Table of Contents

Cover Page

Praise

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Copyright

Critical acclaim for Linda Castle’s previous titles

Temple’s Prize

“Delightful, funny…poignant and intriguing…a winner.”

—Romantic Times

The Return of Chase Cordell

“A balance of marvelous characters and an outstanding plot.”

—Rendezvous

Abbie’s Child

“Fresh and compelling, a wonderful read.”

—Author Patricia Potter

Fearless Hearts

“A very different love story guaranteed to tug on your heartstrings.”

—Author Marilyn Campbell

Any minute now she would start to cuss and bluster…

But to his shock and dismay, she only smiled and allowed those remarkably thick dark lashes to sweep over her chestnut eyes once again.

“As you say, Brooks,” she agreed demurely. “I do stick out like a sore thumb here in New York, part Irish and part Indian—a cat’s whisker from being a barbarian, wouldn’t you say?”

Missy—brave, blunt, wonderful Missy was still beneath the lonely veneer.

“No, I wouldn’t call you a barbarian and neither would anyone else within my hearing, I assure you—Marisa.” A sudden burst of possessiveness flared inside him. All he wanted to do was enjoy her company alone and keep other men from looking at her with hungry eyes.

Their gazes locked. Heat rose between them like fog on a warm April morning.

Breathe, you idiot, a voice inside his head screamed…

Dear Reader,

This holiday season, we’ve selected books that are sure to warm your heart—all with heroes who redefine the phrase “the gift of giving.” Since Linda Castle’s first book, Fearless Hearts, appeared in our 1995 March Madness Promotion, she has been inundated with letters from fans asking for more. Territorial Bride is that long-awaited sequel. Now cowgirl Missy O’Bannion is all grown-up—and she’s bound and determined to become a lady to impress Eastern rogue Brooks James, who’s already shown her he can be a real cowboy. In this darling “opposites attract” romance, their love is tested on many levels, especially when Missy is seriously injured.

Rising talent Sharon Schulze returns this month with The Shielded Heart, a stirring tale set in eighteenth-century England about a warrior who learns to accept his special psychic gift as he teaches an enamel artisan about life and love. And award-winning Cheryl Reavis is back with another of her sensational Civil War stories. Harrigan’s Bride features a soldier who chivalrously marries the bedridden daughter of his late godmother. Don’t miss it!

Rounding out the month is A Warrior’s Passion, the ninth book in the medieval WARRIOR SERIES by the gifted Margaret Moore. Here, a young woman is forced into an unwanted betrothal before the man she truly loves—and whose child she carries—can claim her as his wife!

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

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

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

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

Territorial Bride
Linda Castle

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LINDA CASTLE

Linda Castle is the pseudonym of Linda L. Crockett. Although she is a native New Mexican, Linda can trace her heritage to Comanche on one branch and all the way to Scotland at the time of the Spanish Armada on another. Perhaps this blending of blood and culture is what enables her to step back in time and capture tales from bygone eras. She is fascinated with both the American West and the British Isles. A recent trip to Scotland, England and Wales produced amazing links, such as finding an out-of-the-way kilt maker in Edinburgh who had plaids for the Crocketts and the Caudills.

Linda currently makes her home in New Mexico with her husband, Bill, two youngest children, Brandon and Logan, and their beloved Great Danes, Rebel and Destiny. You can reach Linda at the following address: Linda Castle, #18 County Road 5795, Farmington, NM 87401.

This book is lovingly and respectfully dedicated to Chris Reeves, Karin David and the Paralyzed Veterans of America, who valiantly face each day and teach us the meaning of courage. May God bless you all.

Chapter One

New Mexico Territory, 1889

Missy sighed and watched Clell run his fingers around the inside of his high, stiffly starched white collar. His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed hard, and he gave her a why-am-I-being-tortured-like-this? grimace. It was plain as the nose on his face that he was as uncomfortable in his fancy duds as Missy was in her maid of honor dress. Still, they had all agreed to get gussied up for this occasion. And when she thought about it, she had to smile. All the fuss and wearing of stiff lace, starched petticoats and pinching corsets was worth it, because Trace and Bellami were getting married.

The surgeon had cautioned them to wait until Trace was fully recovered from his surgery. Then Donovan and Patricia James, Bellami’s parents, had insisted the wedding wait until the winter weather cleared. They had arrived only a week past, with Bellami’s eldest brother, Rod, her cousin Ellen and an assortment of distant relatives in tow. After so many obstacles, Bell and Trace were finally going to be wed.

The spinster who had played the organ for every wedding in the Territory for the last twenty years suddenly changed tempo. The ancient instrument droned and wheezed, announcing that the time was growing short and all should find a seat.

“Are you ready?” A resonant voice rippled over Missy like a warm summer breeze.

When she turned and looked up at the hardened visage of Brooks James, her middle tightened even more. Ranch life and the thick mustache he now sported had transformed his easy-on-the-eyes appearance into the lean, uncompromising visage of a true cowboy. His pale blue eyes gazed out at her from skin bronzed by more than a year in the Territorial sun and wind. Now he had the determined never-give-an-inch look of a work-hardened Western man and the elegant manners of an Eastern dude.

A deadly combination, Missy thought to herself.

She would be hard-pressed to pick him out of a crowd of Circle B ranch hands without taking a second look. He had learned to rope and ride with the best of them. When he walked, his body spoke of strength and economy of motion. He had succeeded in doing what she’d been sure he could not. But a funny thing had happened to her along the way: instead of becoming accustomed to Brooks over the long months, she had found herself growing awkward around him. At one time she had needled and picked at him, but as he settled in and learned to handle himself on the ranch, the situation between them had flip-flopped like a fish stranded out of water.

Brooks had slowly begun to get the upper hand at every confrontation. Now he openly teased her with a wicked twinkle in his eye. And every time it happened, she got all tongued-tied and fluttery. Her only defense was her sharp O’Bannion tongue, but even that weapon had failed her under the heat of that cool blue gaze.

“Missy?” he asked again. “Are you ready?”

“Yes—I am ready.”

“You seem a little jumpy.”

“Only like a torn turkey before Thanksgivin’,” Missy admitted in a whisper. She tugged at the snug waist of her dress, trying to give herself enough room to take a deep breath. Bellami and Trace both had said she looked fine in the form-fitting, peacock blue sateen, but with Brooks’s critical gaze skimming over her, Missy now doubted the truth of their words.

Damnation. She wished she could’ve worn chaps and boots. At least then she could be herself and would be able to inhale normally instead of taking panting little breaths.

This had been a dunderheaded notion. She wasn’t a lady. Putting fancy duds on her skinny form wasn’t going to change her. It was like putting a candelabra in an outhouse: it didn’t change what was on the inside one little bit.

A deep, throaty chuckle drew her attention back to Brooks. He was staring at her, grinning like a fox who had found a way into the henhouse.

“It is customary for the bride to be nervous, not the maid of honor,” he advised her in an easy tone. It could have been friendly teasing, or it could be that he was mocking her. “I didn’t think the princess of the O’Bannion clan ever had a moment of fear about anything. Could it be you are only human like the rest of us, Missy?” His eyes glittered with the challenge of his words, while a devilish half smile peeked from under his cookie-duster mustache.

Now there was no doubt. He was poking fun at her—again. Sure as God made little green apples, he’d keep on doing it until she flew off the handle and said or did something she’d regret, and she couldn’t allow herself the luxury smack-dab in the middle of Trace’s wedding.

Consarn him, she thought sourly.

What was it about this Easterner that got under her skin? She knew enough to walk away from a coiled rattler or a porcupine, so why couldn’t she just turn her back on him? He was as prickly as a porky, and the way her belly knotted and her pulse was racing, he must be as deadly as any sidewinder—deadly to her, anyway.

She wondered for the twentieth time how he could just open his mouth and rile her up like an old range bull with a thorn in his rump. It didn’t make a lick of sense. All she had to do was use the brains God gave her and ignore the grinning varmint, but somehow it never worked out that way.

“Well, Missy?” Brooks leaned a little nearer.

One thick brow rose over his crystalline eyes. She caught a whiff of bay rum clinging to hard-cut jaws that had been scraped bare less than an hour ago.

“Are you—afraid?” Brooks gazed at her with his seductive eyes. “Are you?”

“No, I am not afraid,” she snapped. Several heads turned to stare in her direction because of the volume of her reply. “My—my dress is just tight as a narrow cinch, th-that’s all.” She lowered her voice to a respectable whisper. “And with all these folks squeezed in here there’s barely a breath of air left.” She forced herself to ignore the amusement etched in every line of his face. “So why don’t you quit jawing so much and using up what little air there is left?”

He laughed.

Damn him to hell and back. He had the gall to stand there and laugh. And then he raised a long-fingered, brown and roughened hand as if to touch her.

The thought sent her belly dropping to her feet like a stone.

“Rest easy, little lady. If you swoon, I promise I’ll do my best to catch you before you hit the floor in front of all these people.” Mercifully, his fingers stopped just short of touching her cheek.

Her face grew hotter and all the shallow little breaths she was taking seemed to be hanging at the back of her throat. It took all her control to keep from yelling at him, or slapping his face, but she managed to keep her voice low and controlled and her hands clenched at her thighs.

“I appreciate the offer, Brooks, but you’ll never see the day when I can’t stand on my own two feet around you.” Her long, unbound hair tickled her backside through the silky material of her dress as she emphasized her speech with a little nod of her head.

Brooks did not laugh this time, but she felt his amusement sluice over her in a scalding wave. Her heart beat a tiny bit faster inside the sateen bodice of her dress.

Damn him. Double damn him!

He could affect her with just a look, or God forbid, the hint of a casual touch. And then, as if he had read her tortured thoughts, he reached out and took hold of her elbow with his bare fingertips. A myriad of peculiar and uncontrollable emotions ripped through her middle when his fingers tightened around her arm. She promised herself that she would not react, but she stiffened in spite of herself.

“Don’t make a bigger fuss, Missy. Everyone is watching.” His low warning rumbled over her while his gaze slid around the interior of the crowded Catholic mission, the closest house of God they could find.

Missy followed his line of vision. Just as he had said, the tiny adobe building was full to overflowing, and while not everyone was staring at her, more than enough curious eyes were looking her way.

She died a little inside, knowing that her confrontation with Brooks had been the object of their attention.

“Come on, Missy, I won’t bite you—” he leaned close enough to whisper in her ear, tightening that possessive hold on her arm “—but I might nibble a bit around the edges.” His breath fanned her earlobe. For one terrifying moment she was afraid he would nip her flesh.

Was she afraid he would—or that he wouldn’t?

“It is time we took our places, Brooks,” she managed to croak. “Stop all this foolishness.”

Brooks grinned widely, flashing a glimpse of straight teeth, then he deftly maneuvered her and the wide ruffles of peacock blue sateen up through the narrow aisle. Missy marveled that he got them where they needed to be without tripping either one of them.

