gorge in the middle of the mountains, where they traded more with folks from British Columbia than Alberta, would cure that sorry problem.

Tomorrow morning he’d be leaving without Jessica Haven. Thank Christ he wouldn’t be bearing the responsibility for the safety of another woman.

Crazy fool, some had called him for keeping the horse this long. Frankly, he’d fallen into a numb pit for the past year, coldly going through his duties, never raising his voice. Only since the beginning of this week had any sentiment returned—he’d felt the rage building for days, anticipating the year’s anniversary with rising gloom. A thundercloud churned within him and he wasn’t sure he could control it if it spewed. He was grateful he’d be alone to handle it.

He slid his revolver back into his shoulder holster. Stepping back into darkness, he glared at the mare. He softened and whispered, “I miss you, Caroline.”

He heard footsteps in the straw and spun at the intrusion.

“Roughrider,” called one of his friends. “I’ve been told to remind you that your sister’s expecting you at her pub and the commander and his wife are waiting. He needs to speak to you about something urgent first. Something about the mayor’s daughter.”

With a looming premonition of trouble, Travis sensed he hadn’t seen the last of Miss Jessica Haven.

Chapter Two

Remorseful that she’d had to go to such lengths to get to Devil’s Gorge, but nervously praying her tactic had worked, Jessica opened her wardrobe chest and removed an old shawl. She’d done the thing she knew the sergeant major would despise most. She’d used her father’s status to manipulate Travis.

She walked down the hallway, peered into her younger sister’s bedroom and smiled. “Are you coming, Eloise? The pub social begins at eight.”

Lamplight danced around the room. Her sister’s sixteen-year-old best friend, Bessy, sat perched on the iron bed. Eloise was tall and blond, Bessy round and dark. They shared a love for clothing, and laughter.

Rubbing glaze on her lips, Eloise peered up from her dresser mirror. “Our stepmother says it’s not good to appear eager around men.” She giggled on the velvet stool. “And the place will be filled with Mounties.”

“My purpose in going isn’t to impress a man. I’m going to speak with the commander to arrange tomorrow.”

Eloise sighed. “Do you have to go away again so soon?”

“I won’t be as long this time,” Jessica said tenderly.

“Why aren’t you trying to impress a man? Honestly, I dare say you haven’t been kissed since Victor left.”

Jessica’s face heated. Two-and-a-half years ago, they’d done a lot more than kiss. “What’s that you’re putting on your lips?”

“Something Mother gave me.” Eloise had less difficulty than Jessica in calling their stepmother of four years Mother, but it was still awkward. “It makes my lips shine. I hope it attracts a suitor.”

Bessy giggled. “Can I try some?”

“Pa will be cross to see you in cosmetics,” said Jessica.

“Don’t be so old-fashioned. Look what I’m going to order next.” Eloise tossed her a folded paper.

Jessica read the headline and silently screeched at the name. Dr. Finch. “An electric corset?”

“It operates on a battery, a small box, and it says that no woman should be without one.”

Jessica read. “For functional irregularities. Weak back. Hysteria and loss of appetite. Kidney disorders.” Angered, Jessica glanced up. “This is nonsense.”

“It’s not. It’s signed by a real doctor. It’s for getting an elegant figure and good health, and I want both of those.”

Jessica took note of the Vancouver address. Vancouver. Her hopes fell. She wondered again who she’d find in Devil’s Gorge. “Promise me you won’t order this until I return.”

Eloise rose, silk billowing around her hips. She shrugged a slender shoulder. “Well, all right.”

Removing her spectacles, Bessy raised a contraption made of two blue suction balls.

“What on earth is that?” Jessica tossed the newsprint to the bed.

“An eye massager.” Bessy closed her lids and pressed the rubber balls on them. Air blew the dark bangs off her forehead. “Last summer when Dr. Finch came through town, he told me if I do this three times a day for two years, it’ll help restore my sight.”

“Honey, it’s only blowing air on your eyelids.”

“It’s improving the blood flow to my ocular nerve. I can feel the tingling.” Bessy replaced her eyeglasses and tucked the contraption into her reticule. “You don’t know what it’s like to wear spectacles.”

“How much did that cost your folks?”

“Only fifty dollars to restore my sight.”

Jessica gasped. Most men earned a dollar a day. She knotted her hands in her skirt. The poor girl and her folks would know the truth soon enough.

“It’s worth a try. What’s the harm?” Bessy asked.

Jessica remembered that she’d once thought that herself. Placing an arm around each girl, she led them down the stairs and out the door. “The harm is you’re being taken advantage of for your money and integrity.”

While they walked, Jessica peered at her sister’s trusting face and saw a reflection of herself before she’d gone to Montreal, before she’d relied on Victor Sterling, her father Franklin Haven, and Dr. Abraham Finch. Her father had promised to ship Jessica permanently back to Montreal for her own good if she confided in her sister about her own shameful flaws.

You’ll ruin your chances with another man if you let your confinement be known. Father had tried to be helpful but had succeeded only in tearing a rift between himself and Jessica.

Her new stepmother, Madeline, was barely older than Jessica. The mayor’s four-year-old marriage had gone through difficult times with several separations during the first three years. Jessica’s stepmother had an ill sister who lived a hundred miles away, and she would often leave for months at a time to care for her. Jessica had always suspected there were other underlying problems—such as dealing with two adolescent stepdaughters and their doting father. However, since Jessica had been away, Madeline’s sister had miraculously recovered and the mayor and his wife seemed happier.

Neither one was particularly fond of the fact that Jessica had a job, but she believed both were grateful that it occupied her time. Her father likely saw it as a healthy distraction to Jessica’s worries, and Madeline was likely grateful it gave her more time with her husband.

Madeline was kind enough, but she and Jessica lacked a sentimental bond. Jessica’s real mother was a faded memory of a woman with gold earrings and ready arms for hugging. She’d slipped to her death on a patch of ice when Jessica had been six.

Neither her stepmother, sister, nor the family butler knew the true reason for her trip to Montreal to the “charm school,” otherwise known to Jessica as Miss Waverly’s Home for Unwed Mothers.

It’d been agony going, but nothing compared to the agony of returning empty-handed.

They turned the corner at the pub and bumped into a crowd of uniformed officers, one of whom was standing at the back speaking with the commander and his wife, glaring at Jessica.

She could almost hear Travis Reid’s growl.

Heavens, she thought, trying to shrink from his visual range. So he’s been told the news.

She’d never seen him in his scarlet uniform. The vision took her by surprise. The deep red color brought out the thick black luster of his hair, sharpness of his black eyebrows and cutting bite to his dark blue eyes.

“Oh, my word,” whispered Eloise. “A whole herd of handsome Mounties.”

“Miss Haven,” said Superintendent Ridgeway, the fort’s commander. “Hello.”

Jessica nodded warmly to his wife and the group exchanged pleasantries. Standing beside the commander was his sister—a possessive woman in her forties and widowed. She stepped toward Travis and draped an arm through his. “Are you coming inside?”

“In a minute.”

“I’ll save you a seat.”

His gaze speared Jessica’s. She was riveted by the anger infusing his dark face. He was going to Devil’s Gorge anyway, so what would be so difficult in taking her along?

“We’ll go inside and wait for you there,” said Eloise. “Our folks are already inside,” she explained to the others, pointing to the stained-glass door. The group made way for the women. “My father has arranged for a photographer from the newspaper.”

That was why everyone was dressed up, and although Jessica felt like an outsider wearing her everyday skirt, she had no desire to be photographed. Quigley’s Pub belonged to Travis’s sister and her husband, and the town had been invited to celebrate in the birth of their first child.

Jessica was struck again by the differences in their families. Travis came from labor-class roots. His folks had settled in Canada from Dublin almost thirty years ago and owned a busy cattle ranch. The senior Reid had been an Irish copper, disenchanted and seeking his fortune in the great new world. Two of his three sons were already Mounties, following in his police footsteps. But a cloud of rumor surrounded them—that the senior Reid had taken bribes in Ireland and was chased out of the country. Jessica’s father often reminded her that their lineage could be traced to English royalty, but she never mentioned it. Being the mayor’s daughter entailed enough difficulties.

As she dared a glance at Travis’s sweltering dark looks, she could very well imagine him with a sword to someone’s throat, whispering a black threat. He’d never do it for money, but if the cause were right—

“Let me join you young ladies inside,” said Annabelle Ridgeway, a round matron dressed in green ruffles. Pulling the commander’s sister with her, she followed Eloise and Bessy inside. Several Mounties stood at the door, ushering them in. When one of the officers winked at the younger women, they blushed and smiled.

The commander chewed on an unlit cigar and nodded to Jessica and Travis. “It’s all worked out. Travis is leaving at six in the morning, and you and your chaperon are going with him. I’ll leave you to figure out the details.”

“Oh,” said Jessica, catching her breath as the older man entered the pub, leaving them behind. Travis didn’t budge. Nor did he speak, but he was seething.

