Debra Brown - Gold Rush Bride

“Me?” He looked at her, his dark eyes shining in the firelight. “Your father was my friend. I’ll do what I can, but I’m leaving town tomorrow and don’t plan on ever coming back.”

As if of their own accord, his eyes washed over her body. He looked away abruptly, embarrassed, it seemed.

She pulled the buckskin tighter, conscious of her wet dress clinging to her, outlining her hips and legs. “That’s exactly why it must be you, Mr. Crockett. You and no other.”

He turned toward her, then, and narrowed his eyes. They were black again. Black as a Dublin night in Liffey Quay. “What exactly is it you want, Miss Dennington?”

She’d likely burn in hell for what she was about to propose, but she mustered her courage and did it anyway.

“I want you to marry me.”

Ice Maiden

“Ice Maiden is an enticing tale that will warm your heart.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

The Virgin Spring

“Debra Lee Brown makes her mark with The Virgin Spring, which should be read by all lovers of Scottish romances.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Debra Lee Brown pens an enjoyable tale of intrigue and adventure.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

“A remarkable story. The fast pace, filled with treachery, mystery, and passion, left me breathless.”

—Rendezvous

#591 MY LADY’S TRUST

Julia Justiss

#592 CALL OF THE WHITE WOLF

Carol Finch

#593 DRAGON’S DOWER

Catherine Archer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Virgin Spring #506

Ice Maiden #549

The Mackintosh Bride #576

Gold Rush Bride #594

To my mother, Marilyn Berger.

And my father, Lee Hargus

With love

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

Tinderbox, California, 1849

Kate Dennington arrived too late.

Months aboard ship, a fortnight tromping across the steaming jungles of Panama. Riverboats, mule trains and enough miles on her feet to wear holes in her shoes.

And all of it for nothing.

She ground her teeth behind pursed lips and met the solicitor’s sympathetic gaze. “When did my father die?”

“Tuesday.” Mr. Vickery looked past her out the window to the graveyard across the road. A fresh mound of earth stared back at them.

Tuesday. She swiped at her eyes, but her hand came away dry, as always. No tears, girl. Bear up. She could hear her mother speak it in the Irish, even now, so many years after her death. Denningtons didn’t cry. Not ever.

“W-what day is today?”

She’d arrived in San Francisco nearly a week ago, ill from the rough steamship journey up the coast, and with barely enough funds left to make her way to the frontier mining town where her father, Liam Dennington, had hoped to make his fortune.

“Sunday.” The honeyed voice belonged to a well-dressed gentleman who pushed his way through the throng of miners and tradesmen who’d gathered in Dennington’s Grocery and Dry Goods the moment Kate had arrived.

Vickery stepped aside, as if in deference to him. “Um, this is Mr. Landerfelt—from Virginia. Eldridge Landerfelt. Head of the town council and proprietor of Landerfelt’s Mercantile and Mining Supply.”

Kate had seen it amidst the hodgepodge of tents, shanties and cabins that served as the center of mining trade for the densely forested area. Both the gentleman and his enterprise seemed far too rich for a town the likes of Tinderbox.

“Eldridge, this is Miss Den—”

“I know who she is,” Landerfelt drawled. He looked her over, as if he were sizing her up.

Kate arched a brow and looked back. His haughty stance reminded her of an upstart prizefighter she’d once seen in a makeshift boxing ring in a warehouse in Dublin, near the tenement she and her brothers called home.

She had known there would be trouble the moment she’d decided to answer her father’s summons herself. When Liam Dennington had taken ill, he’d sent for Kate’s younger brother, Michael. But the letter was six months getting to Ireland, and by then Michael was newly wed with a babe on the way.

She’d had no choice but to come herself. The twins, Patrick and Francis, at age twelve were too young, and Sean at fifteen too reckless. So she’d left the boys in the care of Michael and his bride, boarded the clipper to America and hadn’t looked back. The money for the passage she’d borrowed from disapproving relatives in County Kildare. What a waste.

Landerfelt frowned. “The question is, does Miss Dennington know the law?”

“What law?” She hadn’t been listening.”

Yes, well I was just getting to that.” Vickery handed her a creased parchment, its edges smudged with inky fingerprints. “Your father’s will. I wrote it for him not two days before he passed. He signed it at the bottom—just there.”

Kate swept her gaze across the spidery lettering. It might as well have been Greek. There’d been little time for reading growing up. She did recognize her father’s flamboyant signature, though it seemed not as bold as she remembered it. “Aye, that’s his hand.”

“He leaves it all to Michael, your brother.” Vickery shrugged. “That’s who he was expecting, you see, who we were all expecting.”

Landerfelt stepped closer, and Kate fought a natural instinct to back away. “But Mike Dennington’s not who’s come, and that changes everything.”

“Mr. Landerfelt’s right,” Vickery said. “The land, the store, the horse and the mule—it’s all in the will. By law it passes to the next of kin, should the primary beneficiary be…well, in this case, wholly unavailable.”

“So it’s all mine, then? The storefront, the goods, everything?” Kate scanned the rough-hewn timbers of the two-room cabin her father had built on land he’d won in a poker game. It certainly wasn’t much. A fortune, indeed. What on earth had he been thinking? She offered up a silent prayer for his foolish but well-meaning soul.

“Yours until tomorrow.” Landerfelt pulled a cigar stub out of his breast pocket and lit it.

Kate wrinkled her nose at the stench. “What do you mean, tomorrow?”

“You’re the lawyer,” Landerfelt said to Vickery. “Explain it to her.”

“Um, yes, well…” Vickery pulled a sheaf of papers out of his portfolio and promptly dropped them. They scattered across the floor. “Oh, sorry. I’ll just be a moment.”

Landerfelt rolled his eyes. “It’s the law, like I said. The property passes to you, and your father’s business, too. But you can’t keep it. Not in this town.”

“What do you mean I can’t keep it? Mr. Vickery said that—”

“Single women, especially immigrants, don’t own property. Not in Tinderbox.” Landerfelt flashed a nasty look at a Chinese girl peering through the store’s front window. “And they don’t own businesses, neither. It’s better for the town.”