She shook herself and blinked. Without quite knowing how time was moving so fast and disjointedly, she realized she was now standing opposite Brooks in front of the slat-thin minister with the too-large Adam’s apple.

Missy allowed herself one backward glance. Now every single person seated in the small chapel was watching her as she stood at the front of the church, twisting her fingers and plucking at the too-tight, unforgiving waist of her dress.

She whirled back around, staring at the shiny worn knees of the minister’s trousers. She felt like a complete jackass—and she blamed Brooks for it and for making her feel things that confused and befuddled her.

A murmur of restrained voices, like a cooling breeze over dried leaves, moved through the chapel. Missy turned to see what had caused the stir, grateful that something, anything, had distracted the group’s interest from her. Then she saw Trace, and all of her thoughts were for him alone.

He looked happy, healthy and more handsome than she’d ever imagined. His dark hair reflected the flames of the candles on the altar; his face was flushed with excitement.

The organ groaned and wheezed again. Then, with a reverberating sound that tickled the bottoms of her feet, the “Wedding March” began. Missy followed Trace’s gaze to the side door.

Moving with all the grace of an angel fallen to earth, Bellami appeared in her flowing ivory gown. A heavy lace veil trailed behind her on the red, Spanish-tiled floor.

Throughout the long preparations for the wedding, Trace had made only one request: that Bellami wear nothing over her face. The operation had removed the bone sliver from his brain, but it had been Bellami’s love that had truly restored his sight and his life. He had told Missy that he wanted to look upon the face of the woman he loved, now and forever.

Bellami shifted the bouquet of wild lavender and oxeye daisies to her empty hand while she stretched up to deposit an affectionate kiss on Brooks’s lean cheek, then she offered a reassuring smile to Missy. The gesture made the hot dry lump in Missy’s throat grow larger.

“Let us all bow our heads for a moment of prayer…” the minister intoned “…and ask God’s blessing on this young couple as they embark on the road of life.”

Brooks watched Missy’s eyes flutter shut. He half listened to the prayer while he continued to observe her from the corner of his eye. Looking at her now, a feminine vision in sateen, it was hard to believe she was the same razor-tongued shrew that had pestered him for the last year—except that he had the emotional bruises to prove it. The little vixen had drawn blood, in a manner of speaking, a time or two. She was feisty and headstrong, the exact opposite of the women he’d formerly pursued.

A murmured amen brought Brooks’s head up. He focused on his twin. Bellami was lovely, as all brides are, but even more so because she held her head up proudly and did not care who gazed upon her face. She no longer hid herself from the pity people might feel for her. Trace’s love had been the spark needed for her to grow and change. For the first time in her life she seemed unaware of the scar.

The scar. It had altered her life and saddled Brooks with guilt for years. But then it had brought Bellami James to the Territory to find her destiny, and in a peculiar sort of way it had done the same thing for him. Bellami’s scar and Violet Ashland’s fickle heart had been the catalyst for Brooks to leave the city and the pointless pursuits he had once thought of as manly.

After Bellami left, Brooks had surrounded himself with a flock of beautiful ladies, but none had ever held his attention for more than a couple of weeks until he’d met Violet Ashland. The petite blonde had captured his interest in a way that no other woman had before…

A nervous cough pulled his attention to the ravenhaired girl standing opposite him. Missy was a wildcat one minute and a siren the next. She could make him madder than any woman he knew, yet in the whole year he’d known her she had never shown the slightest interest in snaring him for his fortune—or any other reason, he thought with a smile.

Not like Violet.

He frowned and wondered where that thought had come from. It was probably the magic of the candles and the organ music and the lethargy of a Territorial afternoon. A man would have to be made of iron not to be influenced by the romantic promise of this moment. The trappings of matrimony had resurrected memories that had long been buried, reminding him of his own proposal of marriage.

But that had been another man, in another life. Now his days were filled with work and with fending off Missy’s verbal arrows. Yes, he thought idly, Missy O’Bannion could strip the hide off a man with one look, but under all that bluff and bluster she was honest and true.

The kind of woman to cross rivers and climb mountains with.

Brooks blinked in amusement at his thoughts. He was beginning to sound, or at least to think, like Clell. The idea that he had learned some wisdom from the irascible cowboy pleased him, and he caught himself grinning.

By accident he and Missy looked at each other in the same moment. Their gazes caught and held. Her dark eyes reflected the candlelight like a deep, shimmering stream in the first rays of morning.

Funny that he’d never noticed how wide and luminous her eyes were until now, Brooks mused.

“Dearly beloved…” the tall, lanky preacher’s baritone voice filled the chapel. “In the sight of God and this company…”

Brooks adjusted the shoulders and front of his black broadcloth frock coat and tried to focus on the preacher’s words. Missy fidgeted once more, and his attention became riveted upon her.

Was she nervous?

Naw. The answer came quickly into his head. Missy O’Bannion was as steady a woman as ever walked God’s earth. But if she wasn’t nervous, then why was her softly rounded bosom rising and falling so rapidly inside the sateen bodice?

He frowned at her in speculation. Then, as if she felt his attention on her, she looked at him again. Her eyes were darker than bottomless pools, and for a moment he felt himself drowning in their depths. She wore an expression so poignant that he nearly reached out and touched her.

He shook himself and looked back toward the preacher. He shouldn’t give a hoot in hell about how she felt. If she was frightened it was poetic justice. She had given him undiluted misery this past year. It would serve her right if she was stewing in her own juices.

No, he didn’t care how she felt. He couldn’t give a tinker’s damn about Missy’s feelings—or any woman’s, for that matter. Life in the Territory had let him see that a lone wolf survived as well as one with a mate.

That was what he wanted now—to remain alone. A lone wolf, free, unattached and pleasantly sane. None of this madness called love for him, thank you. Brooks intended to remain a bachelor, like Clell. Clell was a man who knew what was what. He had helped Brooks learn to rope and ride and how to laugh at Missy’s sharp barbs.

“Trace Liam O’Bannion…” The clergyman’s deep voice gained volume. “Do you…”

The nearest group of candles flickered. Trace leaned over and gave Bellami a little peck on the cheek, quite improper when he was taking his vows, but the kind of thing that Brooks had grown to expect in this half-tamed place. Here men made their own rules to live by. Now that he had become accustomed to it, he liked it.

Missy shifted on her feet and Brooks glanced at her again. She was smiling. It was an angel’s smile, full of love and innocence. Something hot and liquid coursed through his veins while he watched her face.

“Bellami Irene James, do you take…”

The image of Violet Ashland flitted unbidden into Brooks’s head. The memory of that cold, elegant woman filled his mind. Then he glanced at Missy. Where Violet had been cold, Missy ran red-hot.

“And her hot tongue will sear flesh, as well,” he whispered to himself.

Brooks caught himself smiling at the memory of Missy’s frequent outbursts and his determination to prove himself. If he was honest with himself, he’d have to admit that he had come to enjoy their verbal sparring. His taste in women had changed, or maybe he had changed in the rowdy environment of the Territory. One thing for certain, Brooks was not the same man he had been when he’d stepped off the train. Besides, if the time came that he wanted to settle down—and he wasn’t thinking that it would—but if it did, then Missy would be here. He cast a furtive glance at her.

Yep, he could count on Missy O’Bannion to be constant and unchanging. She would always be Missy and she would always be tied to the Circle B Ranch.

It was a comforting thought, and one that Brooks tucked away in the corner of his mind for safekeeping.

“The ring, if you please…” The minister’s voice snapped Brooks back to attention. He forced himself to quit woolgathering. He pulled the ring, from the watch pocket of his brocade vest and gave it to Trace.

Bellami handed her spray of flowers to Missy and allowed Trace to claim her hand. Work-roughened fingers held hers within a protective grasp. In a few more years Brooks’s hands would be as rough. He thought of his old life in New York—the champagne suppers, buggy rides through the park and trips to the athletic club. He glanced back at his parents, sitting side by side in the nearest pew. Brooks grinned. He had withstood Miss Hell-for-leather O’Bannion. He turned back around in time to see Trace slip the ring on his sister’s finger. A smile still curled Brooks’s lips. He couldn’t think of anything or anybody that would force him to return to New York City—not ever again.

Chapter Two

A side of prime Circle B beef sizzled on an iron spit over a glowing pile of coals several yards from the ranch house veranda. A coyote howled somewhere off in the twilight and a mournful answer echoed. The smell of burning mesquite wood filled the air. As Clell swabbed spicy chili sauce on the beef, some of the thick concoction dribbled onto the embers. Flames shot upward, as they would inside of everyone’s bellies after a taste of Clell’s secret sauce.

Missy’s heart was beating hard with happiness and excitement. Clinging to the railing, she lingered on the veranda, content to observe the crowd. Firelight reflected off rows of silver conchas running down the legs of the black calzoneras worn by the mariachi singers as they got in position to serenade the newlyweds.

Bellami’s cheeks flushed crimson as Trace softly translated their melodic Spanish. Then, as the fiddle players joined the mariachis, Bellami and Trace waltzed for the first time as man and wife.

It was almost painful for Missy to witness so much happiness. The persistent lump she had been choking on all day came again. She fought back tears of joy and laughed at Trace’s mock awkwardness when the fiddles abruptly quickened and he was forced to dance a Highland jig.

Nobody could out-celebrate a cowboy, she thought. Fast-moving boot heels clicked on the wood in quick rhythm. Missy laughed out loud when Lupe joined in and lifted her skirt to reveal slender brown ankles and layers of snowy white petticoats. She executed a series of lightning quick and intricate steps. Her movements flowed with such grace and speed that it was hard for Missy to believe the Circle B cook was nearing sixty years old. Her dark eyes flashed with Spanish fire as the mariachis played faster and faster to match her feet.

Without warning the tempo changed. Strains of two additional fiddles blended with the romantic Spanish guitar.

Another waltz for the married couple.

Trace kissed Bellami and pulled her close, and they began to float around the dance floor in a way that made Missy’s heart catch. A part of her hungered to be in the middle of the swirling, twirling couples, but her awkwardness kept her in the shadows at the edge of the veranda.

Bellami had shown Missy how to wear the complicated frippery of a lady, but she still did not feel like one. She clapped her hands to the brisk tempo while she watched other girls from nearby ranches being swept onto the dance floor by one handsome cowhand after another. Her one consolation was that she was in no danger of making a fool of herself while she was hidden alone in the shadows.

“Grab a partner,” Hugh bellowed. “Everybody dance! I don’t want to see anybody sitting this one out.”

“Boo.” Brooks’s voice jarred Missy. “Penny for your thoughts, little lady.”

She whirled to find him standing no more than six inches from her. His black string tie and long-tailed coat had been discarded. The white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down. An errant breeze ruffled the hair on his hard, muscled chest.