She felt like a moldy piece of cheese being inspected. “Say something, please.”

“Congratulations. You got your way. You used your power and position—your father’s, not even your own—to force your company on me. Now it’s an official order from my commander. I have to escort the mayor’s daughter safely to Devil’s Gorge.”

“This is important to me. It’s not a trivial whim—”

“Neither was my journey. It was supposed to be a personal leave. I’ve been arranging it for months and was looking forward to being alone. Now I have to watch over you.”

Her loose wavy hair bounced on her shoulders. “You don’t have to watch over me. Mr. Merriweather and I are perfectly content to—”

“I have to watch over two incompetent—”

“I said you don’t have to watch—”

“You haven’t changed a bit.”

His cold words felt like a slap in the face. “Why do you dislike me so much?”

“Because I know you.”

She stumbled back.

No, you don’t, she wanted to scream. You knew me years ago but you don’t know me now. It was something words alone couldn’t prove. Only the passage of time could. But she’d done more damage by forcing his hand like this.

She pressed a shaky palm to her gurgling stomach. She wouldn’t argue. But when her lips trembled, her mood darkened. “What makes you think you’re so superior to me?”

“Ha,” he snorted. “I think I’m superior? I’m not here to prove anything to you. I wanted you to leave me alone. Why do you have to butt into people’s lives? You butted into Caroline’s and now you’re butting into mine.”

“I didn’t want that for Caroline—”

“I don’t want to hear—”

“She made it difficult—”

“Leave her alone. She’s dead.”

The cold blade of truth sliced the conversation.

Jessica spun away and headed for the pub, the fabric of her long-sleeved blouse whipping through the air. “We’ll meet you in the morning at the fort’s gate, at five minutes to six.”

“I’m not finished speaking.” His grip on her arm ripped her from her spot.

Her head snapped back, blond hair swaying against her chest. “I am.” She tried to yank free but his hold was like a wooden clamp.

“You’ll listen to me until I say you can go.”

The man was a vain mule but she would tolerate him for the duration of her cause. She’d never ever trust him. Lord only knew how condescending he’d be if he knew the truth. She trembled and tried again to pull free.

He held fast and drew her closer, an inch away from his patronizing face. “I’ll supply your horses.”

She didn’t flinch. “But we’ve got two perfectly—”

“I said I’ll supply them. The broodmares I’m bringing are valuable, and I won’t chance the interaction of horses whose temperaments I don’t know.”

“All right. You bring them.”

“And I’ll pack the supplies and food.”

“But Mr. Merriweather—”

“You and Giles can each bring one small bag with a change of clothes.”

“But that’s not nearly—”

“One bag. Can you manage or not?”

“One bag,” she repeated. “And my reticule of course, plus my small duffel with my notepad and pencils.”

“I said one.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay. One.” She aired her frustrations in one big exhale. “Are we finished?”

“Seven days and nights,” he said, holding open the door for her to enter. But he was no gentleman, she thought. “That’s all I’ve promised. When we get there, there’ll be a Mounties’ outpost with three men you can count on for further help, and a small inn where you can stay while you’re writing. I’ll be heading back immediately, so you and your chaperon can find your own way home.”

It was better than nothing. However, she stormed by him in annoyance.

Peering around the noisy crowd, she tried to find the hosts. She’d give her regards then leave. Mr. Merriweather needed to know they had to repack. Maybe the mercantile was still open for her to buy a lighter bag. Luckily, it was Monday and she’d already done her banking earlier today.

The soft sounds of a fiddler and accordion player wafted above the chatting heads, a lively melody winding through a cloud of cigar smoke. Jovial diners filled one side of the pub, feeding on cabbage and beans while on the other side, people threw darts at dartboards, raised their glasses at the walnut bartop, or clapped along to the music.

“There you are, Travis,” said his sister Shawna, coming up beside them.

Jessica was surprised to find Travis still at her side. When she turned to look, she brushed against his rock-hard chest. His presence dominated her.

Shawna, long black hair tumbling over her shoulder while she held a three-month-old baby in her arms, peered tentatively at Jessica and nodded. “Miss Haven.”

The baby boy, with lids closed, balled up one tiny fist and sucked on the other’s loose fingers. Jessica smiled. She had that to look forward to. “Shawna, I want to offer my congratulations and wish you and your family the best.”

The woman kept her distance. “Thank you.”

Jessica knew she wasn’t welcome even though invitations had been extended to the whole town. Her father always went to these events—for the company of his friends, yes, but Jessica knew he also went for harmless political reasons, to have his photograph taken and name written in the papers. It seemed to work, for the town had reelected him twice, and most folks genuinely liked him. Except the Reids. “I’m leaving now. I’ve got an early start in the morning.”

Travis grumbled but Jessica ignored him. She noticed the commander’s sister, the eager widow, waving to him from the opposite side of the pub and felt more ill at ease.

“You won’t be joining your father, Miss Haven?” Shawna nodded at the well-tailored heavy man in the corner with the slim redheaded wife at his elbow.

“I’ve come only to give my regards to you. Good night.”

“Good night,” Shawna offered a bit too readily.

A man bumped Jessica from behind as she swung away.

“It’s dark,” said Travis. “You need someone to walk you home.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jessica hollered above the crowd, squeezing past his sister.

She couldn’t help but overhear the sister’s whispered comments to her brother. “What’s this I hear about you taking her to Devil’s Gorge? You know how Caroline felt about her…how we all feel about her.”

Travis whispered something back but Jessica was already out of earshot and heading to the exit. She burst through the doors, eager for calm, pine-scented air and the privacy to slow her beating heart.

Her walk home was only two blocks, but the streets were darker and lonelier than when they’d come. She picked up her pace. A man skidded beside her and nearly made her jump.

“Travis, you scared me.”

“Just wanted to make sure the mayor’s daughter got home to her mansion safely.”

She bristled. People treated her politely because of who her father was, and never, it seemed, on her own merit. “My house is in view. You can leave.”

“One bag,” he reminded her.

“I’ll manage.”

“Quarter to six at the fort’s gate.”

“Quarter to…”

Now he wanted her there even earlier than before.

“Do you think we’ll be able to stand each other for seven days?”

Her heart quivered at the question. “Yes,” she answered dutifully, knowing it was best to appease him. She no longer cared what he thought of her personally. Nothing mattered except finding Dr. Finch and having him return her most precious gift.

She’d been unable to trace any adoption agencies in Montreal that had dealings with a Dr. King or Finch, but someone at the university had told her Dr. Finch was planning an agency out West. Devil’s Gorge, she figured, was as good a starting point as any to search. An adoption agency for a fee, she imagined, and wondered if her baby had been sold.

She couldn’t tell Travis more or he might react the same way her father had, or worse, he might jeopardize her plan.

Her father’s words rang in her mind. You weren’t lucid that night, honey. Your accusations against Dr. Finch have proven to be false. Please don’t say any more about them. People will think you’ve lost your mind, and it will ruin your future chance of marriage.

But, she reminded herself, Travis was a police officer. He’d been sworn to uphold the law, despite what he might think of her character or reputation if her problems were revealed.

Leaving Travis behind, she ran across the dirt street to the stylish board-and-batten home with its pillars and broad white porch. She couldn’t recall clearly what’d happened seventeen months ago on the night of her delivery, so she needed to locate the attending doctor—Finch or King, or whatever name he went by—and ask him.

Now, she’d go inside the house, quietly latch the door and silently prepare for the morning. But what she ached to do, standing on the rooftop of her father’s unblemished mansion, was to shout up and down the streets.

She wanted to speak about the unspeakable. The disappearance of her child.

Chapter Three

To Travis’s displeasure, his traveling companions arrived at Fort Calgary two minutes late. Travis slid his pocket watch back to the inside of his suede-leather vest. His spurs jangled. The weight of his guns shifted at his hips. Leaning against the pine logs of the palisade gate with the horses tethered inside, he looped one worn, black leather boot over the other and watched the unlikely couple shuffling toward him. Each dragged a square leather sack.

“Hmm,” Travis muttered to himself. “Too heavy to carry.”

Morning light broke through the dark clouds. The streets were quiet, although he heard the faint hooves of two horses echoing beyond the steel bridge leading to the center of town, thudding softly beyond the store facades, restaurants and the big hotel. Another workday was beginning.

Flecks of apricot highlighted Jessica’s braided hair and puffy face, still rumpled from sleep. For the first time in years, he had the opportunity to take a long look at her.

Other men considered her pretty but she was rather plain, in his opinion. And a bit old, in her early twenties, to still be unmarried. He, on the other hand, was close to thirty. If you took away her fancy clothes, starched blouse and embroidered skirt, untwisted her hair from the fancy knots, you’d be left with an undistinguished blonde, face freckled from the outdoors and with a much-too-eager smile.

Money-bought prettiness.

