Kate Bridges - Welcome To Wyoming

She’d had several men to choose from in the letters. In the end, she’d decided on Jarrod Ledbetter because he had replied to her ad that he was an educated man and a jeweler. She wished with all her heart to join her new husband in his ventures. Here in the West, she hoped to run her own jewelry shop—or a partnership with Jarrod—not only to prove herself, but in silent honor of Granddad. He had, after all, trained her in everything she knew, and she had become just as skilled in jewelry repair and knowledge as he had.

In the distance with the sun nearly set, Jarrod turned over the reins to the now-calm owner and made his way back to her.

“Where were we?” Jarrod asked when he reached her. Heavens, he was so rough and energized from his adventure with the horses. “Let’s move on to that hotel. We’ll enjoy a nice meal and get to know each other.”

Her throat welled with a lump when she thought of the tender friends she was leaving behind in Chicago. She tried to overcome it by reminding herself that she would write letters home to them and that she was with a good man, in a good place.

She’d never been in love before. Could she drop the shield of protectiveness that her grandfather had instilled as second nature to her heart, and fall in love with Jarrod Ledbetter?

Chapter Two

Simon pleasured in the way the candlelight from the restaurant tabletop shifted across Natasha’s face. The glow brought out her lively eyes, outlined the fine arch of her brown eyebrows and warmed the contour of her lips. It was late evening. Darkness engulfed the window next to them, dampening the view of the river below, but he was enjoying the view in front of him.

He’d hooked his hat on the wall behind him, but she was still wearing her bonnet with the fake grapes and cherries. They bobbed on her head as she ate her meal.

Remain in control, and never leave anything to chance. That was the simple rule he’d lived by ever since he’d turned eight. Those words had put food in his belly, kept him safe, protected his heart.

And it was why this situation made him bristle.

Don’t hurt her, he thought. If she’s innocent and not a criminal, she doesn’t deserve to be hurt. In order to find out, he had to ask more questions.

He planted one large elbow on the white tabletop and leaned in toward her bosomed silhouette. What exactly could he say that hadn’t been said by Ledbetter in his called letters? How could Simon now pretend to know what had been written between them, so that he wouldn’t alert her that he was an imposter?

He’d start with something tame. “Where are you from originally?”

She inhaled, and when she did, her chest moved up and down, accentuating the slimness of her waist. He noted how nicely she moved and the sensitive sweep of her dark lashes over her face as she answered.

“Chicago. And you?”

She brought the glass of ice-chip water to her lips and sipped, making him wish she’d do all sorts of devilish things to him with those lips. He swallowed hard, cursed himself silently for noticing her womanly charms and glanced away to the other customers in the crowded room to distract himself.

Waiters in black suits hustled to deliver wine and liquor, soups and main courses of roast venison and wild duck.

“I’m from the Midwest. Raised on a farm. Before I moved to Boston, of course.” He and Ledbetter had both been raised in the Midwest. Simon in southern Dakota Territory, Ledbetter in Nebraska very briefly till his parents had died and he was whisked away to Boston by his wealthy grandparents. The grandfather, apparently, had made his fortune from pirating ships in the Caribbean. The nasty streak was either in the bloodline or was taught to his grandson. Simon’s parents weren’t around long, either, but he’d had no one to whisk him away to safety.

“Natasha. That’s an awfully pretty name. Where’d that come from?”

She flushed at his attentiveness. “My father was Irish, but my mother was Russian. She named me.”

“Ah,” he said with humor. “Irish and Russian. That makes you a person with quite a hot temper.”

Her brown eyes lit with amusement.

“And,” he continued, pleasuring in her reaction, “your Russian blood would explain the high cheekbones. Very lovely.”

“How about you? What’s your family heritage?”

“We can trace our lineage all the way back,” he said, proudly speaking the truth, “to George Washington’s house.”

“Truly?” she said. “You’re related to George Washington?”

“Well...one of his servants.”

She smiled. “What made you want to go to Harvard?” She looked so nicely at him, he found it hard not to scoff at her curiosity. However, the question made him realize why he was here. Not to flirt with her, but to fool her. The closest he’d ever gotten to stepping foot inside any college was riding past one in a locomotive. He hoped his speech and mannerisms didn’t give him away. He tended to cuss more than he should, and he could never sit calmly in a suit.

“I always had the urge to study,” he lied smoothly. He shifted his too-wide-to-get-comfortable shoulders against his chair and tried to straighten his cramped leg under the table. There never seemed to be enough room for him in these fussy places.

She played with the stem of her water glass but gazed intently at him.

“Studying came naturally,” he lied some more. Ha. He had counted down the days in school when he wouldn’t have to pick up another pencil. Although he was excellent with numbers and calculations, and figuring out what sort of gun he’d need to shoot what distances, and how much gold bullion a two-foot-by-two-foot safe could hold.

She scooped the white napkin from her lap and dabbed her lips. “That’s incredible. Your parents must’ve been so proud.”

“I reckon.” He realized she was referring to Ledbetter’s departed parents, but Simon was thinking of his own. His mother would surely be proud, if it were true and if she were still alive. But his father—the no-good son of a bitch—wouldn’t give a cow’s scrapings. After all, the bastard had walked out on Simon and his mother when he was just a kid.

“And pray tell,” she said, returning the napkin to her lovely thighs, “what subjects did you study?”

He blinked at her. How the hell should he know?

She must’ve taken his hesitation to mean that the question needed clarification. “I know you studied economics, but do tell what precisely you covered.”

“Ah, I see.” His hair brushed against his shoulders. “Economics of the United States. Of our natural supplies, and the upticks and downticks of the market, and our trade with the richer countries of the world. For example, England and France.”

“France? Don’t tell me you speak French?” Her lashes fluttered. How engrossed she was with her imaginary, dearly departed Ledbetter.

To be frank, Simon was a little put off at how much she seemed to worship him. Who the hell cared about someone who’d studied at Harvard? The man had fleeced old women of their wedding rings and slashed the throats of railroad passengers who wouldn’t cooperate. Education was no substitute for character.

“Nah, no French.” He shifted his long arms as the waiter brought glasses of red wine that Simon had requested. He’d selected French wine from the Burgundy region. She’d been impressed by that, too.

“Cheers,” he toasted, “to us.”

“Oh, Mr. Ledbetter, yes, to us.”

“Please, it’s Jarrod.”

“Sorry, it slipped out. It’s just so strange to be thinking we’re to be married shortly when we’ve never met before. Jarrod,” she corrected herself, clicking her glass against his. “May we always be this happy.” She lifted the glass to her mouth.