“And just when I was enjoyin’ a private moment,” she snapped, pulling her gaze from his torso.

He eyed her with cool detachment and picked a bud from the rose of Sharon that grew in abundance by the veranda. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were hiding up here away from the dance floor, Miss O’Bannion.” That mysterious half smile tickled his lips beneath the full mustache. His eyes twinkled mischievously in the firelight as he sniffed the blossom.

“I ain’t doin’ no such thing. What a fool notion.” She turned back toward the dancers and started clapping again, but the toe-tapping music had changed. Now everyone was twirling in another slow, seductive waltz. She had been so caught up in her talk with Brooks that she hadn’t even noticed. Her cheeks burned with inner heat and she brought her palms together awkwardly, not really sure what to do with her hands.

“Care to try?” Brooks asked with an amused chuckle.

“Try what?” Missy knew exactly what he was asking, but she’d sooner take a polecat for a walk than let Brooks James know she couldn’t dance. She looked back at the dance floor, staring determinedly at the laughing couples, trying to ignore the knot that had taken up residence in her middle.

He stepped closer and leaned near her ear. His warm breath carried the faint trace of whiskey—and danger. “Would you care to dance—with me?”

Missy whirled to face him once more. She summoned her voice, but the refusal that had been in her mind died in the back of her throat when she encountered his charming smile.

The night breeze lifted strands of his silky dark hair. Silvery moonlight and the amber glow from the bonfire made his eyes a most peculiar shade of blue.

Missy couldn’t describe it, or what looking into his eyes was doing to her insides. It appeared, for one heartlurching moment, that his eyes glowed with an inner fire like lightning playing on the horns of cattle in the midst of a storm.

Goll-dang, if he isn’t a handsome cuss.

She swallowed hard. Her heart beat against her rib cage like a gloved fist. “I—uh, that is…”

“You can dance, can’t you?” One winged brow rose in silent challenge. Then he raised his hand and deftly slipped the rose bloom behind her ear, tucking a thick lock of hair in place over it.

The heat of a blush raced up her cheeks. Her first inclination was to turn tail and run. She couldn’t dance, but she had gotten to know Mr. Smart-jackass James well enough to know he would require her to prove it. That was a humiliation she would just as soon spare herself, if you please.

“I—I—” she stammered while visions of public indignity raced through her mind.

One side of his mustache lifted. “I believe I will take that as a yes, Miss O’Bannion.” He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her close to his rock-hard body before she had a chance to flee.

Panic welled up inside her, but it was soon overwhelmed by the stunning impact of the way it felt to have his arm about her. A tiny voice in her head said Dig in your heels and run while there is time, but she didn’t listen, she just let him clamp her against his body and pull her off the veranda.

“You know, Miss O’Bannion—” his grin widened “—back home I was considered to be quite a good dancer.”

“Yeah, well, what do a bunch of Easterners know about anythin’?” she answered defensively, raising her chin a notch higher.

He laughed deep and low in his chest. He liked this easy, teasing banter; he liked Missy and the tug-of-war that went on between them. It was much more pleasant than getting all tangled up romantically. He looked at her face, sweetly flushed with lips that were soft and kissable, and he realized this was what he wanted. He wanted to stay in the Territory where he was safe from having to make any permanent commitments and decisions. He was content to stay where he could tease Missy and know that she was always there, day in and day out. She had no suitors hanging around, so he had a clear field. It was the best possible situation for a man who had no desire to settle down.

Missy blinked back her confusion while tingling heat meandered into her limbs from the spot on her back where Brooks’s hand rested. She was afraid her knees would buckle, afraid she’d get all tangled up in the dress, fearful she would make a fool of herself, and sure Brooks would take an inordinate amount of pleasure in whatever indignity befell her. But to her surprise, he started talking to her in low soothing tones, as if she was a skittish filly he was determined to gentle. His voice was smoother than Clell’s twelve-year-old whiskey and as hypnotic as a ripe summer moon.

“Put yourself in my hands, little lady. I promise I won’t step on your toes.” His deep voice vibrated through her rib cage, where he held her tightly against his body. “At least not too often.” His rumbling laughter drew her eyes to his face.

“And what happens if I step on yours?” Missy managed to ask as her foot touched the first pine board. “You won’t think your little joke is so funny then, will you, Brooks?”

The mocking grin faded from his face. “I hope I am tough enough and man enough to take whatever comes of this dance, Missy.” He stared at her, unblinking, while her heart hammered in her chest. “Now and in the future.”

His words hung before them like a spider’s silken web. Then he laughed again and broke the enchantment. “Now wipe that frown off your pretty little face and act like you’re having fun. Trace and Bellami will wonder what I’m doing to you if you keep scowling like that.”

Missy swallowed hard.

Telling her that she was pretty was just about the nicest thing Brooks had ever said to her. How in tarnation could a man like him think a girl who wore chaps and boots was pretty?

He had been everywhere, seen everything.

For half a moment Brooks returned her serious gaze, then he tilted back his head and laughed. Rich, hearty tones of masculine mirth erupted from him. Her belly quivered in reaction to the sound of it.

“Oh, you were teasing. You are always sayin’ the dangedest things to me—” She would’ve said more, but suddenly her feet had wings.

Brooks twirled her out onto the floor. With a sobering chill she realized the flames dancing beneath the side of beef and all the torches surrounding the dance floor had driven back the night. She might as well have been dancing beneath the noonday sun. Now everyone would see if she stumbled or fell or made an ass of herself.

She stared at her feet, trying to avoid stepping on Brooks’s shiny black Justins.

“You needn’t look so terrified, Missy. I promise I’ll never let you come to harm—never.”

Brooks’s words penetrated her gloom.

Her head slowly came up and she shifted her concentration from her feet to his face. Her breath lodged in the space beneath her heart.

I’ll never let you come to harm—never.

All her fear flitted away into the night. She forgot about the crowd of people and the dance steps she didn’t know. Her world compressed into the circle of space she occupied within Brooks’s arms. He turned her in a tight circle that brought her bosom up against the wide, muscular expanse of his chest. Each time he executed a new step and expertly pulled her along with him, her heart beat a little faster.

Missy was put in mind of a midnight gallop on a half-broke mustang. Each time Brooks twirled her she had the sensation of jumping fences and swift-running washes. There was an excitement being in his grasp, a thrill and a danger. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this moment.

Brooks smiled at her and she realized she was good and truly at risk, but not of breaking a leg or even her foolish neck. As she stared into his silvery blue eyes and her heart thrummed inside her chest, she knew what she risked was her heart.

She could care about him if she let herself.

A slow, lazy smile teased the corners of his mouth. “See, I was telling the truth when I said you were in good hands.” As he bent a little nearer and drawled into her ear, his breath fanned out over her neck and left a trail of hot chills in its wake. “I spent a good many hours dancing before I left New York.”

The spinning turns and his warm breath on her skin made her dizzy. She felt as if she had been at her father’s bottle of whiskey right along with the menfolk. A thousand new and unfamiliar feelings sizzled through her. And even though she longed for something sharp and biting to say to diffuse the tension of the moment, nothing came to mind. She was trapped like a rabbit in a snare set by Brooks himself.

“May I have this next dance with my daughter?” Hugh smiled with fatherly affection as he tapped on Brooks’s shoulder. An uncharacteristic flush crept up Missy’s smooth cheeks. Putting on a dress had changed more than her outsides, it would seem. Wearing ruffles and petticoats gave her an aura of vulnerability, an attitude of shy unease.

Brooks released his hold on her tiny waist with some reluctance. He stepped back and allowed Hugh to sweep his daughter into the crowd of dancers. They made a striking contrast—the weathered rancher with steely gray at his temples, and his dewy fresh daughter whose hair was dark as a midnight sky.

Brooks shook his head.

All this silly sentiment was only the combination of moonlight and whiskey. He was about half-drunk and that was making him wax poetic, he assured himself. Tomorrow reason would return. In the light of day Missy would be herself. There would be no soft glow of fire, no waltzes, no strange tightening of his gut each time their eyes met unexpectedly. Tomorrow she would be herself and he would be fending off her hostility and her barbed words.

It was something to look forward to.

Chapter Three

Patricia might as well have been drinking muddy water for all the enjoyment the chilled punch gave her. Brooks had taken her aside and revealed his intentions to remain in the Territory. She sighed heavily and tried to wipe away the sadness in her heart. After all, Bellami was happily married to a man who saw beyond her scar to the beauty beneath, but Brooks…that was another matter altogether.

Patricia hadn’t interfered when he’d decided to come west. Violet Ashland had deeply wounded Brooks, and he needed time to heal. Patricia had hoped that the time he had spent here had accomplished that, but now she was beginning to wonder. Was he really intent on burying himself here in this cultural wasteland?

“My dear?” Donovan appeared at her elbow. His snowy brows were pinched with concern. “Are you ill, Patricia? All the color has drained from your face.”

Patricia glanced at Brooks, who was standing near the punch bowl. “No—no, I am perfectly fine.”

“Truly? You look so…worried. Surely you are not still concerned about Bellami. Trace O’Bannion is as fine and steady a man as I have ever met.”

Patricia tore her gaze away from Brooks. “No, it isn’t that. I am worried about Brooks.”

“Brooks?” Donovan said in surprise. “He is the picture of health!”

“On the outside, perhaps.” She turned to Donovan and frowned. “But I am worried about him all the same.”

“He is fine.” Donovan rubbed the backs of his knuckles over his wife’s cheek. “You worry too much. He is talking about buying some land to raise cattle here. That’s all.”

“Do you think it is really what he wants to do or is he still trying to get over Violet?”

At the mention of her name, Donovan’s face became a mask of disapproval. “That is a subject best left alone, Patricia.”

“But, Donovan…it would be a great mistake for him to stay here. Surely you can see that?”

“Patricia, what I see is a grown man. Whatever decision he makes and for whatever reasons, it is his business alone.” Donovan turned her to face him and cupped her chin in his palm. “And I don’t want you interfering.”

“Oh, Donovan, surely I could just—”

“No, darling.” He placed both hands on her shoulders and gently drew her closer to him. “Promise me, Patricia.” His voice was soft but stern. “Promise me this time you will leave things alone. You mustn’t say a word to the boy about this. And I think it is best if you don’t mention the fact that Violet has returned to New York.”

Patricia sighed and leaned into his hands. “Oh, all right. If you feel so strongly about it. I promise.”

He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “That’s my girl. Now let’s show these youngsters how to do a proper dance.”

* * *

Ellen was breathless from all the dancing as she approached the punch bowl where Rod and Missy were chatting.

“You know, cousin, if Mother notices the glow in your cheeks she will have you staying in bed tomorrow,” Rod warned Ellen as he nodded toward Patricia and Donovan on the dance floor.