But she wasn’t wearing her usual display of gold rings and necklaces. Come to think of it, she hadn’t yesterday, either. Only one thin, gold chain adorned her throat, with a cluster of ridiculous silver baubles strung through her ears. Frivolous and boring is how he’d describe her.

And it was strange, meeting a woman who wanted to work. His sister Shawna had founded the town library, and sometimes she helped at the pub, but her husband owned the pub. That was different. He sucked in a breath, wondering how on earth these two in front of him planned on riding through nearly two hundred miles of narrow mountain paths dressed like that. And their bulging bags obviously needed to be repacked. If they couldn’t balance the weight, no horse should.

He stepped out and tilted the brim of his black-felt Stetson. “Morning.”

“Fine one it is, sir,” said Giles Merriweather. “Not too hot and not too cold. Not too many bugs, but just enough to keep life interesting. Are the horses inside?”

Travis nodded and stepped aside for the old gent to enter. He was an English butler, emigrated from Plymouth thirty years ago and he’d adopted and adored everything Western since. A wide sombrero topped long gray hair, a blue-denim shirt complete with silver rivets draped a narrow chest, and tight denim trousers flanked meaty legs. Too tight to move comfortably.

Travis was also wearing denim pants, his rugged Levi’s, miner’s pants that could take the abuse of a trip like this, but his were old and relaxed.

“New boots,” Travis said as the man squeaked by in shiny brown leather.

Merriweather beamed, huffing as he passed. “I bought them yesterday.”

Blisters by nightfall, thought Travis.

“Good morning,” hollered Jessica, yanking on the leather straps of her huge bag, her impeccably pressed skirt and blouse fluttering in the soft breeze, framing her curves. And there was that eager smile, trying to win him over.

Never.

“New luggage?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, a smile dimpling her cheeks. “We bought them late last night. Luckily the mercantile was still open after I left the pub.”

“I suppose you thought when I said one bag apiece, I meant the biggest crate you could find.” He shook his head and her smile lost its dazzle.

She held out the straps, indicating that he should take over the pulling and yanking.

She had a few matters to learn about survival in the wild.

He brushed past her, snubbing her extended hand. “Funny, but I had a feeling I’d need to bring two spare saddlebags. You’re both going to repack before we leave. Congratulations, that’ll make us late. And I hate to be late.”

He heard her loud intake of breath. Then she clawed her bag through the gate’s opening. Six muscled horses, cast orange in the rising sun, stood tethered to the hitching posts.

“Let’s not make the horses wait too long, folks,” he said. “I’ve brought you each a derringer. Pack them in your bags.”

Jessica unbuckled her bag and took the small silver gun. Fifteen minutes later, after he’d helped Merriweather repack, Travis came up behind Jessica and looked down at her open bag, resting in the grass. “Problems?”

“I—I need everything in here.”

He bent down and removed two pairs of shoes. “You won’t need these. The boots you’re wearing are enough.”

“But the high-heeled ones are in case I need something a little more formal…and the buttoned red ones…I really like them and I thought just in case—”

“No.” Without mercy, Travis tossed them into the discard pile. He rummaged through her things, quickly amassing two stacks. He couldn’t understand why she found it difficult to pack. “One shawl is enough. You won’t need two belts. And not these tonics either.” He tossed out four glass bottles.

She grabbed one. “But these are my face creams and hair soaps.”

“One plain cake of soap can service your entire body.” His look swept from her toes all the way up to her head. “Including your hair, if you must wash it in the next week.”

Her eyes narrowed. Her smile hung like a crooked picture, he thought, weak with no genuine feeling behind it.

“Let me guess,” he said. “First time in the mountains?”

She scowled. That was more like it. At least a scowl was genuine.

“Yours, too, Merriweather?”

“Ah, but I’m looking forward to the adventure, sir.”

Travis scrutinized her pack. He removed a wide-brimmed cowboy hat and tossed it up to her. “Wear this to protect your head. No sense packing it. Get rid of the bonnet.” Then he pulled out a speckled flannel cloth. “What’s this?” It looked like an infant’s nightdress.

With an embarrassed gasp, she snatched it from his fingers. “It’s private.”

He snatched it back. “You don’t need it.”

Her face reddened. She grabbed it again. “It’s…a gift for someone.”

He couldn’t believe the frivolous things she was carting. “No gifts.”

“But—”

“No gifts.”

She jumped at the tone of his voice. With her brown hat in one hand, she scrunched the flannel cloth with the other but didn’t move to put it in the discard pile.

“What’s in this compartment?” he asked.

She flew to her knees, pushing him out of the way, surprising him with her strength. “That’s my personal business.” She blushed considerably.

He moved to unbuckle the pocket but she snapped it from his hands. “Personal business,” she shouted.

The pocket was square and thick, as if it carried paper. “All right, all right. You get the idea now. If that’s your writing journal, remember, you only need to write in one. And just one pencil.”

Ten torturous minutes later, he was strapping Merriweather’s saddlebag to one of the broodmares. The butler stood twenty feet away, laughing with one of the guards.

“One more thing,” said Travis to Jessica. “You better change before we leave.”

When he turned around, he towered over her. She eyed him carefully, then looked down at her clothes, smoothing her blouse with a graceful hand. Two long braids of hair, flung over jutting breasts, sparkled in several shades of gold. A natural rouge sprang to her lips, deepening the outline of her mouth. “Why?”

“Church clothes aren’t for riding. Too much starch.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I saw a pair of cotton pants in your pile.”

“My sister threw those in.” Her earrings dangled at the side of her head, catching a beam of sunlight. “I-I’m not taking them.”

He rearranged his Stetson. “They’re the only sensible thing you’re bringing. You won’t be comfortable in anything else while riding astride.”

“Astride? I’ll be riding sidesaddle.”

“No sidesaddle.”

Her lips puckered. “But—”

“No sidesaddle!”

They glared at each other. He didn’t have time for this. Sidesaddle was how Caroline had fallen to her death.

“Must you always shriek?” She hurled her hands to wide hips and anger found her tongue. “Have you ever thought of having your head examined?”

He leaned toward her, tightening every muscle, but she didn’t back off. “Just once when I agreed to taking you on this trip.”

“Do you have to be so domineering?”

“Yes. I’m the sergeant major, remember?”

“Roughrider. Grand. Just grand,” she whispered. Digging into her discard pile, she yanked out the ivory pants. “Wait here while I slip behind that tree. God sakes,” she muttered, stalking away, hemline flinging through the air. “If the man follows me, he’s liable to accuse me of wearing too many underthings and must I bring these stockings? And am I aware of the weight of my lacy bloomers?”

Lacy bloomers. For a moment, he fumbled at the saddle.

With exasperation, he shook his head. He’d lay ten bucks that they were made of boring linen.

At least she’d surprised him by dodging behind the tree to change. He thought she’d make a fuss and insist he find a private room inside the fort.

She came out from behind the tree while he was tightening the lines on another broodmare.

Glancing over the saddle, he froze. Whoa.

Ignore her, he commanded himself. He forced his gaze down to the saddle, but it crept back to her. The brim of his hat shadowed his eyes.

She bent over her pack and began stuffing the discarded items into her original bag, which they’d leave behind with the guard. Travis had already arranged to have them sent back to her home. Contrary to looking less feminine in pants and work shirt, she looked more. Gone was the flowing fabric that concealed her body. Ivory pants clung to well-shaped thighs. Rounded hips swelled to form an hourglass figure. Fabric clung to her smooth behind, and when she walked, the black belt cinched at her waist accentuated her bounce. A simple white blouse, oversize, folded into her waistline. The shadow of her corset hinted at what lay beneath, while the top two buttons of her collar remained open, revealing light and gold shadows illuminating a slender throat.

He’d always remembered her as a spoiled adolescent, but she’d finally grown into a woman. Still spoiled, but an inexperienced, virginal woman.

Frivolous and boring is how he’d describe her, he reminded himself.

Peering at what she gripped in her hand, he gulped. Rolled into a ball, her bloomers were flaming red. Not boring linen.

“What do you want now, Roughrider?” she snarled. “What are you staring at?”

“Red becomes you.”

With a click of her tongue, she threw them over his head.

Jessica noticed things about him that a conservative woman should not. The way he yanked at his gloves when he was mad—which was almost all the time; the way he instinctively reached for his guns at an unexpected sound; how rough his knuckles were as he tugged the reins; and how forlorn and desolate he looked when he thought no one was watching.

Travis was the type of man that all good mothers in Calgary warned their daughters against. Temperamental, moody, and thought the world spun around him.

The man was trouble. Still, Jessica needed him and the thought was daunting.

For now, she considered herself fortunate that he took the lead on the trail, which allowed her and Mr. Merriweather the opportunity to fall behind, single file, and gain their bearings.

“We’ll be following the Glacier River most of the way,” Travis shouted two hours later from fifty feet ahead, speaking above the thundering of the water. Turning his huge body around in the saddle to talk, he ducked beneath pine boughs and aspen leaves. The wind lifted the needles, filling her nostrils with cool forest scents.

