Kate Bridges - Welcome To Wyoming

Simon kept walking toward the woman, firm and steady. He was reassured by the weight of his concealed guns and knife. But McKern and Fowler also carried hidden weapons. Simon tried to think fast. He couldn’t turn Natasha O’Sullivan away in the presence of Ledbetter’s men, for that would raise suspicion that Simon wasn’t who he said he was. Then both he and she might get a bullet to the skull.

So now he had to pretend to be the ever-lovin’ groom.

Damn. This mission just got a lot more complicated.

* * *

Three men were walking toward her, and suddenly Natasha O’Sullivan was no longer sure if one of them was her groom.

She had thought it was the tall, muscled one with shoulder-length dark blond hair, but it might be the thinner gentleman in the bowler hat or the heavyset one with the dark mustache. Her nerves took hold. It was one thing to write confidently to a complete stranger but quite another to be here in person. Surrounded by unfamiliar things and faces, she was scared and intimidated and lonely.

Evening light shimmered through the canopy of leaves above them and danced across the wooden platform. The breeze brought a heavenly relief to the back of her sticky neck and the perspiration that clung between her breasts. She’d worked up a sweat due to the blasted trunk that had nearly made her miss her stop.

The three men reached her at the same time.

The tall, handsome one in the checkered suit held out his hand and smiled. “You must be my lovely Natasha.”

Goodness. Relief washed through her, loosening her rigid shoulders, unlocking her knees and lifting the corners of her mouth in a very grateful smile. He was here. He’d come for her just as he’d written he would.

She slipped her gloved hand into his large palm. My, what a firm grip. She turned her face to look into the warmth of his green eyes. Her stomach clenched with the intensity of his gaze, the strength of his profile and the thought that he was hers.

For one thousand miles, she had hoped and prayed that she would feel some connection to him when they met. She’d felt that connection seconds ago, when they’d first locked eyes across the platform. She was blessed. Not only was he an educated man from Harvard, but about as sturdy and healthy as she could imagine.

“I’m Jarrod Ledbetter,” he said with a deep rumble. “I could hardly wait to meet you, darlin’.”

Her heart skittered at the endearment. “My pleasure, Mr. Ledbetter.”

“Jarrod, please.”

She inhaled a breath of fresh Wyoming air, laden with the scent of fir trees and pines. “Jarrod.”

The man was intimidating.

If she had to say, she’d say he was affected by her, too. She could see it in the heated manner of his gaze, the upturn of his silky lips, and how he slowly dropped his hand and rubbed the back of his neck. And yet he took a step away from her, his stance detached.

Jarrod cleared his throat and then introduced the other two men.

“These are my associates. Kale McKern and Woody Fowler.”

They were all roughly thirty years of age, give or take a couple. Neatly shaven, well dressed, inquisitive.

The thin man in the bowler hat stepped forward to shake her hand.

“Mr. Fowler, how do you do?” she asked.

“Welcome to Wyoming Territory, ma’am.”

Then to the other she added, “Mr. McKern.”

“You arrived on a right beautiful day.” His mustache wiggled as he chewed on a piece of grass. She thought she detected the scent of alcohol. Maybe they’d had dinner while they were waiting for her.

“You all work together in the jewelry business?” she asked politely.

The two men shoved their hands into their pockets and deferred to Jarrod. He was obviously the leader of the group. He likely employed them, judging by the respectful way they looked at him.

“Yes, we do,” Jarrod said boldly, half a head taller than his associates and much more muscled. Goodness, by his letters, she’d never realized he’d be so handsome. “Pay no attention to them,” Jarrod continued. “They just came to say hello. Now they’ll be on their way.” He seemed to give them some sort of signal. “As soon as they pick up your trunk and deliver it to the hotel across the street. Right, fellas?”

“Yes, sir.” Mr. Fowler heaved on one end of the trunk, and his friend the other.

Jarrod was trying to get rid of them, she thought, likely so that he and she could be alone. It made her flush to think she would be alone with her future husband soon. There was only so much they could get across in letters. His had been rather formal and very proper. She was not expecting this bigger-than-life red-blooded male with rather long hair standing in front of her. She wondered what he had in mind for this evening, and when they would be talking to the minister. She had been expecting one final letter from him this week before she left Chicago to clarify those details, but it hadn’t come. He likely hadn’t had the time to write it.

As the men hoisted the trunk, she gripped her satchel. It contained her coin purse, travel documents and derringer.

Jarrod held out his elbow and she took it with an appreciative smile.

He was unexpectedly charming.

They strolled ahead of the other two, making their way down the platform toward the stone-built depot.

Jarrod patted her fingers that encircled his arm. Even though she was still wearing gloves, it was such a tender gesture and made her insides flutter.

Lord, she was going to be sharing her bed with this man. Sharing her body with his. Back home in Chicago at Mrs. Pepik’s Boardinghouse for Desolate Women, she’d met a lot of women from ragged backgrounds, some worse off than her, hearing all sorts of tales about men from different segments of society, rich and poor. All sorts of talk about the pleasures and dangers of intimacy. She hoped that Jarrod was what he appeared to be in his letters: well educated, finely bred, a gentleman in every regard.

She did admit, he looked wilder and more untamed than she’d imagined. Much more physically in shape than someone who spent a lot of time reading books and studying jewelry. And what was it about him that made him seem so distant from her?

“How was your trip?” he asked. “Not too tiresome, I hope.”

“It was a little rough, I’m afraid. We had problems with the locomotive.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t say.”

“Luckily, I took an earlier train from Chicago—one day earlier because train schedules can be so disruptive—so I had time to spare when we broke down yesterday morning outside Omaha. We had to wait an entire day for new parts. The railroad put us up for the night. I nearly didn’t get here.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How unfortunate.”

“Yes, it could have been. My friends in Chicago sometimes tell me I get too worried over fine details, that I’m always expecting trouble, but thank goodness I had the foresight to leave earlier this time. Otherwise you’d still be standing here, thinking I stood you up!”

Jarrod nodded. “Good thing you’re resourceful.”

“I try to be,” she said. “Thank you kindly for noticing.” Her skirts picked up as her enthusiasm bounded.

“Always expecting trouble, you say?” He peered at her oddly.

“It’s in my nature. I don’t trust easily. My friends in Chicago say it’s because I grew up with my grandfather, who was overprotective and worried about every little thing. You know how older folks are.”

He blinked. “Right. And yet here you are.”

“Oh, I know it must seem to you that it’s a contradiction. That I don’t trust easily and yet I traveled a thousand miles to marry a stranger. But as I said in our many letters, I had to get to know you first. That’s why I needed to ask you all those questions.”