“I suppose I should be sensible,” Ellen replied, sighing wistfully. A cowboy with a thatch of unruly blond hair asked for the next dance. Ellen glanced at Rod like a child who wanted just one more stick of peppermint. Finally she turned to the eager cowboy. “I fear I must decline. I am a little out of breath.” She smoothed the baby pink ruffles on her dress and sighed meaningfully.

The cowboy tipped his hat and backed away. “Maybe next time, ma’am.”

“Yes, next time.” Ellen’s eyes followed him until he disappeared into the crowd.

“Very wise, cousin.” Rod smiled. “You probably saved yourself a stern lecture and a full day in bed. “May I pour you and Miss O’Bannion a cup of punch?”

“Thank you.” Missy took the cup he passed to her.

“You are quite welcome. I should be thanking you, Miss O’Bannion. I have enjoyed myself tonight.” Rod poured a second cup of punch and passed it to his cousin.

“I’m glad you have had a good time, but I bet you have fancy parties all the time back in New York.” Missy watched the couples swirling by in front of her and wished this night would never end.

“They are rarely this much fun, though,” Ellen said softly. She fanned herself with a delicate, lily-colored hand. She smiled at Missy and batted brown lashes over eyes the shade of cornflowers. How I wish I could wear my hair loose and flowing and have sun-kissed cheeks and be the picture of health like Miss O’Bannion, she thought.

“That is a fact,” Rod agreed. “New York parties are—stuffy.”

“You’re teasing me.” Missy felt a blush working its way up her neck.

“No, I am not. I leave that to my younger brother.” Rod placed his hand over his heart to emphasize his sincerity.

Ellen continued to study Missy’s face while a wild idea popped into her head. “Why don’t you come and visit? It would give me a perfect excuse to have lots of dances like this one.”

“Leland might have something to say about that,” Patricia told Ellen with a gentle smile as she and Donovan joined the group at the punch bowl. Patricia looked at the two girls standing side by side—near in age but as different as light is from darkness. Ellen looked frail and too pale, even by current fashionable dictates. And Missy…well, Missy was a little too wild, a little too exuberant, but the glowing picture of a woman in the bloom of youth. Clell had explained about her growing up without a mother. It did account for much of her behavior.

For a mad, impetuous moment Patricia wondered what it would be like to take the girl under her wing and help her become a proper lady…The idea was silly, and Donovan would have a fit.

“I would still like for Missy to come and visit,” Ellen said stubbornly. “Whether Papa would allow me to have a party or not. It would be fun to have someone my own age around.” Ellen smiled at Patricia as she spoke. Leland had kept Ellen somewhat secluded. Her cousins had been her major source of companionship. With all the girls married and gone, Ellen had been extremely lonely the last few years. “And we could all go shopping together, Aunt Patricia. It would be fun, you know it would be fun!”

Patricia cast a sidelong look at her spouse. Ellen was right. It would be fun. Patricia had missed having Bellami to fuss over as much as Ellen missed their chats.

“I think it is a good idea, Ellen,” Patricia said suddenly. “We must do our best to persuade Miss O’Bannion to come as soon as possible.”

“Good idea, Mother,” Rod agreed, in spite of Donovan’s growing frown. He fussed too much over his wife and whether or not she was overdoing. “After all, Missy is family now.”

“It would be nice to be in a place where I could dress like this every day,” Missy said wistfully.

“You are charming no matter what you are wearing,” Patricia assured Missy. “Isn’t she, Donovan?”

“What? Oh, yes, charming.” Donovan replied absently. Patricia had purposely avoided his suggestion about interfering.

“Oh, do say you will come soon. You would have a lovely time in the city.” Ellen brightened with every word. “We could have some new gowns made. It would be great fun and I would love the company.”

“Yes, my dear, we insist.” Patricia smiled inwardly. The girl was always clomping around in men’s trousers and boots—she would be a challenge. But she did have good bones, and with a little work…

Curiosity nipped at Brooks as he watched his family. He allowed himself one more pull from Clell’s bottle before he started threading his way across the floor. He side-stepped to avoid dancing boots and whirling skirts and finally reached the other side of the room.

“That’s awful nice of you, ma’am, but…” Missy began.

“What’s going on?” Brooks whispered to Rod.

“Ellen has almost persuaded Miss O’Bannion to come to New York,” Rod answered. “I think it would be a marvelous idea for Ellen to have some female company.”

“What? You can’t be serious!” The loudness of his voice brought Missy’s head around with a snap.

“Is something wrong, Brooks?” She frowned at him. He swayed a little as she glared at him. It was obvious he had been sharing Clell’s bottle.

“Nothing, nothing at all.” Brooks shook his head.

“Good. For a moment I thought you might have been upset about the invite.”

Brooks gave her a lopsided grin. “Nothing to be upset about. The whole idea is ridiculous. I know you are too sensible to even consider such a thing.”

“And just why is the idea of me going to New York so comical?” Missy pressed.

“What?” Brooks tried to listen to what she was saying, but Clell’s whiskey had brought a buzz to his head and a ringing to his ears. “Well, little lady, wearing boots and hats in New York drawing rooms is not the thing this year.” Laughter bubbled up in the back of his throat as he imagined Missy sitting down to tea in her form-fitting chaps.

“So you think I ain’t got sense enough to learn to act like a lady, is that it?” Missy’s dark eyes narrowed with anger.

“Not exactly.” Brooks blinked a couple of times and tried to clear the cobwebs from his brain.

“You learned to be a cowboy…”

“That’s different.” He blinked and steadied himself.

“What’s different about it? If you could learn to be a cowboy, why is it so hard to believe that I could become a lady?”

Even in his half-looped state, Brooks was intelligent enough to recognize a loaded question when he heard one. “You just can’t go. Now let’s stop all this silly talk.”

“I can’t? Did I hear you right?” Missy shook her head in disbelief. “Did you just tell me that I can’t go to New York?”

Brooks sucked in a breath, tried to catalog his own thoughts into a proper order while he looked at Missy. Indignant fire burned in her brown eyes. She had lovely eyes when she was spitting mad. A part of him wanted to tell her that, but that kind of talk was the sort of thing that got men tangled up. He bit back the compliment, not wanting to do anything that would upset his plans of having no entanglements, no commitments. He had to keep a cool head. Then he could remain free as the wind. “Now, Missy…”

“Don’t you ‘now Missy’ me. And just when, oh-so-mighty Mr. James, did you start tellin’ me what I can or can’t do?” She advanced on him, and to his utter astonishment, he retreated a step. She raised herself up on her slippered toes, but even then the top of her head barely reached his chin. She was narrow eyed with fury now.

He felt the current of excitement arc between them. This was what he wanted, what he liked—a hot channel of interest running between them like a river of fire.

“I know you have an overblown notion of your importance, but I didn’t think it went so far as to include the whole of New York City!”

“That wasn’t exactly what I meant,” Brooks began, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The whiskey was dulling his senses and slurring his words, but he was still acutely aware of her.

She would be bored in a brownstone instead of under a wide, azure sky. Patricia and Ellen, and especially women like Violet, would never—could never—understand the restless energy of Missy. He wanted to tell her that her spirit would wither without the wind in her face and a gallop each morning.

You would be unhappy.

“I should’a known you’d have something nasty to say.” Missy inhaled a long breath. “Thank you for invitin’ me, Mr. and Mrs. James. I’d love to come. Right now.” She lowered herself back to the soles of her feet and glared at Brooks again.

“I was goin’ to say no, but since you seem so all-fired determined that I can’t go, I have changed my mind.” She turned once again to face his parents. “I’ll start packing and will be ready to leave with you at the end of the week.”

Brooks frowned and tried to steady himself. Until this moment he had not realized how many toasts he had drunk to his sister’s marriage. But the shock of Missy’s words had begun to sober him up—real fast. This whole thing had gotten out of control.

“Now, Missy, calm down a minute.” He reached out and put his hands on her shoulders. “I meant to tell you—”

“Don’t you touch me, you sidewinder.” She shrugged his fingers off, turned on her heel and stomped away in a flurry of peacock blue satin.

Brooks stared at the rigid set of her shoulders as she left. He made no attempt to go after her. The best thing he could do was wait until she cooled off before he tried to talk to her. Besides, she would be her old self in the morning. By noon they would back to their usual thrust and parry. There was nothing to worry about.

He had it all figured out. He had the perfect arrangement.

Missy tore at the tiny buttons running down the front of her dress. The touch of the beautiful fabric against her flesh was suddenly hateful to her, reminding her of the disdainful look in Brooks’s crystal blue eyes.

Tonight when he had held her close she had allowed herself to think there was a feeling of tenderness between them. Now she realized it had been the whiskey, the sound of fiddles and the allure of the firelight.

Damn him.

The expression on his face when he’d heard she had been invited to New York had told her the truth. He considered her an embarrassment. It was obvious he thought his mother was setting herself up for humiliation by inviting a bumpkin from the Territory into her home.

Missy unlaced the hard-boned corset and flung it into a corner. The springs creaked and groaned as she flopped down on her bed.

Her pride had been badly bruised. She had tried to wear the clothes like a lady, and act like a lady, yet it had not been enough.

For him.

“Why do I let him get to me?” she asked aloud. “He’s nothing but a greenhorn, a dude. His opinion isn’t worth a hoot in hell. Not to me.”

But in her heart she knew she lied.

He had become more than a greenhorn, more than a dude. He had set out to prove he could ride shoulder-to-shoulder with any man jack on the Circle B.

And he had succeeded.

That was the hell of it all, she realized with a ragged sigh. He had been able to do it.

Could she?

Could she do what he had done? Was Missy smart enough and determined enough to learn to be a proper lady?

She flopped over on her back and stared at the ceiling. He made her want to be soft and lovable like a kitten. Tonight when he’d taught her how to dance she had felt feminine. But then when she looked at his face and saw his true feelings etched in every sun-browned line, she’d wanted to rip him to shreds like a riled she-cat.

“Damn and double damn him.” She tightened her fist into a tight ball and used it to pummel her pillow. “I’ll show him. I can do it. I will learn to be a proper lady. I’ll show Mr. High-and-mighty James I can stand on my own two feet. I won’t quit until he has admitted that I have succeeded,” she swore, then she buried her face in the down ticking and cried like a baby.

Chapter Four

The train car swayed and rocked like a green broke mustang. Mr. and Mrs. James lurched unsteadily up the aisle, doggedly making their way forward to the dining car, while Missy sat beside Ellen and tried not to notice Brooks sitting across the aisle from her.

He wasn’t easy to ignore.

Soft worn denim and battered leather chaps hugged his long legs. Patricia James had been tight lipped with disapproval over his decision to travel in his ranch clothes, but that did not deter his outrageous behavior. In fact, he seemed to become more defiant as they traveled. Now a sooty stain of a two-day beard shadowed his cheeks.

Missy pulled her gaze from his face and once again focused on the worn Justins, hitched carelessly up on the back of the empty seat in front of him. He shifted, causing his arms to flex. Heavy muscle corded beneath the rolledup sleeves of a sturdy gray-and-tan-striped work shirt.