“Lead the way, sir,” Mr. Merriweather shouted back. “The foothills are a sight to behold.”

Jessica nodded, trying to unwind her stiffened shoulders and mask her apprehension of riding so high off the ground. It scared her to be responsible for the broodmare she was leading, with a rope tied around its neck and ponied to her mount. Travis had steered away from taking any stallions on the trip, he’d explained, for stallions too close together often fought. Travis rode a gelding but she and Mr. Merriweather each rode mares. They led compact quarter horses—or running horses or whatever name they went by—to be sold when they reached Devil’s Gorge, but Travis led a massive Clydesdale broodmare. Whenever the Clydesdale snorted, the other animals waited for its lead. She was the dominant one.

“The horses are shod only on their front feet,” Travis hollered. “That’s where they take most of the weight and strain. In case any of them kick in such close proximity, their back hooves were left unshod for minimal damage.”

Jessica didn’t like the sound of that. If the information was supposed to comfort her, it only served to glue her gaze to the back of Mr. Merriweather’s broodmare. It was the striking bay she’d noticed in the stables yesterday. Whenever the broodmare adjusted its footing on the rocky path, Jessica jerked back, thinking the horse was about to kick.

“Relax,” Travis told her around noon, leading them into a small clearing.

“Right,” she said, trying not to look too grateful to Travis for finally stopping so she could rest.

He swung off his horse, surveyed the area, declared it was time for lunch, then walked the horses two at a time to the river’s edge to drink before she and Mr. Merriweather had even removed their gloves.

Travis returned to the shady knoll. “You’re a pretty good rider, Merriweather.”

“I spent a lot of time in foxhunts with my father.” The older man clutched at his back, then limped away toward the river, leading two horses. “I’ll water these two.”

Grass swished beneath Travis’s big boots as he approached her. He didn’t look directly at Jessica, but took the reins of her horse. Still, she felt the sting of embarrassment at his soft words. She watched the tiny creases at his eyes move while he spoke. They gave him distinction, a weathered, attractive look of matured experience.

“Don’t fight her so much. She doesn’t like when you sit rigid. If you spread your arms to your sides, you can lean in tighter and she’ll adjust to your weight. Pat her neck once in a while. Maintain the contact. She’s going to be your friend for seven days.”

Then his gaze was direct and she felt her head swim.

Squinting up at him in the patch of sunlight, Jessica nodded and slid her cowboy hat to her back. Her temples were drenched with perspiration, and her legs felt like rubber trying to hold her upright.

“Let your body flow with the rhythm of the mare.”

Jessica lowered her lashes. “I’ll try.”

“We’ll rest here for two hours. Soon as the heat of the day subsides, we’ll head out again.”

He took care of the horses first, removing saddles and hitching the animals to a lush grassy spot where they could graze. Then he tended to her and her butler. Jessica felt awkward, more of an observer than assistant, knowing she was making Travis work harder on account of her and Mr. Merriweather’s presence.

Finally, as Travis was preparing the horses to leave, she jumped up from her spot by the boulders where they’d eaten their smoked beef and coffee, and met him on the other side of his beautiful bay. The horse he’d avoided looking at yesterday.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

Jessica’s voice startled him. He’d been deep in concentration, sliding on his work gloves. He stared at the mare for a length of time before tackling its gear. The other horses were ready; he’d left this one for last.

“They’ve got names, don’t they?” Jessica repeated.

“My broodmares do. But the Mountie workhorses, the ones we’re riding, don’t. There’s too many to name.” He yanked on his large left glove, opening and closing his fingers. He seemed so slow with this horse compared to how he’d been with the others. And his face was flushed. “The one you’re leading, the roan,” he said, nodding behind her shoulder, “is called Seagrass. My Clydesdale goes by Coal Dust.”

“Ah, because of her black color. And this one?”

She noticed a drop of sweat rolling down his forehead. “…Independence.”

“Independence.” Jessica stood in awe at the size of her. “May I help you with her?”

His expression changed. His white sleeves rustled in the wind, outlining the muscles beneath. “She’s got a burr in her mane. If you put on your gloves, you could comb through it with your fingers and then I wouldn’t have to…. Much obliged.”

“I…I don’t mean to sit idle.” She tugged on her brown-leather gloves. “It’s just that I’m unsure how to help.”

He nodded and heaved a saddle blanket on top of Independence.

She grabbed the other side. They worked tranquilly together. She was making headway with him, Jessica thought, and wondered if and when she should tell him some of her allegations against Dr. Finch.

“What happened to the perfume you always used to wear?”

Her responding smile came gently.

His mouth tugged upward in kind.

That wasn’t so hard, she thought, was it? He looked much better in a smile than a scowl.

“I didn’t think the horses would appreciate it.”

“That showed good judgment.”

“Go ahead and say it. It’s the only good judgment I’ve used today.”

He inclined his dark head. The brim of his hat concealed his eyes. “Not the only. Your choice of shoes was good. Unlike your friend over there.” He motioned to Mr. Merriweather, who was massaging his sock feet. “Will he be all right?”

“Sure.”

“What about his back?”

“He’s…he’s not used to riding. It uses a lot of muscles you forget you have.”

“I’ve seen him pull out those binoculars a few times. What’s he looking at?”

With his mouth open in amazement, the butler had his collapsible binoculars aimed above the fir trees.

“A rusty-colored hawk,” she answered. “See it circling? It’s got a wingspan of four-and-a-half feet. The largest hawk in North America, they tell me.”

“They?”

She turned back to Travis. “He’s the president of the Birdwatchers Society.”

Travis grumbled. “I suppose that’s harmless enough. But it better not get in the way of anything I’m doing.”

Spoken like the controlling man he was.

Jessica reached out and timidly patted Independence’s shoulder. The mare stirred and took a step backward.

“Easy,” Travis said to her. “She senses your fear.”

“Sorry. I’m trying to maintain contact.” Summoning her courage, she plunged forward and grabbed the horse’s mane where she saw the cluster of burs.

The horse startled at the jab.

“Whoa,” Travis warned her.

Jessica gulped. “Just this one last burr.” When she yanked on the hairs, the horse lifted its hind leg.

“Be careful,” said Travis, looking somewhat overwhelmed. He gripped the bridle and the mare settled.

“But she seems so mild mannered.”

He peered down at her, eyebrows drawn together, facial muscles tensed. “You still need to be careful.”

His mood shifted to one of stormy anger. What on earth had she done to cause it?

“You need to be gentle on her.” His eyes sparked with a stab of emotion. Whatever was bothering him, it seemed to suddenly deepen. “She’s in foal. The mare’s…pregnant?”

“How far along?” she whispered.

The mare didn’t look pregnant. With a shiny coat, she had just enough fat on her so her ribs were slightly visible.

His voice rumbled as he turned away, she swore to hide his face. “About two months.”

“How do you know when it’s not visible on the mare?”

“A good breeder keeps track of dates when his mares are bred. And I also did a thorough manual examination.”

He nodded, lowering his eyes to the saddle.

Her hand fell to rest on the horse’s neck. With a moan of empathy, Jessica recalled her own months of confinement in the Montreal house, stepping out for fresh air to trim the backyard hedges, watching her figure grow while in a torrent of mixed emotions. Then feeling the first tiny kick in excited anticipation with no one to share it with, only to have lost it all.

Chapter Four

“The last time you were in Calgary, you were rumored to be engaged to that Englishman. Victor Sterling, was that his name?”

The personal nature of Travis’s question and the sudden vibrancy to his voice unnerved Jessica.

Standing in an ocean of green prairie grass and dwarfed by her horse, she tried to untangle the leather straps from her saddle. As they made camp, last remnants of fading light silhouetted the mountain peaks and gushing river waters behind Travis. The sky was twilight blue, on the verge of turning black.

In the distance, Mr. Merriweather limped between the trees. He hummed a cowboy tune while collecting firewood.

She dug her boots into parched soil. “That was his name.”

The moon, a glowing yellow ball, skimmed the straight lines of Travis’s shoulders. The quality of lighting was changing on their journey. The general lighting of the vast prairies had washed everything equally but in the rugged foothills, the enclosures cast shadows across his body and face, highlighting his unique stance and the outline of his lips.

He tied a rope between two evergreens, forming a hitching line for the horses.

Irritated by her gloves’ bulkiness, she removed them, turning her back on Travis and hopefully his curiosity.

“What happened to your engagement?”

“It was never really official,” she said with begrudging frankness. “He had to…Victor had to return to England.”

“But I thought—”

“Victor never made it.”

“What do you mean?”

Resentful of the questions and the raw emotions they evoked, she pulled her arms tighter to her chest. Last year when Jessica wrote to his parents to enquire about his whereabouts, thinking that maybe Victor, the natural father of her child, might help her look for their baby, she’d been informed of the horrible news.

