Kate Bridges - Welcome To Wyoming

He thought about his jewelry assignment. For the past few years as a detective, jewelry missions had become his specialty. Some detectives knew all about livestock, others the construction and valuation of houses, and for him, it was gems and gold. He’d had an early interest in the field since he was kid, bartering and selling watches and gold chains in train stations with other runaways. Some became pickpockets. He’d picked a few fine pockets himself, but it had always left him with too much guilt, so he’d stuck to lawful trade.

He shoved aside the covers and planted one hard foot on the soft rug. Naked, he stood up, walked to the windows and peered through the sliver of curtains to the street below. The cool air in the room ruffled the hairs on his torso. He assessed the hustle of the street vendors and listened to the clomp of horses as strangers went about their business.

He felt nothing.

Just as every other morning when he rose and wondered what town he was in, there was no stirring in his heart that he might belong here, that there might be someone important waiting for him and binding him to this place.

No one was waiting for him. No friends, no work colleagues, no woman, no wife.

He wondered how it could be possible to meet as many people as he did in his line of work as a detective, traversing the country on covert missions, yet still be unconnected to everything and everyone.

Except there’d been Clay and Eli. They’d been his close friends. And look where that had gotten them. Knowing Simon meant death and destruction. Don’t depend on Simon Garr as a friend. He’ll watch you get killed, then brush off his trousers and walk away.

He sighed.

Lately, it was hard to know who he was anymore and where he wanted to go from here.

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” he mumbled to himself. All this soul-searching because he’d met Natasha O’Sullivan? When it came to women, it had taken him years to get his life to this point where he liked it. No attachments, no responsibilities, no damn obligations, no one to live up to or to possibly disappoint when they truly got to know him.

He veered away from the window to dress.

The full-length mirror tacked to the armoire reflected his nakedness as he got into his trousers. He buttoned them, the muscles of his torso flexing in the coolness of the morning. He took out a neatly pressed white shirt, shoved his arms into it and repositioned his concealed weapons. Derringer behind his back, dagger to his ankle, shoulder holster across his chest.

Even a sauna last night in the Gent’s Spring Room and Sauna hadn’t been able to calm him. What the hell had he been thinking, kissing her like that?

Blazes. He was an idiot.

Did he want to sabotage his own assignment?

Sure, no one had told him a mail-order wife was on her way, but he’d dodged plenty of women before, hadn’t he?

She was no different from the dozens of others he’d come across in his years of travel, he tried to tell himself. Some women had thrown themselves at him, depending on who he was supposed to be while undercover. Posing as a rich and powerful man always seemed to make him the biggest magnet. Other women preferred him when he was impersonating a drifter, whom they thought needed love and attention. Once he pretended to be a schoolteacher, and that had uncovered a woman twenty years his senior who kept surfacing every time he was alone, putting her hands all over him and trying to woo him to her place for dinner.

He’d never taken pleasure or spent the night with any of the women in his line of duty, only the tougher ones he met in saloons, the ones he knew could handle his leaving and didn’t expect much in terms of settling down or his making false promises. There’d been some humor in the delicate situations he’d sometimes find himself in while undercover, but he’d never been truly distracted to the point of losing control.

He’d come awfully close with Natasha O’Sullivan last night.

Yes, she was different from all the rest, he admitted. What was it about her?

Something in her eyes. A glimmer of vulnerability.

He reached into his armoire and pulled out a black suede jacket that had fringes hanging from its sleeves. He tugged into it, donned his black hat and told himself that he knew exactly what he found attractive about her. Why he’d kissed the hell out of her last night.

Because he’d sensed the same thing in her that lately seemed to be engulfing him.

Loneliness.

That deep, throbbing ache in the pit of his soul that always came out late at night to whisper, Hello, I’m here again to keep you company.

He swore and pushed the ache from his heart. He’d been alone since he was eight years old. He was tough and impenetrable and didn’t need anyone. To hell with everyone who might think differently.

He wouldn’t get close enough to the O’Sullivan woman to kiss her again. In fact, he would try to physically avoid her so there was no opportunity for him to be drawn in. If he kept his cool and stayed his distance, he’d get the information he damn well needed to get from her—the location of the railroad’s stolen property—and be on his way to the next assignment.

It was simple. And simple plans always worked the best.

* * *

At the sound of the firm knock on her hotel-room door, Natasha’s pulse leaped. It rattled her composure. She reached to open the pine door and found Jarrod Ledbetter on the other side.

He was dressed more casually today, in a black suede coat and hat that might belong to a cowboy, but a crisp white shirt and tailored wool trousers that a businessman might wear. In the light of day, he seemed more alive and intimidating than ever. Good heavens, she thought, her mind racing with sensual thoughts of what it might be like to disrobe him of those fancy clothes.

“Good morning.” He gave her a charming smile that in no way alluded to any uncomfortable regrets he might have about the intimate kiss they’d shared last night. Her face, however, flushed with heat at the searing memory.

“Morning, Jarrod.”

His gaze sharpened over her plain calico dress. It had been a hand-me-down gift from one of her friends at the boardinghouse. It was a size smaller than she usually wore and therefore too snug in the bodice. However, she would take her shawl with her and drape it over her shoulders for modesty. She’d leave her hair loose, too, in the manner she’d noticed other younger women wearing last night at dinner.

“How did you sleep, Natasha?”

“As deep as an ogre. Utterly wiped-out. You?”

He shrugged. “I never seem to sleep well.”

“That’s a shame. Perhaps it’s because of all the traveling that you do. Have you ever tried camomile tea or—”

“That’s a lovely cameo,” he said, glancing at her throat.

She wondered if he’d purposely changed the subject. “Thank you.”

“Made of pink shell,” he said, “mounted on a black velvet ribbon. The scene depicts ‘Rebecca at the Well.’”

Her hand sprung to the nicely weighted oval above her cleavage. She was pleased he knew so much about jewelry and that she could share this love of the craft with him. “I thought the length of the ribbon nicely balanced the size of the cameo.”

“Very becoming. And cameo earrings to match.”

“Do you like them? They were originally mounted on posts. I converted them to fish hooks so they dangle, more in keeping with the length of the velvet ribbon.”

His penetrating eyes flashed. “Very simple, yet very elegant.”

The heated manner in which he said it made her feel as though he was appraising her, not her jewelry. Either way, she was flattered. His opinion meant a lot, since he was such a fine and experienced jeweler. He didn’t wear much jewelry himself, besides the handsome silver buckle on his belt that was engraved with his initials, J. L., and encrusted with studs. Most men did not wear a lot of jewelry, but she truly enjoyed seeing the occasional lapel pin or watch fob on a well-suited man.