He had filled out and turned rock hard in the past year, while he worked at the Circle B. She sighed and wished she could forget how much he had changed.

Rod, sitting in the window seat beside Brooks, gave his brother a sidelong look of amused curiosity. For his efforts he earned a flashy smile of cocky arrogance. Then Brooks pulled his Stetson low over his forehead and hunkered down in the seat.

His nonsense is enough to make a preacher cuss.

Why did he have to come along? Missy admitted a part of her was thrilled, for she wanted him there to see her triumph.

If I do triumph.

She shook the negative thought from her head. She would succeed, and she didn’t give a hoot in hell what he thought, anyway.

Why did he have to be so goll-dang contrary about everything?

Why did she have to keep noticing?

There was no excuse for him to be dressing like that, and not shaving…unless it was just one more way to make her feel foolish. Each time she glanced at him she was painfully reminded of where she came from and how much she did not fit in.

That is why he is doing this—to shame me.

Anger and disappointment settled over her as she turned to look out the window. The landscape sped by at an amazing clip. At this rate they would be in New York in no time.

“Are you nervous?” Ellen’s soft voice drew Missy’s attention from the brown and green ribbons of landscape shooting by the window.

“Do I seem nervous to you?” Missy challenged.

“Maybe a little.” Ellen gave her a sympathetic smile and nodded toward Missy’s lap. Following the line of her gaze, Missy discovered her fingers were busy tying the strings of the borrowed reticule into tight little knots.

“Oh—oh, I am sorry.” She stilled her hands. There was no use denying how she felt, not with the truth of it tangled in her fingers. “I hope I haven’t ruined it,” she moaned. Her entire outfit was borrowed, from the jaunty hat on her head, courtesy of Bellami before she’d left on her honeymoon, to the pale green skirt and traveling jacket from Ellen.

“Don’t worry about it.” Ellen waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I just hope you are not regretting your decision to take us up on this invitation since—since Brooks decided to come along.”

Missy looked up and caught Brooks eyeing her from under the brim of his hat. The shadow turned his eyes a deep shade of evening blue. She drew herself up and stuck out her chin a little, determined not to let him see how much his scrutiny and his disapproval had unnerved her.

“No. I ain’t. Not a bit nervous,” she said, more loudly than necessary. “I am lookin’ forward to it. It will be a great adventure. What do I care if he decided to go back home?”

Brooks’s mustache twitched as he chuckled. He pulled the hat brim back down over his eyes, then he sank lower in the seat as if he was going to take a nap.

“Damn him,” Missy cursed under her breath. “He would like nothin’ better than to see me tuck my tail between my legs and run back home. He can’t wait for me to get there and make a goll-darn fool of myself. That’s why he changed his mind about coming and hopped on the train at the last minute.”

Ellen smiled. “Cousin Brooks does seems to…affect you.”

“I guess you could say that. He makes me so consarned mad I could just spit.” Missy started to unknot the strings on the reticule.

“Is that all? He only makes you mad?” A skeptical smile tickled the corners of Ellen’s Cupid’s bow mouth.

“Yes. He makes me mad as a hornet.” Missy nearly choked on the lie. Brooks did a lot more than make her angry, and had ever since she’d made the mistake of letting him wrap his arms around her and pull her out onto the dance floor. If only she had not been fool enough to think it meant something to him. “And I swear, if he gives me that superior look of his one more time, I’ll…well, I’ll think of somethin’.”

She went back to untying knots, but she was still muttering under her breath. “How I wish…” Her voice trailed off.

“What, Missy? What do you wish?” Ellen turned pale blue eyes in her direction.

“Promise you won’t laugh?” Missy lowered her voice so there would be no chance of Brooks or Rod overhearing.

“I promise.”

“I wish I hadn’t been stupid enough to accept this invitation.” She swallowed hard. “But now I’m in it up to my hocks.” She sighed and scooted lower in the seat, as if she could somehow disappear altogether.

Without conscious thought, her eyes slid over Brooks. Something about the way he looked, so relaxed and unconcerned, with the faded denim hugging muscular legs, his legs so casually propped up on the next seat, made her angry all over again.

She turned back to Ellen and the words came out in a rush. “But more than that, I wish I could be a lady. I want to learn to talk right and walk right and show…” her unwilling gaze slid back across the aisle to the manly form that so unnerved her “…him.”

Ellen smiled as if she understood, but Missy knew that she didn’t. How could anyone understand that Brooks had wounded her deeply? For over a year he had endured her teasing while he went about proving himself. Then the sidewinder had made her think he had a feeling for her when he’d held her close in his arms, taught her to dance. How could Missy expect Ellen to understand these things when she didn’t understand them herself?

“I’ll teach you.” Ellen’s eyebrows rose toward her hairline.

“What?” Missy tore her thoughts away from Brooks.

“I’ll teach you to be a lady,” Ellen whispered. “We could make a bargain.”

Missy’s heart beat a little harder within the confines of her chest. “Now you are teasin’ me, just like he does.”

“No, I’m not.” Ellen curled her index finger in a strand of wispy blond hair hanging beside her cheek. “I wouldn’t tease about this.” She looked up. “Trust me, Missy.”

Missy swallowed hard. “I think you’re funnin’ me. I put on that dress for Trace’s weddin’ and I tried, I really did, but I saw the look on Brooks’s face. He was shamed and embarrassed for me.”

“He did look sort of stricken, but I am not sure you were the reason—at least not in the way you mean.” Ellen regarded her cousin across the narrow aisle. “He has changed.” She nodded in his direction. “Just look at him. If he can learn to be a cowboy, then why can’t you learn to be a proper lady?”

Missy squinted her eyes and tilted her head as her gaze roamed over Brooks’s long lean legs. He wore the clothes as if he were born to them.

“I’d find some way to repay you for your kindness.” Missy allowed herself to consider the offer. “But it isn’t possible, and what could you want that I have?”

“There is something.” Ellen lowered her voice to a whisper. She raised her head slightly and glanced around as if she expected someone to be listening to their conversation.

“You name it.” Missy leaned closer, inspired to whisper by Ellen’s behavior.

“Teach me how to ride.” Not a trace of humor could be found in her wide-eyed expression.

“You ain’t serious.” Ellen was obviously funning her. Missy’s stomach dropped a little as the small glimmer of hope died.

“I am serious. I was a sickly child. My father insists I am still frail. It took weeks of begging my father just to be allowed to take this trip.” A sheen of moisture sparkled in her eyes. “You can’t imagine what it is like to be treated like a fragile china doll. I’d like to prove that I am strong and capable—like you.”

Missy released the pent-up breath she had been holding. “But you…you’re a real lady.” Undisguised admiration rang in her voice.

“You can be refined, Missy. Though for the life of me I can’t understand why it is so important to you.” Ellen cheeks flushed and she ducked her head. “If you teach me what you know, then I’ll do the same.”

“I don’t think it will be so easy for you to turn me into a lady—like makin’ a silk purse from a sow’s ear.” Missy smiled. “But you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“There is just one more thing, Missy.” Ellen’s pale blue eyes turned icy. “This has to be our secret. If my father finds out he will put a stop to our plan. He is a stubborn man, and he’s afraid of losing me.”

“It will be our secret,” Missy swore solemnly as her defiant gaze raked over Brooks’s form once more.

Brooks flopped over in his bunk. He was unable to sleep, even though the mattress was well padded and the sheets were fresh and sweet. As mile after mile slid by, he wondered why on earth he was going home. He told himself it was to keep an eye on Missy, to keep her from wreaking havoc over the whole of New York City.

Why had he hopped on the train?

He hadn’t even had time to pack his clothes. But at least his mother was pleased by his impulsive decision.

If only I were.

As their journey was nearing the end he had finally come to accept that stubborn little Missy was going to see this thing through to the end.

It was a courtesy to his family and Trace that he was going along—just to keep her out of trouble.

It had to be that. What other reason could there be?

He had tried to speak to Missy, to let her know what a mistake she was making by leaving the Territory, but she always seemed to have her head bent in secretive conversation with Ellen.

“What on earth can they have to talk about?” he asked the night sky.

Brooks had tried to trap her somewhere and tease her into speaking to him. But so far he had not been able to steal a single moment alone with her. It was frustrating. And what was more puzzling was his unrelenting desire to speak to her.

Why did he care if she went to New York and made herself miserable? So what if she made a fool of herself by trying to be something she was not?

She had ridden rough and hard over him for a full year. He should be tickled to think of her going to New York, where she would be as out of place as a house tabby in a cougar’s den.

He should’ve been, but he wasn’t. And he knew why. There were men in New York—lots of young unattached men—who would find the unpolished Missy O’Bannion a novelty too tempting to pass up. She was innocent, had no experience with the jaded cads who would flock around her.

“Why should I give a good damn?” he muttered to himself. “She can go make a fool of herself, get her feelings hurt—hell, she can even get her heart broken. I don’t care one damn bit.”

But he did care.

“Only because she is Trace’s sister. Hell, I owe it to Hugh to keep an eye out for her.” Brooks mollified himself with that thought until sleep overtook him.

But he did not rest. Instead he dreamed of chasing Missy across the moonlit prairie. She was a fleet-footed sprite with flowing black hair, who remained forever just beyond his reach.

“Missy, you are still dropping your g,” Ellen whispered in the darkness. The pair were curled up in their flannel gowns inside the snug sleeping berth as the train rocked and clicked rhythmically through the night. The only illumination was a weak shaft of moonlight peeking through the partially opened curtain, turning Ellen’s pale hair to liquid silver. A late frost covered the early grass with a mantle of diamonds that sparkled as the train sped by.

“I never knew speakin’—I mean speaking—could be so goll-darn hard.” Missy sighed.

“That’s the other thing, Missy. You can’t say things like ‘goll-darn’ and ‘consarned.’ And you’ll have to quit damning Brooks in every other breath.”

Missy giggled, fell back on her pillows and laced her fingers behind her head. “I may quit sayin’…saying it, but I won’t promise to quit thinking it.” She emphasized her g with precision.

“Just as long as you don’t say it aloud.” Ellen giggled in turn and pulled the carved bone brush through her hair. “In your mind you may curse my dear cousin to whatever degree of perdition suits you, but a lady never lets such thoughts cross her lips.”

“That cousin of yours is going to be in for quite a shock. I can’t hardly wait until he gets a gander at me.” Missy closed her eyes and imagined it in her mind.

“A look at you,” Ellen corrected softly. “Not a gander.”

“A look at me,” Missy repeated.

Ellen smiled at the enthusiasm of her pupil. “We must spend some time working on your hair. It is so silky and thick, I am sure we can find a very flattering style for you. Perhaps something up off your neck…You have lovely features. We need to accentuate them.”