She avoided Travis’s cold stare. “Victor’s ship never reached London. It went down in the tail end of a hurricane.” Her despair intensified. “Victor drowned.”

His large hands stopped working on the rope.

Slowly, he turned to face her. His stern attitude dissolved. “I’m sorry.”

Quietness consumed them.

She nodded, looking down at her pack, wishing he’d leave. Then she heard him walk away, leading two mares in the direction of the river. Dry leaves and pine needles crackled beneath the horses’ hooves, while Travis’s spurs echoed between the foliage.

She untied the metal pots from her saddlebags. It bothered her that he apparently assumed it was Victor’s death that’d stopped their marriage. But their relationship had been nothing like Travis and Caroline’s; Travis had cared deeply for his wife.

Victor had been a youthful English professor at Oxford. He’d come to Canada to discuss the possibility of setting up an affiliated university, possibly choosing Toronto, Vancouver or Calgary. As mayor, Jessica’s father was eager for Victor to choose their town, for it would bring financial and social gains to the community. Her father had introduced them. Jessica, an insatiable reader, had shared with Victor her adoration for the romantic poems of William Wordsworth, the travelogues of Mark Twain and the adventures of Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales.

She’d fallen in love for the first time. He’d never actually proposed, but he’d fed her imagination, telling her how much she’d adore Oxford when she saw it and the joy he’d find in showing her London. She thought it meant he loved her, that he was assuring her of their future. In hopes of showing the depth of her feelings, she’d succumbed to his advances. They’d made love three times, but Victor had turned ashen when Jessica had informed him she was late in her cycle.

He was a man who’d simply been in love with poetry and words. A far cry from Travis’s practical nature.

Later, she’d discovered from Victor’s valet that he’d been engaged all along to another woman in England, a richer one with three London homes who was paying his traveling bills. At the news of Victor’s death, Jessica felt a deep sorrow for her child for the loss of his father, but not for herself.

Are you a close friend? Victor’s father had written in his letter. Jessica had never answered.

And her father had never received his university.

She flinched as she untied a small shovel. Her anger returned—at the way she’d been treated by Victor, and then her father. She understood the scandalous way she’d behaved and how the town would look down on her if the truth was known, but to blazes with her shame, and her father’s.

Jessica was furious at her own vulnerabilities and shortcomings, but it was pointless to look back. She’d look ahead to the promise of a future with her child. She was saving every penny she earned, for if and when she found her son, she’d make her own way. A seventeen-month-old child needed her.

If she let herself dwell for a moment on the harm that may have come to him, or the uncertainty of her claim against Dr. Finch, she wouldn’t have the strength to carry forward. So she pushed the pain out of her mind.

“Here, let me help you with those.” Mr. Merriweather removed her saddlebags.

One was filled with her clothing, the other with food supplies Travis had packed. As the elderly man lifted the weight to his side, his face strained beneath his sombrero.

“My dear old friend, you’re in discomfort. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“It’s nothing to worry about. As soon as we’ve unpacked and I’ve started dinner, I’m going to slip out that bottle of medicinal tonic, sit back and relax.”

“You need medicine?”

“A simple brew bought from Dr. Finch three years ago. I bought three bottles and there’s still an ounce or so left.”

She brushed the hair from her eyes, upset that even her dear old butler had a cure from the charlatan. “What’s the tonic for?”

Mr. Merriweather removed his sombrero and combated flies. “General pains. Gentlemen’s problems,” he said with an embarrassed laugh.

Uncomfortable with the topic, she collected the small utensils and carried them to the flat part of the site. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

Walking back and forth between the horses and the campsite, she unloaded what she could. Ill at ease, she crossed her arms against her white blouse and looked around, waiting for Travis to return with the second set of horses. She wondered what she was supposed to do to help.

Mr. Merriweather struggled on his feet to put dinner together while Travis tied the horses to the hitching rope. Jessica settled onto a log by the burning fire. It warmed her face while they ate sausages and biscuits.

“It’s not what I normally prepare for dinner,” Mr. Merriweather apologized. “This is Sunday, and on Sunday evenings we usually have roast fish and baked potatoes, my special recipe from Plymouth. The ones the pilgrims brought to America, you know.”

“This is delicious anyway,” remarked Jessica. “And seeing how you cooked and Travis took care of setting up camp, I’ll wash the dishes.”

Mr. Merriweather floundered for something in the pack beside him, a shadowy figure in blue denim. “My word,” he gasped in the semidarkness, face glued to the side of an ancient maple tree.

Travis looked up from his plate and stopped chewing.

Jessica craned her neck in alarm. “What is it?”

“A family of hummingbirds. They’re nesting inside the trunk of that tree.”

She found his wide-eyed expression humorous. “We’ve gone from seeing the largest hawk to the tiniest bird.”

The old gent peered through his binoculars. “I’ve never in my born days seen anything so magnificent. Look how they spin their wings together.”

“Marvelous,” said Travis, jumping to his feet. Jessica detected sarcasm. “The blue plumes sparkle in the moonlight and the beaks, various shades of yellow and orange, capture the shimmering glow of the stars.”

“Oh, you understand,” whispered Mr. Merriweather in glee.

“Don’t move,” murmured Travis, coming closer with the butt end of his log. He hammered it into the bare ground three feet away from Mr. Merriweather. “Prairie rattler. The only poisonous snake in Alberta. Average length, three and a half feet.”

Mr. Merriweather jumped up and shrieked as the mottled serpent slid to safety in the grass. With a yelp of her own, Jessica flew to her feet.

“He’s gone,” said Travis, peering into the brush.

“But we didn’t hear him rattle,” said Jessica.

“They don’t unless they feel threatened. He wasn’t about to bite.”

The butler clutched at his chest. “My poor beating heart.”

Jessica smiled through her trembling. “Are you all right?”

The old man nodded. “Is this what we’re to expect for the rest of the trip?”

“No.” Travis’s face was illuminated by the golden fire. He stood a head above the both of them. “They’re prairie rattlers, most likely after your hummingbirds. There aren’t any in the mountains. It’s too cold. But there are just enough here to keep life interesting. Same like the bugs, remember?”

Mr. Merriweather slapped a mosquito on his neck. “Quite right, quite right.” He shook his head and sat back on his log. “Jolly good, I’ve witnessed a live rattler.”

“And you didn’t need binoculars to see it.” Travis cleared the tin plates.

Jessica eyed her log but no longer felt like sitting down. She shooed away the flying insects.

“Are you still going down to the river to wash these plates?” Travis asked her.

She wished she hadn’t volunteered.

He grabbed a tin bucket. He was a commanding force of bulky shadows and straining muscles. Permeating the pine-scented air, his laughter was the first she’d heard in two days. “If your chaperon approves, I’ll go with you.”

Damn, the woman was distracting.

Wondering why he allowed her to bother him, Travis led them to a clear spot by the river. He scoured the area for more rattlers, found none, then slid their tin cups onto a granite boulder.

She’d been distracting him all day—her ineptness at handling the horses, her eagerness to help with chores as if the offer would erase that she’d gone above his head to order him here and even how she spent her time mostly with her butler, taking little regard of him.

Travis, on the other hand, couldn’t turn a corner without being alerted to her presence. When she stood beside him grooming Independence, he found the air stifling. When she asked a question, his normally quiet composure chafed in self-defense, and if, God forbid, their eyes met accidentally, his pulse began a rhythmic tap. His reactions annoyed him.

And made him miss his wife more.

Grumbling, he lifted his Stetson and allowed the cool breeze to curl beneath his pressed hair. It felt good. Jessica kneeled on the boulder.

In the stables this morning, the other men had been eager to replace him when they’d heard he was leaving for seven days with the mayor’s daughter.

“I’ll deliver your broodmares,” the farrier had said, winking while making a final check of the horseshoes. “A man could always use pretty female company.”

She was pretty and she was female, but Travis could pass on her company. Standing back in the brightness of the moon, he watched her.

Although he fought it, a glimpse of the smooth side of her cheek played with his thoughts. Jessica lowered herself to the rushing river. Her braids dipped below her shoulders. Beneath her fresh, white blouse and trousers, her youthful body contrasted against the century-old, twisted trees behind her. Glowing skin in its prime versus rough, mossy bark. Yet both images brought a strange comfort to him. Did all women use lotions on their face as Caroline had, mint powders on their teeth and vinegar to rinse their hair?

It was a silly thought, he acknowledged, so he turned away to concentrate on his task. He dipped the bucket into the moving mass of water.

Victor’s death had surprised him. He had no idea she’d had such turmoil in her life. Maybe it was one of the reasons she’d left for finishing school—to get her mind off Victor.

He cleared his throat. “Is Dr. Finch expecting you?”

The question seemed to rattle her. Fumbling, she laid one clean tin plate upon a boulder, the clanging echoing over the river. Dipping a dirty plate into the water, she scrubbed a sliver of soap against it.

“No,” she said softly.

“Then how do you know he’ll have the time to be interviewed?”

Her lips drew together. “He’ll listen to my request.”

“You may not find him. He’s needed in several towns and travels quite a bit, from what I hear. Doctors are hard to come by in this part of the country.”

“I suppose that’s why people are so ready to trust him. Because they need to. They want to.”

“Why don’t you like him?”

She started at the observation. The fabric of her blouse billowed, accentuating jutting breasts, narrow waist and full hips.

He turned away, his gaze settling on the flowing river and trees lining the distance. “It’s obvious you don’t. Every time his name is mentioned, you stiffen like a fishing rod that’s snagged an unwanted catch.”

Even in the golden light, he saw defiance in her eyes.

“He charges a lot of money for his cures,” she countered.

“There’s no law against a man turning a profit.”

“Some of his cures don’t work.”

He watched her long fingers sweep the inside of a cup. “Some of them do. I imagine when you’re dealing with the health of a patient, unfortunately, there’s no answer for everyone.” He scrutinized her. “Why did you want to pay me so much to get you to Devil’s Gorge? Two hundred dollars, if I recall.”

The lines of her shoulders hardened. “The money’s still open, if you like.”

He scoffed. “That’s not why I brought it up. Why is it so important that you speak to Dr. Finch?”

“I need him for my article, to give it authenticity.”

There was something more to her position; Travis sensed it.

“Why do you like him so much?” she asked.

He anchored one boot between two rocks and rebalanced his weight. “He helps a lot of folks. He helped me get a conviction in the trial against Pete Warrick.”

“What trial?”

“The huge one that just finished.” He noticed her pause. “I forgot—you were out of town.”

Her gold necklace shimmered around her slender throat. “Was it a medical case?”

“No.”

“Then how did he help you?”

“He was the sole eyewitness in a string of unsolved robberies that happened across southern Alberta and B.C. over the course of the past two years. He placed Pete at the scene of a store crime one hundred miles due south of here, the only person ever captured.”

He watched her digest the information.

She frowned as if something didn’t make sense. Then she rose, her expression fiery, her body challenging. “There are two other doctors in town. Are they friendly toward Dr. Finch?”

He studied her critically. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

She shrugged, but seemed flustered by his scrutiny. “Journalists are supposed to ask questions.”

Maybe, but she seemed to have a bigger stake in this. His gaze again fell to her creamy throat. “The fort’s surgeon, John Calloway, joined us for dinner once after the trial and seemed to like Dr. Finch just fine. And Dr. Virginia Bullock says she and Dr. Finch shared the same physiology professor in medical college.”

“What?” Jessica’s plate clattered to the pile, the bang surprising them both. A flock of geese fluttered fifty feet away then tore off into the sky. Quickly recovering, Jessica scooped the plate and continued washing. “How’s that possible?”

He stepped back from her to catch a breath. “Dr. Bullock attended the university in Toronto, but she told me her professor emigrated from Glasgow twelve years earlier. That’s where Dr. Finch went to school. During the trial, they compared notes about their quirky professor. He used to write lists and lists of anatomical glands, organs and bones. He made his students reorganize them according to their placement in the body, starting from the head and working down.”

She rubbed the back of her neck, looking very disturbed.

“Glasgow,” Travis repeated. “That’s where Dr. Finch earned his medical degree. He’s Scottish.”

She slumped down on a protruding boulder.

“You have done some digging about his background for this interview, haven’t you?”

“The University of Glasgow,” she whispered, incredulous.

“What’s this interview about, exactly? What’s the topic?”

The breeze whirled around her hair. “There’s a man,” she said. “A man I’ve been tracking in Montreal. His name is Dr. King. My topic is about charlatans and their influence in modern society. How their practices have sparked the current laws for licensing of legitimate doctors. Up until recently, almost anyone could call themselves a doctor.”

“And you think Dr. Finch knows something about Dr. King?”

“I thought…But his attendance at the University of Glasgow places him in a different…” She flushed. “You’re a policeman. Do you know anything about medical con artists and charlatans?”

He shook his head. “Not medical. We’ve had our share of passing carnival men who’ve duped folks out of money. We’ve had store owners and bankers who’ve been apprehended with their fingers in the till. But no run-ins with dubious quacks.”

The animation in her face distracted him again.

He shoved a hand into a pocket. “I’ve heard about charlatans, though, in the big cities out East—in both Canada and the States. I’ve heard that in Philadelphia they have these medical museums. Innocent folks go in thinking they’re going to see something unusual, but many are cornered and led to believe they’re dangerously ill themselves. They’re taken to a backroom and sold expensive treatments.”

“There was a museum like that in Montreal. The police disbanded it.”

“And Dr. King knew something about it?”

“I’m convinced he was involved, although he was never caught.”

“Well, if Dr. Finch can help you locate this charlatan, I’m sure he will. Because of him, I won a major trial. Pete Warrick’s doing seven years’ hard labor.”

Devastation fell across her face. “A doctor’s word is sacred, isn’t it? I mean, no one goes against the word of a doctor.”

“Not without powerful proof. Do you have any against Dr. King?”

Her lashes swept downward. “No…”

“That’s a big accusation with no proof. You could be brought in front of a judge yourself for slandering the doctor’s reputation.”

She scoffed. “That’s the same thing my father told me.”

“You should listen to your father.”

The wind kicked up around them. She sprang to her feet, collecting the plates and cups. “The puzzle pieces are spread in front of me,” she said firmly. “All I have to do is join them.”

“It seems to me that you have an opinion on everything.”

“I’m close.” With a burst of militancy, she blew the hair from her face. “I can feel it.”

They were standing close, and he could feel it. Close enough that he could smell the soap on her hands.

Their proximity made him uncomfortable. He stepped away to lift the empty bucket. When the wind curled and shifted, he smelled vestiges of smoke. Wary, looking down the flowing river, he straightened and sniffed again.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A campfire.”

She peered through the darkness. “I don’t see it.”

“It’s a smudge fire. They’re using moss to keep it burning low.”

“Why would they do that?”

His muscles tensed. “They’re hiding it on purpose. There’s two or three of them behind us.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Earlier today along with the hawk you and Merriweather were watching, there were vultures flying in the sky. They were circling something a mile or two farther down the trail. They eat scrap food and anything a traveler might leave behind.”

“What does that mean?”

He grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her arm so hard against his chest he stole her breath. “Is there any reason you can think of why someone might be following us?”

She hesitated, and that worried him.

“No,” she whispered.

“Are you sure?”

She yanked from his powerful grip, spun around and dodged him. “Wh-what on earth would they want from me?”

He ran a hand across his dry mouth and cursed aloud. If she didn’t know anything about them, then there was only one logical explanation, one that had loomed in his fears since he’d begun planning this critical journey.

“Then someone’s after my horses.”

Chapter Five

With a growing sense of frustration, standing behind a cover of bushes while preparing for bed, Jessica stretched her right arm behind her back as far as it would go and grabbed for the last hook and eye on her corset. She shuffled in the dirt. Perspiration broke out on her forehead. With a moan and a final tug, she managed to unhook it. The red corset flung off her body and ricocheted between a poplar tree and white spruce. A cool breeze whispered over her naked breasts.

“You damn miserable piece of cotton, I should—”

“Is everything all right?” Travis called in the darkness.

Shocked by the proximity of his voice, she scooped her corset and clutched it to her body. “Stay out there!”

“I’m not coming after you. I’m merely wondering what the fuss is about.”

“I’m fine. A little difficulty with my clothing. Go on now. Run along.”

There was a pause. “Yes, ma’am,” he said in mocking tones. She relaxed as his footsteps grew distant. He called to Mr. Merriweather about stacking fire logs.

She was still touchy from the thought someone might be following them. Every noise spooked her.

Looking down at her corset, as much as she could see of it in the dark, she rubbed her fingers along the intricate column of hooks. At home, she and her sister always helped each other secure their stays, but Jessica was alone on this trip. The corset clasped at the back, which was half the problem.

Tomorrow, she’d have to devise something different to wear beneath her clothes. Her chemise, perhaps, and an undershirt on top of that to support her as she rode.

Beyond the bushes, Mr. Merriweather called to Travis above the spitting fire. “For a man who thinks someone’s following us, you don’t seem to be very worried.”

She heard a rustling of branches, then Travis’s low voice. “There’s no sense getting your long johns twisted in a knot. Overreacting doesn’t solve anything.”

Jessica slid her night shift over her head and listened to their conversation.

“You’re not worried at all?” continued the butler.

“I’m concerned, but they won’t come near us for at least three more days.”

“How can you be so bloody well sure?”

“Because that’s what I’d do if I were them. I wouldn’t make a move now because we’re too close to the police fort. Dozens of policemen who don’t take kindly to horse theft. It’ll take us three days to cross the border of Alberta into British Columbia. It’s deserted in the interior. That’s when I’d make my move.”