“Lovely features?” Missy opened her eyes and sat up. She wasn’t quite sure how to take the compliment. Nobody, not even Bellami, had ever talked to her the way Ellen did. Missy realized with a poignant tug on her heart that Ellen was her first real female friend. Missy had grown up talking to roadrunners, dogie calves and taciturn cowhands who spoke around chaws of tobacco. There was something sweet and satisfying about having a female friend for the first time. The bright blond girl was her exact opposite in every way, and yet they were already as close as sisters.

“At the next stop I want to send a wire home,” Ellen continued. “My dressmaker is a treasure. We must ask Aunt Patricia if you may come to my house straightaway. Miss Baldwin can get some dresses made for you and nobody will know what we are up to…not until we are ready.” Ellen put the brush aside and clapped her smooth white hands together. “It will be delicious. We can have a party and introduce you properly.”

“Do you really believe it will work?” Missy crinkled her nose with doubt.

“Of course,” Ellen said confidently. “I can’t wait to see the look on everyone’s face when they see the transformation. And then you can teach me to ride and my papa will have to see that I am not a frail child anymore.” Ellen cast a sly look at Missy when she spoke.

Chapter Five

Brooks tried to keep up with Missy and Ellen, but the crowd at Grand Central Station closed around him like a living wall. A sharp blow to his ribs sent the air rushing from his lungs in a painful hiss. He spun around on his boot heel, ready to do battle with his attacker, only to find a prune-faced woman over seventy wielding an umbrella like a cavalry saber.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” Brooks reeled back half a step and touched his finger to his hat in apology. Evidently she was unimpressed by his show of good manners, because she harrumphed loudly and seared his flesh with a dour look before she moved on. By the time he turned back around, the feather on top of Missy’s borrowed hat was disappearing into a hansom cab. Before he could utter a word of protest, the carriage departed, its yellow wheels winking in the bright spring sunlight as it rolled out of the station.

“Damnation.” He dragged off his Stetson and slapped it against his thigh in exasperation. For three days he had been struggling to find an opportunity to talk privately to her, and now she had escaped him one more time.

“Are you talking to me, or to yourself?” Rod stood beside Brooks, attempting to balance an array of boxes, bags and parcels. “If you are through accosting elderly matrons, I could use a hand.”

Brooks stuck his hat back on his head. Then he took an octagon-shaped hatbox that had been awkwardly perched beneath Rod’s bony chin. “Why did Ellen and Missy run off like a pair of scalded cats?”

“Scalded cats?” Rod repeated incredulously. “If a cat is scalded, does it run? And where on earth did you learn such a ridiculous expression?” Rod peered at his brother over the bulk of a string-tied bundle, only one of the purchases their mother had made at various stops on the way home.

Brooks rolled his eyes heavenward. “All right, I’ll rephrase my question. Why do you suppose dear cousin Ellen and Miss O’Bannion fled the station as if it were on fire?” He tilted his head to see if his new query better suited Rod.

His brother shrugged and hailed a passing cab, obviously unimpressed by the question and its delivery. “No reason for them to wait for us.” The hansom cab rolled by without stopping and Rod swore softly under his breath.

“They could’ve shared their carriage. That is a logical reason,” Brooks snapped. “Why on earth hire two cabs?”

“I understand they are headed in the opposite direction. It would be silly to go to Ellen’s house and then double back to the brownstone.”

“Ellen’s house?” The hair on the back of Brooks’s neck prickled. “What do you mean, they are going to Ellen’s house? I thought the whole idea of this little visit was so Missy could spend some time at the brownstone with Mother.”

Rod stretched to peer over the crowd. “I heard Ellen telling Mother that Missy is going to spend some time with her first.” Rod smiled victoriously when a hansom cab responded to his hail. He hurried over and started handing bags to the driver. “Come on, Brooks, don’t stand there with your mouth open like a carp that has been landed. Help us load this baggage.”

Brooks stifled the sharp retort that bubbled up in his throat. How could he have been so thick as to allow Missy to come to New York? And on the heels of that thought, another more-sobering notion flitted through his brain. There wasn’t a damn thing he could have done to stop her.

Missy tried not to gawk, but she had never seen so many people in one place in her entire life. A sound engulfed her, almost like a thousand spring peepers and katydids droning their tuneless songs. She leaned back against the padded leather seat and closed her eyes.

“Are you ill?” Ellen’s voice broke through the fog in Missy’s mind.

She opened her eyes.

Ellen was peering at her with concern etched in her pale face.

“I—I don’t know what I expected, but it’s awful big.”

Relief flooded Ellen’s face. “Oh, is that all? You had me worried. I thought you might be coming down with something. You’ll get used to the city quickly, I promise.” She smoothed her skirt and stared idly out the window, the very picture of serenity and confidence.

Missy couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever possess that kind of poise or if she was chasing rainbows by even trying. But she had accepted the challenge, and now, for good or ill, she was set on her course…There could be no turning back, not when Brooks was waiting for her to fail, like a hungry hawk waiting for a rabbit.

No. She could not fail—her pride would not allow it.

Missy and Ellen were lingering over a cup of creamed tea when the downstairs maid appeared at the parlor door. She carried a silver tray in her hand. A solitary piece of paper rested in the center.

“Pardon, miss.” The maid bobbed a little curtsy.

Ellen leaned over and glanced at the envelope. “It is from Aunt Patricia.”

“How can you tell?” Missy asked, frowning. The outside of the envelope was as blank as the expression on the maid’s face.

“It’s her stationery.” Ellen scooped up the paper and nodded as the maid curtsied and left the room. “See the watermark?” Ellen held it up toward the light streaming in through the French windows. The outline of a fancy crest within the fibers of the paper became evident.

“Oh.” Missy ducked her head in embarrassment. Another thing she didn’t know, but if Ellen thought anything about her ignorance she did not show it as she busied herself opening the envelope.

“Well, this is unexpected.” Ellen passed the paper to Missy, who read the neatly printed words and felt her stomach lurch.

“A party?” she gasped. “Mrs. James is throwing a party—for me?” Desperation rang in every word. “But I’m not ready.” She stood up and started to pace. “I’ll never be ready.”

Ellen studied her face for half a minute, and then she brightened. “Nonsense. It will be fine. Aunt Patricia will only invite family and close friends. Actually, this will be good for you. We will ease you into New York society by degrees.”

“Do you think so?” Missy stopped pacing and looked at Ellen.

“Absolutely.” Ellen picked up a delicate china cup painted with yellow primroses and leaned back in the wicker chair. “Now that I think of it, it’s a wonderful idea.”

Ellen seemed completely confident, and if she wasn’t worried, then Missy decided she wouldn’t be, either.

The night of the party was hot and sultry from two days of uninterrupted rain. Then, as if the heavens knew that Patricia James would be displeased if her guests were inconvenienced, the sky cleared. A handful of bright stars twinkled overhead as Brooks stepped out the French doors with a glass of cognac in his hand.

“Well, well, well. Did you decide to grace us with your company tonight, or are you home for some other reason?” Rod’s deep, teasing voice brought Brooks around abruptly. His sibling was silhouetted against the gold and crystal glitter of his mother’s dining room, dressed in a snowy white shirt, black coat and tie. Every candelabra in the house was blazing, in addition to the gaslights in the ballroom.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Brooks sipped his drink and acted as if he were unaware of the pending festivities.

“You know perfectly well what I am talking about. You have not been home for dinner twice since we returned.” Rod stepped outside. He was grinning. “Interesting coincidence that you decided to come home on the first night that Missy O’Bannion is going to be here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brooks snapped. “I just happen to be home.” He had made the same observation to himself earlier, but Rod was wrong, and so was he. He had simply tired of the giggling women who had begun to present themselves upon his return. He had grown bored listening to stories of how they all had been pining away in his absence. He had tired of telling the same stories of his life in the West—and the novelty of his unconventional mode of attire had worn so thin he was actually thinking of going upstairs to change.

“Perhaps you are telling the truth, since you are still dressed like you rode in from the range.” Rod shrugged and glanced at Brooks’s boots.

“I am thinking of changing—just to please Mother.” Brooks took another sip of the liquid.

Rod chuckled. “I am sure she will be pleased—but wear whatever you wish. As a matter of fact, those pants of Levi’s suit you. I have almost grown used to the new you. Tell me, though, is your prickly attitude also part of the new you, brother?”

Brooks frowned. The front doorbell chimed. The pair watched the butler’s back as he opened the door. Brooks caught himself rising on the toes of his Justins to see who it was.

“Anxious?” Rod asked, a sly grin curving his lips.

“Not at all.” Brooks shook his head and moved closer to the open doors.

The doorbell rang again.

Brooks drained his glass. “I think I’ll go up and change.”

“Better hurry, she will be here soon.”

“Who?” Brooks asked innocently, but Rod only laughed and stepped inside.

By ten o’clock the Jameses’ brownstone was a hive of social activity. Maids and butlers scurried about, making sure every glass was full, every plate picked up the moment the last morsel was consumed. Brooks had lingered in his room after he had changed. Now he stood with one foot hitched up on the top stair as he watched the activity below. He hated to admit it, but he felt out of place in his own home.

The sound of laughter drew his eye. There, surrounded by men, was a familiar head of lustrous dark hair.

A strange, tight coil of heat formed in his chest. While he watched, his grip on the banister tightened.

It was Missy, and half the unattached men in New York City were paying her court.

He was halfway down the stairs, focusing only on Missy, when he felt a hand on his arm. Brooks shrugged, intending to remove the unwanted restraint.

“It has been a long time, darling.”

The words brought him to a halt and he turned, already knowing who he would see.

Violet Ashland lifted one brow and gave him her coolest smile. “I was coming up to find you.” Her hand moved over the cloth of his coat in intimate fashion, and a hundred memories of stolen passion ripped through him. “I still remember the way to your room…Shall we go catch up on lost time?”

It was at that very moment he looked down at Missy and she looked up. Their gazes caught and held, not going unnoticed by the men surrounding her or the woman who still possessively fingered his arm.

Violet followed Brooks’s gaze. Her smile became cooler than ice. “Is this the little country girl I have heard so much about?”

Brooks frowned and looked at her. “What?”

“The sweet child your mother brought from the West. The poor dear—how she must’ve suffered in that harsh environment.” Violet scooted closer to Brooks and looped her arm through his. “You must introduce me—I am just dying to meet her.”

Ghostly fingers traced a line down Missy’s spine as Brooks descended the stairs and walked in her direction. She had never felt so trapped in her life as she did when he turned his blue eyes in her direction. Suddenly the velvet gown she was wearing felt about as attractive as a gunnysack. She tried to swallow the champagne one of the men had brought her, but it stuck in her throat and she choked.

“Miss O’Bannion, are you all right?” a voice asked.

“What…? Yes. Yes, I am fine,” she lied. Mercifully, a disembodied voice asked if she would like a glass of water. Within seconds her champagne glass was gone, replaced by a crystal goblet of water. She brought it to her lips, but the dryness remained.

“Oh, she is precious. Brooks, what a darling child.” The blond woman clinging to Brooks surveyed Missy from head to toe. Without a word passing between them, Missy knew all she had to know.

This woman was her mortal adversary.

“Brooks, introduce me.” Violet kept the smile pasted to her face while she inspected every inch of the dark-haired beauty before her. She had heard all the gossip about the lovely woman who had returned with Brooks. She had not believed it. But now that she was face-to-face with the little chit, she had no choice.

This woman was her adversary.

Missy felt her stomach knot up. In spite of the notion that the woman before her was everything she despised, there was a tiny part of her that was envious.

Violet Ashland was a lady, and she was holding Brooks’s arm as if he belonged to her.

Brooks cleared his throat—and tried to clear his mind. Violet clung to him like a burr to a mustang’s tail, as tenacious and as thorny. He wanted to peel her fingers from him and walk away, but he could not do what he wanted here.

This was his mother’s drawing room, in New York. How he wished he were back in the Territory, where a man could be honest about his feelings.

“Violet Ashland, Missy O’Bannion.” Brooks would not lie and say he was pleased to introduce them.

“I am so glad to finally get to see you, Miss O’Bannion. I have been hearing a lot about you.” Violet turned slightly sideways and looked at Brooks. “Darling, she is a treasure. Such a charming child.”

Missy stiffened. Images of Becky Kelly came unbidden to her mind. This woman was simply a more polished and older version of the woman who had jilted her brother, Trace. Anger and a desire to silence Violet Ashland spurred Missy on.

“It is very nice to meet you, but I am a long way from being a child. It probably just seems that I am young compared to you.”

A silence so heavy it could be felt settled over the small crowd gathered around the two women. Brooks winked at Missy and his heart hammered inside his chest.

Damn if she isn’t magnificent.

Brooks felt Violet’s fingers dig into his arm, but, to give her credit, the smile never slipped.

“Oh, you are charming…in an untouched fashion.” Violet inclined her head. The gaslight turned the strands of her hair to ribbons of gold. The crowd around them began to drift away. Evidently they had grown bored with the inane conversation. Now Brooks could drop his facade.

“When did you return, Violet?” he asked.

“Me? Oh, I have been back for ages now. I have been sitting at home pining away for you.” She leaned close enough that he could smell her expensive French perfume. “You never even wrote.”

Missy blinked back her surprise and tried not to feel what she was feeling. It was silly, but for some strange reason she felt…hurt to see the woman so intimate with Brooks.

“I saw no reason to write,” Brooks said as he turned and looked at Violet. “When I left you were busy chasing a title.”

“It was all a great misunderstanding, darling.”

Darling. The word hung like a sword.

“A misunderstanding?” The tone of Brooks’s voice was deadly. “It was a damn lot more than that.”

“Nonsense.” Violet removed her hand from his arm and tugged off her elegant, elbow-length glove. “It was nothing to me and I can prove it.” She held up her left hand and wiggled her fingers. Gaslight and candlelight glinted off a huge stone. “I am still wearing your engagement ring. I think that says it all.”

For the next few days Missy moped around Ellen’s house, reading the latest Godey’s magazine and practicing at solitaire, which Ellen taught her…trying to forget the scene at the brownstone. Then one day during breakfast Ellen surprised her.

“I think it is time we answered a few of these invitations.”

Missy looked up and blinked. She was still numb all over, except for the unaccountable pain in her heart.

Why should I care if Brooks is engaged?

She had asked herself the question a hundred times and more, but she never came up with an answer that suited. It could be that she had harbored some silly girlish fantasy about him. Or it could be that it was just such a shock. After all, he had never mentioned the golden beauty who wore his ring. It might be all of those reasons…or none of them.

“Did you hear me, Missy?” Ellen frowned and pointed to a pile of calling cards and small white envelopes. “Gregory Whitemarten was here again this morning, and Charles Rutheford.”

“I don’t want to see anybody,” Missy said glumly.

“No, you’d rather sit at home and let him win.”

Missy’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”

“Cousin Brooks is having his cake and eating it, too, if you ask me.” Ellen plunked two cubes of sugar into her tea and stirred it savagely. “He’s got Violet Ashland hanging all over him, telling anyone who will listen that they will be married, and you are sitting at home pining away.”

“I am not pining.” Missy blinked at the harsh words. “What a silly notion.”

“Prove it,” Ellen challenged with a toss of her yellow curls. “If you aren’t smitten with my cousin and you are not pining, then pick one of these invitations.”

“Right now. I won’t believe another word you say unless you prove it.”

Missy narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. She shoved the stack of cards and envelopes around on the table while she glared at Ellen. “I can’t believe you would get such a dunderheaded idea, Ellen.” When she could delay no more, she closed her eyes and picked up a slip of paper.

“Let me read it,” Ellen said as Missy stared at it blankly.

After glancing at it, Ellen swallowed hard, but then she inhaled deeply and looked Missy straight in the eye. “It is from Cyril Dover.”

“Which one was he?” Missy’s irritation had momentarily banished her misery over Brooks.

“He was the tall slim man with the blue eyes—the one who brought the bouquet of roses the morning after Aunt Patricia’s party.”

“Oh, him.” Missy sighed. “I guess he is as good as any of them to prove to you that I am not moping around because of Brooks. I don’t care one little bit that your cousin is engaged.”

Ellen’s brows rose over cornflower blue eyes full of doubt.

“Well, I don’t,” Missy reaffirmed.

Chapter Six

For a few days Brooks went to his old haunts, including the theater and his favorite café, but everywhere he went he met with the memory of Missy’s dark eyes and the unwanted presence of Violet Ashland.

She kept turning up, clinging to his arm. It was all he could do to bite down on the inside of his mouth and remember that he had been given a gentleman’s upbringing. But it didn’t take long to realize that he was a changed man—a man who found the simpering blond beauty of Violet more annoying than intoxicating.

One gloomy morning when the clouds were a great gray frown across the eastern horizon, Brooks was staring into the dark brew at the bottom of his china coffee cup. He largely ignored the conversation of his mother and brother, enjoying a hearty breakfast.

When the doorbell rang, Tilly answered it, then appeared carrying a flat silver dish containing a white envelope.

Brooks barely stifled his groan. He had been expecting a long overdue summons from his eldest sister, Clair. He knew the envelope was going to contain a family invitation that would be unavoidable. Her parties were boring affairs, attended by dozens of horse-faced girls of marriageable age and doubtful charms—and without a doubt Violet.

He drained the contents of his cup and stood up, ready to beat a hasty exit before Tilly reached him. But the bemused look on his mother’s face as she read what was written on the creamy card stock she’d plucked from the silver tray stopped him in his tracks.

“Mother, what is it?” he asked. “Not bad news?”

She glanced up, as if only becoming aware of his presence. “No, not a bit. It is an invitation to a garden party.” Her voice was soft and slightly bemused.

“Just as I thought,” he grumbled under his breath. Clair was throwing another of her boring dinner parties and wanted him there. Well, he wasn’t going to do it, not this time. He wasn’t going to be there for Violet to use as a crutch to reenter the social set she had left when she was chasing a duke’s title. She had scandalized herself, and he was not about to act as if it all never happened.

Brooks headed in the direction of the French doors and freedom. He was nearly there when Rod’s hearty chuckle stopped him. Against his better judgment he turned and found Rod’s face wreathed in a cunning smile.

“I haven’t seen a smile that wide since the last stock report, Rod.” Brooks crossed his arms at his chest and watched his brother. “What has made you so happy?”

“Read the invitation addressed to you.” Rod returned his invitation to the dish Tilly continued to hold. “Perhaps it will bring a smile to your long face. Lord knows I am tired of seeing you scowl. I swear, you’ve had a frown since the night of Miss O’Bannion’s introductory party.”

“I have not.” Brooks jerked the envelope from the tray and ripped it open. He was disgusted for allowing himself to be manipulated by family connections and social ties. If his father wasn’t such a good friend of Horace Ashland’s, Brooks would simply call Violet a liar the next time she started all that nonsense about rings and engagement.

Hell, he just might do it anyway!

He scanned Ellen’s flowing script and felt the pace of his heart increase as he read. “A garden party…” His voice trailed off as he quickly read the entire invitation. “At Uncle Leland’s house. That might be nice.” He looked up to find Rod studying him, undisguised amusement twinkling in his brown eyes.

“Nice? Missy and Ellen are throwing a party and you think it is nice?”

“Yes.”

Rod grinned. “And what a happy coincidence, brother, that you’ll finally get to see Missy O’Bannion again.” He rose from the chair and pulled on his coat.

“Why in blue blazes would I want to see Missy? I have rather enjoyed not having my hide flayed off.” Brooks cleared his throat and wondered why his pulse was racing like a runaway mustang.

The image of her dark eyes as she’d turned and left him standing with Violet had kept him awake more than one night. He just wanted to explain that he had no intentions of settling down with any woman. That was all.

Wasn’t it?

Rod shrugged. “It was just a joke, little brother. Take it easy.” Rod walked to his mother’s chair and dutifully bent to deliver a kiss to the top of her silver curls. “I never dreamed you’d return from the Territory so serious, Brooks. Perhaps a garden party is what you need.”

“Where are you going, Rod?” Patricia looked up, still holding the invitation in her hand, with a happy smile on her face. Parties did that to her, Brooks mused.

“It is my morning at the gentlemen’s club.”

“Oh yes.” Patricia frowned at Brooks. “Why don’t you go too, Brooks? You have been a bit grumpy lately.”

“I have been grumpy?” Brooks repeated in astonishment. “I don’t know why you all keep saying that.”

“Well, you have, dear, and I can’t for the life of me imagine why, especially when things seem to be working out for you and Violet Ashland.”

Brooks rolled his eyes to the ceiling and counted to ten. “Mother, there is nothing between me and Violet. I’ve told you this before.”

Patricia smiled. “All right, dear.” She held both her hands up. “If you want everything to be a surprise, then fine, I will act as if I haven’t heard a word.” She beamed at him. “Just as you say, there is nothing between you and Violet.”

“Mother—” Brooks started to explain, but Rod snagged his arm and tugged him toward the door as if he were a shavetail.

“Come along, little brother, or I’ll box your ears. It will do you good to work up a sweat instead of just getting hot under the collar.” Rod laughed aloud when Brooks flashed him another dark gaze, but he continued to tug his sibling toward the door.

The carriage lurched through a light drizzle of rain. Brooks had been silent on the way to the club, trying to figure out why on earth his mother could be so convinced that he and Violet were still romantically involved. But before he had found a scenario that seemed to fit, Rod was opening the carriage door.