The butler gasped. “Why don’t you arrest them tonight?”

“I can’t arrest anyone unless a crime’s been committed.” He paused. “Tomorrow evening we’ll be passing through the village of Strongness. I know some men there who’ve worked for me before. Good men. I’ll get their help with this.”

“Good show! But for tonight, shouldn’t we be sleeping in a ring, facing outward, head to toe in our bedrolls with our guns drawn?”

Travis laughed. “Where’d you read that? An adventure novel?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, Cherokee Joe—”

“Cherokee Joe?”

“He’s a brilliant Indian I read about in a jolly good Western series, written by an Englishman from Hong Kong. My word, Cherokee Joe could smell a trap a mile away. And he could wring a coyote’s neck with his bare fists.”

Jessica recalled the story and smiled to herself as she folded her daytime clothes to stuff them in her pack.

“First of all,” said Travis, “there aren’t any Indians in the West named Joe. And Cherokee Indians have never lived in this territory.”

“But this man was special. His wife was a European princess who happened to meet him on one of the king’s trips—”

“That’s crazy.” Travis whistled. “Why would he marry a princess? What in the world might they have in common?”

“Their mutual love for an injured buffalo, of course—”

“I’ve met several Indians. None of them would want to marry a European princess. They’re smart.”

“But I haven’t gotten to the part about the Mountie.”

“Let me guess. It’s a lovers’ tug-of-war between Cherokee Joe and the Mountie for the princess.”

“No, no,” said Jessica, stepping out backward from behind the bushes, dragging her saddlebag to the large pine tree. She propped it beside the others. “The princess shoots the Mountie because he’s trying to wrongfully imprison Cherokee Joe.”

She tried to join in the light conversation, hoping to divert attention from what she was wearing, but failed miserably when she turned around and saw Travis.

Crouched by the fire, he was unrolling blankets. Mr. Merriweather was nowhere in sight. She peered around for him then spotted the movements of his arms behind a far tree as he wiggled out of his clothes.

Travis had removed his hat, vest and shirt. His powerful set of shoulders gleamed bronze in a white sleeveless undershirt. It struck her that she’d be sleeping within yards of him tonight.

He hesitated at the sight of her, looked her up and down, clenched his jaw then turned back to his bedroll.

They were both embarrassed. Although she’d tried to cover her white nightdress with her shawl, the shawl only reached to her waist. The bottom half of her gown, and her high woolen stockings, were visible. It was definitely improper to be seen in her nightclothes by a stranger. The last time she’d been with a man…The consequences of her tryst with Victor burned in her mind.

Desperately wishing she could sink into the darkness of the night, she tugged the shawl tighter. She’d removed her braids and the wind nipped at her disheveled hair. What else could she do but pretend everything was normal?

Travis finished with one bedroll. He untied the leather ties for another, stood up and shook it out.

“So I gather you read the book, too?”

She nodded. “Mr. Merriweather loaned it to me and my sister years ago. The story is very dramatic.”

“The Mountie sounds like an incompetent fool.”

“He was a bit on the slow side.”

“Written by an Englishman from the colony of Hong Kong.”

“Um-hmm. I’m sure Mr. Merriweather wouldn’t mind loaning it to you. You might learn from Cherokee Joe’s tracking methods.”

“Thanks but I’ll pass.”

He had a way of making her feel inadequate, as if she always said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing.

She walked closer. “May I claim one of the bedrolls?”

“Any one you like. I’ll keep the fire burning so we’ll be warm all night.”

He rose to his feet. The campfire spit and popped beside them. Even though the air was hot, she shivered when she looked at him.

Flames of fire reflected off his profile—across the darkened jaw, the straight nose, the rigid cheekbones.

A confusing mix of feelings raced through her. They would sleep together tonight.

She recalled that for a brief time as an adolescent, she and Caroline had competed for his affections. Caroline had always won every silly rivalry they’d ever set. But Jessica had dreamed of how his kiss might feel. A real kiss, not like the two he had given her—once when he brushed her cheek at a wedding, and once at a Christmas social. Now as his full lips parted and his gaze glossed over her mouth, she wondered still.

She should have thought before she spoke, but her anger at herself for wondering about his kiss made her want to distance herself. “Why didn’t you think about horse thieves before we left? Surely it’s something you should have considered on a journey with your prize mares.”

His face darkened. “I was keeping my plans quiet. Just a few of my men and the commander knew the exact day I was leaving and where I was heading. Thanks to you and your stunt of going above my head, the whole town discovered it overnight.”

She stepped back at his rebuke. “I didn’t realize.”

Menacing, he stepped forward, bridging the distance she wanted to widen. “If I lose any of my horses, I’m holding you responsible.”

She’d messed up his plans again. As if she were that same spoiled woman he accused her of being.

The corner of his mouth twisted. “You and your father finagled a prize stallion out from underneath me years ago. This time, maybe you’ll have to reimburse me for my trouble, and these ones will cost you a lot more.”

“Travis, I didn’t realize—”

“Ready for bed, all?” Mr. Merriweather hobbled out from the tree, wearing a long cotton night shift similar to hers.

Travis shook his head at the friendly man. “Forget the rattlers, forget the horse thieves. I’ll tell you one thing I am worried about. Your feet. Seems to me you can barely walk.”

“My feet will be fine.”

“How many blisters do you have?”

“Just two. One on the bottom of each foot.”

Travis stalked to his pack and withdrew a roll of cloth. “Tomorrow morning, wrap your feet with this gauze before you shove them back into your boots.”

His eyes narrowed on the two of them standing by the fire. He peered down at her legs, apparently for the first time. His bare, muscled arms tightened. His gaze roved her lower half. “Is that what you’re wearing to bed? Both of you—only nightshirts?”

“What’s wrong with them?” she asked.

“You’re not sleeping in a castle. You’re sleeping in the middle of the wilderness!”

Jessica was too startled by his booming voice to respond. He always seemed to be teetering on the edge of anger, and she always seemed to be pushing him over.

“If we have to jump up in a hurry, Merriweather, because we’re getting mauled by bears, how are you going to protect us naked beneath a nightshirt? And you, Miss Charm School, what about you? If you have to jump onto a horse, are you willing to ride in that thin little thing? For God’s sake,” he said, stomping to the third bedroll and flinging it into the air, “think of how Cherokee Joe would dress!”

“In his clothes!” shouted Mr. Merriweather. “By George, his clothes. That’s why you’re still in your pants and undershirt. That’s what you’re sleeping in, aren’t you?”

“Put some pants on, woman,” Travis grumbled with fury, brushing past her so only she could hear. She withered at his next words. “With your back to the fire, I can see through your whole damn gown.”

From beneath her covers, Jessica watched Travis stir the fire then check the horses. Apparently, he couldn’t sleep, either. She stilled with nervous expectation. She wanted him to return to his bedroll and fall asleep so she could get something from her pack, something she’d forgotten and didn’t want him to see. If he caught her, they’d certainly clash again.

She squirmed on the hard ground, trying to forget about the flat rock lodged beneath her back. Six feet to her left, Mr. Merriweather snored. Draped near her feet, Travis’s bedroll lay empty. He’d tried going to sleep alongside the both of them an hour ago, but had risen only moments earlier.

Her gaze traveled the fifty feet of moonlit space and rested on Travis’s hands. He patted the horses one at a time. His handling stopped short of Independence and Jessica was riveted again by the discomfort in his manner. What was it that he didn’t like about that horse?

Her eyes stung from weariness. The long day had tired her, not so much the physical exertion, but the mental strain of being on her guard with Travis. And discovering Dr. Finch had gone to medical college in Glasgow. She’d thought he was lying about his education. This was the first time she’d heard of Dr. Virginia Bullock having the same professor.

Jessica considered the problem, adamant she was still somehow correct. Could it be Dr. Finch’s discussion with Dr. Virginia Bullock had been framed in front of Travis in such a way that he only appeared to have had the same physiology professor? Why?

Hearing the jingle of spurs approaching the campfire, she closed her eyes quickly and pretended sleep. The heat of the fire warmed her lids and touched her lips.

After waiting two minutes for the sound of rustling blankets, she heard none.

Go to bed, she wanted to scream.

Slowing opening one eye, she found him seated on a log, long legs spanned in front of him, hands propped on solid knees, a stick in his hand as he turned red-hot coals.

She had to admit, he was pleasant on the eyes. Blue-denim pants hugged a flat waistline, molded lower to firm thighs then bunched slightly at the knees before falling above pointed black boots. The muscles of his bronzed arms tensed with his movements, then relaxed, then tensed again. A knot formed in her stomach as she watched him being him.

The strain in his face had lifted. The wrinkles between his eyebrows that appeared whenever he looked at her had faded. His mouth, parted slightly, slackened in the red light. Deep black hair framed his temples, and the rough shadow of a beard reminded her again how much he looked like a dangerous pirate.