Moisture accumulated on Brooks’s face and his mustache as his eyes traveled up the craggy facade of the club. Vermont granite, the color of the storm clouds scudding overhead, soared upward without a break for seven stories. Stark, unadorned rock, solid and unyielding, met his eye.

“It never changes, does it?” he muttered.

“Not on the outside, at any rate.” Rod tilted his head, endeavoring to see what held his brother’s attention. “We have had one or two minor alterations on the inside.”

Brooks’s eyes scanned each floor while memories of his former life flooded through him. He’d had his first liaison here with Violet after a boxing match. “What? Have they installed new leather sofas?”

The carriage clattered away as the pair took the polished steps two at a time, side by side. “Not exactly.”

“I know—new humidors,” Brooks teased, suddenly glad that Rod had insisted he come along.

Rod smiled thinly at his brother’s attempt at humor. “A group of forward-thinking young women came to attend one of the weekly sparring matches.” He chuckled.

Brooks raised both brows, a little doubtful of the story. “I’ll bet that caused some of the older members to need three fingers of brandy and a short rest.”

“You would think—but that wasn’t the way it turned out at all. After the hoopla settled down, everyone noticed the pugilists actually seemed to be putting forth a little more effort.” Rod shook his head and laughed. “Because of the record amount of wagers won and lost on that day, a new tradition was started. Now, once a week, ladies are invited—actually welcomed—to observe the exercises. It has caused some raising of brows from other gentlemen’s associations, but we are standing firm.”

“Remarkable.” Brooks found himself chuckling along with Rod. The staid and conservative founders of the club were probably turning over in their graves while the present members won wagers of staggering amounts on each bout. The women were allowed in, so long as it profited the stodgy members.

“You should understand, brother, a man will endure all kinds of pain to impress a woman.” Rod kept a straight face, but his eyes twinkled.

“Perhaps, if she is the right woman,” Brooks acknowledged, while his thoughts vacillated from Violet to Missy. He found himself lost in a world of his own while Rod went to change his clothing. It seemed like only moments had gone by before he returned.

“Last chance to come and take a shot at your older brother. Those hands of yours are tough and callused as shoe leather from the work you did out West. Now is the time,” Rod taunted as he danced around in his high-topped boots, feigning punches and rotating his broad shoulders as he warmed up.

“No need to break a sweat to see who the winner is. I concede defeat from right here.” Brooks leaned back in a heavily padded chair and laid his coat over the arm. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. “I have no desire to get up there and have my face pummeled. You carry on without me.” He intended to remain seated; there was nothing Rod could say, no inducement he could offer, to get him into the ring.

“Suit yourself.” Rod turned and focused his attention on a young man who entered the ring bare chested, wearing similar knitted wool tights and high-topped, laced boots of black leather. They met in the middle, shook hands and then, during the next few minutes, proceeded to pound each other’s face.

Brooks unconsciously grimaced each time Rod took a punch. Brooks had eaten enough dirt and tasted his own blood more than enough in the Territory. The sport of bare-knuckle pugilism no longer interested him.

Sweat covered Rod’s exposed upper body in a glossy sheen, but he danced on his toes, obviously still fresh. A young man who stood outside the ring rang a small bell and both men stepped away, going to opposite corners.

“He’s got a nice punch,” Brooks offered. “Who is he?”

Rod spat a mouthful of water into a bucket and grinned at his sibling. “I believe that is Cyril Dover—you remember him.”

“No, don’t think I do.” Brooks looked at the man.

“Rumor has it he has been squiring Missy O’Bannion around town.”

Brooks’s head snapped up. Something hot and liquid coursed through his veins.

Jealousy.

Brooks stood up and started unbuttoning his shirt. “I think I’d like to—” be the man who escorts Missy “—have a go at him,” he said.

Rod raised his brows, but he didn’t laugh. “Suit yourself. Go change and I’ll ask Cyril if he’s up to a fresh comer.”

Brooks planted a solid fist on the young man’s chin. Blood smeared his knuckles. Brooks advanced, driving Cyril back. Surprise—or was it knowledge?—gleamed in Cyril’s eyes as they stood facing each other.

Blood, or a knockdown, marked the official end of a contest between gentlemen at the club. Brooks knew he had to break off his assault.

“Well done, brother,” Rod said to Brooks, who was breathing heavily. Cyril joined them, not nearly as defeated looking as Brooks had hoped he would be.

“Anytime you want a go with me, just be here before seven in the morning,” he said cheerfully. “I am always looking for a man to give me a good workout.”

Rod picked up a towel and offered it to Brooks. He took the towel and dabbed at his face.

“How’s business going?” Rod asked.

Cyril shrugged. “My father makes the money, I consider it my sacred duty to spend it.” Straight white teeth flashed when he smiled. “By the way, I wanted to thank you, Brooks.”

“For what?” Brooks held both ends of the towel, looped over his. neck, and gave Cyril an undisguised scowl.

“For bringing home such a lovely guest to stay with your cousin.” Cyril smiled again, and Brooks found himself actually counting all those white teeth, thinking how he would like to forcefully remove a quantity of them.

“Yes, Bellami’s new sister-in-law is visiting,” Rod said with a sidelong glance at Brooks.

“She is quite lovely,” Cyril continued.

Rod’s face was unreadable. “You have met her?” he asked innocently.

“Yes.” Cyril grinned wider. “I would stay and have another go in the ring, but I have an engagement with her this morning. Would you like a ride? I have a carriage waiting.” He paused with one leg through the ropes.

“No thanks, Brooks and I are making a morning of it. He has been a little gloomy since his return from the West.”

Brooks flashed his brother a dark look.

“No? Well then, I’d better go and change.” Cyril slipped to the floor and disappeared.

“You know, Brooks, according to the gossip Cyril has been spending quite a bit of time with Missy.”

Brooks didn’t answer.

“I got it from the Mulligans’ cook, who heard it from the Bentons’ upstairs maid, that Cyril has seen her nearly every day.” Rod waggled his brows.

“Then it is practically gospel,” Brooks snapped.

Rod chuckled at his brother’s terse answer. “Cyril has also been asking a lot of questions about the O’Bannion family.”

Brooks refused to encourage him to continue.

Rod shrugged and continued as if Brooks had done so. “A lovely woman, new to town—”

“I thought Cyril had an understanding with Carol McLain,” Brooks interrupted. “After two scandals in the past, and that breach of promise suit, I am amazed good ol’ Cyril would show more than a passing interest in any new woman.”

“Ah, but I have it on good authority that his father has laid down the law. The rumor is that Cyril must find a bride or be cut off.”

“Isn’t Carol suitable?” Brooks’s brows lifted.

“I dunno. But if he is seeing Missy every day, then I would think it is safe to assume his attentions have turned in a new direction.” Rod slapped his brother on the shoulder. “It sounds as if Cyril has set his sights on your Miss O’Bannion.”

Brooks whirled on him, only to find an annoying smile curling Rod’s lips. “She is not my Miss O’Bannion,” he snapped.

“Perhaps not…” Rod frowned again. “But if Cyril Dover’s intentions are what I think they might be, she may not be anybody’s Miss O’Bannion for very much longer.”

Chapter Seven

Brooks shrugged on his dove gray suit coat, worn over a charcoal silk vest. He indulged in an uncharacteristic moment of masculine vanity as he paused in front of the cheval mirror.

The carefully tailored coat hugged his shoulders, now heavy with muscle from months of hard riding and roping half-grown steers on the Circle B.

Will Missy notice?

Where had that thought come from? Surely he had learned from his experience in the Territory that Missy was never impressed by the cut of a man’s clothes—at least not his. Brooks scowled and let his dark thoughts continue. Missy had shown a modicum of curiosity in the way he sat a horse, but absolutely none in the way he dressed.

Perhaps that was because she was waiting for you to be thrown on your ass.

A knock at the door brought his melancholy musing to a halt. He crossed the room in four long strides and opened the door. Rod was leaning against the jamb, his expression a study in annoyed forbearance.

“If this invitation had come from anybody but Ellen, I swear I’d take off this damn coat and go to the office to get some work done,” he threatened.

“So don’t go. I am not looking forward to your chuckles and smirks, anyway. I am sure she will understand.”

“Oh no. You can’t get rid of me so easily, brother dear. I have a feeling there is more to this little party than meets the eye. Mother has been positively closemouthed…and I have not heard from Clair since we returned from Bellami’s wedding. Silence among the James women is never a good sign, and then, of course, there was that conversation with good ol’ Cyril. The pot is simmering.”

Brooks opened his mouth to deny Rod’s suspicions, but snapped it shut again. Something was going on, and he had the uneasy feeling that Missy O’Bannion would end up right in the middle of it. Missy and debonair Cyril Dover.

Across town at Leland James’s mansion, Missy sat worrying her bottom lip with her front teeth.

“Stop that.” Ellen’s reprimand brought immediate composure to her face. “Now come sit down so I can finish your hair.”

“I’m so consarn—” Missy quickly amended her speech. “I mean, I am terribly nervous, Ellen.” She sat down in front of the French-style vanity and watched Ellen’s reflection in the mirror.

“You’ll do fine.” Ellen sighed heavily. “You have learned a great deal these past few weeks.”

“Thanks to you and Cyril. Are you feeling all right?” Missy frowned. There seemed to be even less color in Ellen’s already porcelain complexion.

“Don’t fuss—you sound like Papa. Of course I am all right. Cyril has been a dear, hasn’t he?” Missy tried to turn around and look at Ellen directly, but a sharp tug on her hair kept her in place. “Be still,” Ellen said as she fastened and looped long strands. “And remember, Missy is gone…you are a different woman with a different name.” Ellen braided a tiny length of pearls and a spray of small white flowers into the side of her hair to frame her face.

“I do feel like a different person. If I can just remember to answer when I’m called.” Her laughter was brittle with tension.

Ellen stepped back and assessed her handiwork. “Now you are all ready. Go to the gazebo in the backyard, but don’t let anyone see you until I introduce Miss Marisa O’Bannion to my guests. Cyril knows what to do once he arrives.”

Missy’s mouth went dry as a sun-baked arroyo. “Do you really think Br—everyone will notice the change in me?”

Ellen paused at the bedroom door. “Everyone would have to be stone-cold dead not to notice the change in you. Missy is gone. Don’t even think of yourself as Missy anymore. You are Marisa O’Bannion and you are every inch a proper lady.”

Three downstairs maids efficiently directed the new arrivals to the back garden, creating a steady stream of traffic through the house. The fragrance of roses wafted through the open French doors on a rain-freshened spring breeze.

Small tables set with crisp white linen and a crystal vase holding a single pink rosebud had been strategically placed among the flowering shrubs and sweet-smelling vines.

From her perch within the gazebo, Marisa took in the magnificent, romantic garden. She peered out from among the blooms surrounding the gazebo and studied each new. arrival with excitement and dread. “Marisa O’Bannion—my name is Marisa O’Bannion,” she chanted over and over under her breath.

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