He was rude and arrogant and had treated her badly since the minute she’d approached him for help.

But she couldn’t deny how good he was at what he did. He was a master in leading the horses through the foothills, an expert in supplying food and drink and shelter. While she watched the serenity in his face, she was mesmerized by the pleasure he seemed to derive from being the boss and taking charge of everyone and everything.

A horse neighed. Travis turned his head in that direction, as a concerned parent might, then instinctively rose, armed with his Colt revolver. He made his way to investigate. He scoured the ground then seemed satisfied that all was well. Perhaps he’d thought it was a rattler. Because he remained with the horses, she figured it was her chance to jump up to her pack.

Sliding out from her covers, she tugged her boots over her stocking feet. She bunched her nightgown in one hand above the ivory pants she’d decided to sleep in—tomorrow she’d try sleeping in her blouse, too, but for tonight she was already changed—then heaved to her feet. Her pack was still resting beneath the pine tree, ten feet away. She’d be back before he realized she was gone.

Kneeling, she undid the bulging side pouch, rifling through her journal, her pencils, her money, her papers, until her fingers touched soft flannel. With a gentle smile, she pulled it out, held it to her face and inhaled the calming scent of clean fabric. Perhaps it was superstitious of her, but she’d never be able to fall asleep if she left her infant’s nightgown alone in the cold. She would tuck it beneath her pillow.

She worked with speed to retie her side pocket.

There were three things in her pack she had no intention of telling Travis about. Three secrets. He’d already seen this one when he’d helped her pack at the fort, and had tried to make her toss it out.

Pivoting with the soft flannel concealed beneath her own nightgown, she remembered what he’d yelled this morning when he’d seen it. “No gifts!”

She didn’t have many gifts she could offer her son when she found him, but a simple nightshirt from his mother surely wouldn’t intrude on Travis’s time or space.

When she wheeled around, Travis was standing in front of her.

She riveted in alarm. “Why’d you scare me like that?”

“What are you doing?”

Breathless, she was hit by a cold pang of loneliness. Loneliness that she was in dark, unfamiliar territory, that she was a mother without her child, that she had to constantly defend herself to this man.

“I’m a little cold. I got another piece of clothing.”

He crossed his bulging arms over his chest and continued to block her path. When he looked lower to the flannel cloth she was clutching, her grip tightened.

She knew as they neared Devil’s Gorge and Dr. Finch, she’d have to tell Travis something more. Something about her missing child.

So far he hadn’t given her one reason why she should trust him. If she divulged her secrets, he might tell her the accusations against Dr. Finch were preposterous, that her secrets nullified any agreement he had with the commander to escort her. Travis was so harsh toward her he might say he didn’t care about her problems and demand she and her butler return to Calgary. Tomorrow evening they’d be passing through a village—maybe he’d order them to stay behind there.

She couldn’t divulge anything until it was safe to do so, until they were beyond the point of no return.

But glaring at the uncompromising cut of his profile, she realized she was tackling more than she could handle.

“Are you warmer now?”

“Yes, I am.”

Darkness wove an unwanted air of sensuality between them. Only a nightgown separated her skin from his. But this time, there was no fire behind her and she knew he couldn’t see her naked figure through the sheer cloth. He took a deep breath, though, and she felt as if the oxygen around her was being sucked away.

The scent of ferns mingled with the scent of his skin. Above them, moonlight rippled through a canopy of branches. Circular swirls of light softened the steel-hard cut of his jaw and sharp black brows. She caught the deep glimmer in his eyes as they searched her face. Cool, clean air filtered up her gown and over her bare flesh. Tiny hairs bristled on her skin; her breasts felt heavy. That lonely ache throbbed inside of her.

She remembered the last wedding reception they had attended, each with their families, years ago before the rivalry with Caroline had begun. And before the mayor and Caroline’s father had declared war on each other. Travis’s kiss on her cheek had been soft and smooth because he’d just shaved; his kiss now would be rough.

Roughrider.

She had an urge, a need, to be touched. Her body flushed with heat, her heart pounded as she imagined his hands sliding along her skin.

But he’d been nothing but rude and miserable to her since this started.

“Good night.” She stepped around him and left him staring after her, a solitary figure in the dark.

Chapter Six

The second day passed in misery. Travis knew he urgently needed to do something to shake her out of his mind. He’d spent a restless night watching the stars, analyzing sounds in the cool wind for indications of trouble, but mostly trying not to breathe the same air as the provocative woman sleeping three feet away perpendicular to him.

In the morning they arose with the rising sun. The more he ignored Jessica, the more he craved to look at her. She tumbled out of bed, her cheeks creased with the lines of her bedding, cheerfully hauling water from the river to boil coffee, asking Merriweather how he felt, timidly making her way to the horses to say hello.

Hello to the horses!

Later astride his horse, while he led them through rolling hills and thicker trees, Travis assured himself his craving had nothing to do with disloyalty to Caroline. Caroline may have understood it, for she’d always raised her eyebrows at the frequency of his desire. He was taken by surprise by his physical sensations whenever Jessica brushed by. His skin bristled, he inhaled deeply, his pulse stopped for a beat and he avoided eye contact. He kicked himself every time it happened.

He’d seen that need in animals, a physical alertness of the male to the female species. But for cripe’s sake, he wasn’t an animal and should be thinking more with his brain than his urges. One year had passed since he’d even noticed another woman. Was his body making up for lost time?

Behind him on the trail, Merriweather hollered in a weary voice. “Shall we stop here for our midday rest?”

Adjusting his hat, Travis slowed his gelding and peered through a ring of firs to a clearing beyond the river’s curve. He knew he’d been pushing the other two hard. It seemed the more irritable Travis got, the harder he worked them. This was taking its toll on the butler.

“It looks fine. We’ll stop for two hours.”

“Can you see anyone behind us on the trail today? Anyone following?”

“No sign of them,” said Travis. “I’ll take a closer look while we’re resting.”

They dismounted. Where the sunlight penetrated the forest, wildflowers grew in abandon—lady’s slipper, Indian paintbrush, and a variety of heathers.

Merriweather limped through the trees to the river, five hundred feet to the west. While Travis untied his saddle, he watched the old man then shook his head in sympathy and concern. Jessica was also watching. When Travis turned his head to locate her, their eyes met above the saddle. He looked away but she walked away.

With ease, he slid the saddle off the first horse, then the second, then the third. He didn’t expect any help from Jessica or her butler; he was grateful if they would only keep out of his way. As he slid the saddle from the last horse, he heard Independence whinny. Turning toward the sound, he noticed Jessica had led her to a tree twenty yards away.

His heart plunged. He dropped his saddle and ran. “No! Stop!”

Jessica lunged out of his path. He slammed past her to the reins and yanked Independence from the shrubs. “Never, ever, ever, let her eat that plant. It’s yew and it can kill her. A mouthful can stop her heart!” His own heart bounded in leaps.

Her hand flew to her brown hat. “She didn’t touch it. She’d didn’t take one bite!”

He was standing next to her again, the last place he wanted to be. He felt the movement of her breathing and the maddening rush of his own. He said nothing but shook his head in disapproval.

Brown eyes smoldered in his direction. She tossed her hands onto her angled hips. “You think I don’t know anything, but it’s because you don’t tell me anything. Mr. Merriweather gets your precious sympathy, but all I ever get is your blasted temper.”

He gritted his teeth. “Because you’re nothing but trouble.”

“And you’re nothing but a thorn in my behind. I want you out.”

He glared at her, wishing he could say a magic word to make her disappear. Her braids were never able to contain all of her hair. Escaped strands of gold framed her heated face. Her white blouse had pulled out from one side of her waist. The creamy pants that had been crisp and clean yesterday morning were looser and stained with dull splotches of coffee and grass. The freckles on her nose had deepened in color.

She glanced at Independence, who was grazing grass by his boots. “Many people mistakenly treat me like I’m upper class. You treat me like I’m lower.” Her lips stiffened; her tone was harsh. “I don’t think we’re so different. You were raised to believe if you worked hard, you could make a difference. Well, I was told the same.”

Momentarily rebuffed, he tossed his Stetson to the grass and ran a hand through his hair. “All right, you want to know some things? This is yew.” He pointed to the line of shrubs. “They’ve got straight, green leaves, which almost look like coniferous needles. Keep the horses away from that.” He emphasized his point by gouging the air with his finger. “They can all graze in the clearing at the tall grass where I left them. But the shorter, fresh grasses, there—” he pointed past her shoulder “—have more nutrients. We’ll let Independence graze there for the sake of her foal.”

She squinted in the sunlight. “A kind word from the king.”

She’d roused his anger, then tried to leave.

“Go ahead, run away again.”

“I’m not running.” She turned briskly at his other side. He felt the breeze of her movements, smelled the scent of her skin.

“Yes, you are. Just like last night when I caught you at your saddlebag. You can’t face a confrontation.”

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