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Some of them had help-wanted signs tacked to their doors and windows. Natasha glanced across the street to the left, to the river valley lined with plush green trees. In the center of the greenery sat one outstanding hotel. It was built of stone and timber, and sprawled across an acreage. A wood-burnished sign hung over the entrance. The Mountain Hotel.
Gracious. It was massive and more luxurious than any building she’d ever spent time in.
The two men lugging the beat-up trunk weaved around two cowboys and planted the case behind her.
“Why don’t you fellas go on ahead to the front desk?” The brim of Jarrod’s black hat shielded the setting sun behind the mountains. “I’ll be in touch in the next few days.”
“Take your time getting back,” Mr. Fowler said. The other man nodded and they soon disappeared through the horses and pedestrians, carrying her trunk to the hotel.
She brightened, pleased that he would be spending a few days with her. She clutched her satchel to her waist. “Jarrod, have you had an opportunity to think more about what we discussed in our letters?”
“How’s that again?” He turned toward her with a twinge of concern. Did the question bother him?
“The letters,” she repeated softly. “What I asked you in my last one?”
“I’m...I’m still giving it some thought.”
“I see.” She puckered her lips.
Had they hit a little snag in their communication? She wished to make it clear how involved she wished to be in this marriage. And now, upon meeting him, she wondered again why he had replied to her advertisement for a bride. He seemed so attractive and intelligent and successful, her doubts rose again. She had asked him precisely this in one of her letters, and he had responded that he’d been engaged once but it hadn’t lasted due to her unfaithfulness, and that due to the nature of his business, he traveled so much that he didn’t have the opportunity to meet many women. Combined with the fact that the ratio of women to men was somewhere in the neighborhood of one to twenty.
Jarrod seemed distracted. His gaze moved over her bonnet to the other side of the street. She turned to see what held his dire attention.
A team of horses were rearing up at a water trough. An elderly man was holding tight to their lines, but he turned pale as one horse neighed, fell down hard on his front hooves and bucked.
Her body stiffened in fear for the man.
Jarrod muttered, “Excuse me,” and dashed to help.
Jarrod took control. He grasped the reins from the elderly man, calmly speaking to the horses as he pulled tight against the power of the beasts. He finally got close enough to pat the shoulder of one. The jittery white one settled first, then the chestnut mare. They were magnificent animals, muscles gleaming in the faded golden light, accentuating the muscled lines of Jarrod’s legs, the strength of his shoulders and width of his chest.
His tanned hands were utterly commanding, yet soothing at the same time. She wondered where he’d mastered his skill with animals.
When it was apparent that the mares were settling, other folks rushed in to help. Jarrod never released his hold. He kept control of the situation, even turning to the frightened elderly man to calm him, too. They talked, laughed some and kept talking low and serenely.
The picture was comforting to her, that she had chosen to marry a man with integrity and capability.
Yet oddly, the scene also caused a rush of homesickness.
She would likely never again see the dozen women she’d made friends with in the past two years at Mrs. Pepik’s Boardinghouse for Desolate Women.
They’d all suffered through the Great Fire. One-third of the city had lost their homes. One hundred thousand people homeless. Dozens had died. Natasha had been living with her grandfather at the time. They’d lost their house in the fire, and his jewelry shop with it. She had mistakenly assumed that because they weren’t physically hurt by the flames, they’d be fine.
However, three days later, her grandfather had suffered an apoplexy from the stress—a sudden paralysis of half his body, as well as slurred speech. The next day, she lost him.
It still misted her eyes.
Women with no other means to support themselves had turned to Mrs. Pepik. The kind widow hadn’t allowed anyone to feel sorry for herself. Her late husband, a policeman, had taught Mrs. Pepik how to shoot a gun, and she made sure every woman there knew how to handle one in self-defense. Then at the beginning of this year, the women had decided to place ads in the Western papers as mail-order brides. Suddenly their futures turned brighter, and no one could stop talking about where they wanted to live, which state, which man.
Natasha yearned for love, for intimacy, for family. She yearned to be free from what had always been expected of her in Chicago.
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.
“Hmm,” he said softly, thinking of her comment, then took a swig. Not bad stuff. He preferred wine from the new vineyards of California, but he’d had a sense he needed to show off by asking for an imported bottle. It was what Ledbetter would have done.
He schemed as he twisted in his prickly wool suit and stared at the enticing person seated mere inches away. How exactly was he going to get through to this woman without arousing her suspicions to get what he wanted?
* * *
Something was off between them.
Natasha had felt it ever since his two friends had left them alone, and she and Jarrod had headed here to the hotel. She was trying awfully hard to be congenial and friendly, but something was holding her back.
What was it?
She lifted a piece of grilled fish to her mouth and tried to enjoy the meal, the restaurant, the company.
Perhaps it was a reaction to his behavior.
She had a sense that Jarrod was sizing her up rather harshly. That now that he’d met her face-to-face she wasn’t perhaps what he’d been expecting?
She wasn’t as formally educated as he was, granted, but she was well aware of the world, very well-read and inquisitive about business and jewelry. Her grandfather had taught her much about the business world, about delivering fine goods, about keeping his word on delivery times and being honest in a business deal. She hadn’t gone to Harvard, but she would love to read some of his texts to learn the finer details of economics, to be privy to what men were educated on and perhaps the economic secrets of the world.
No...she didn’t sense that he was lording over her that he had a college education and she didn’t. It was something else.
In his letters, he’d been keen to list what he wanted from her, declaring his desire of starting a family together, of bonding as husband and wife, but now in person...she sensed none of that. Every time she caught his eye, he was the one who looked away first. He had seemed open and friendly at first glance, but only to a point, for any intimate talk she was hoping for—about weddings and ministers and how many children they’d like to have—was not materializing.
It chipped at her confidence.
Was she emitting involuntary signals that she herself was hesitant of this marriage? That now that she’d arrived and met him, perhaps they were doing this too quickly?
Nothing easy is ever worth having. That was what Granddad had always said.
Perhaps she should take in the evening more slowly, not let her nerves run away with her senses. She would strive to be observant, to ensure that now that they’d met, she still did truly wish to marry him for him, and not because a stranger had simply responded to her letter.
What were her alternatives if she chose not to marry Jarrod Ledbetter?
She knew a trade. Jewelry repair. She’d read in the newspapers that many women here in the West ran their own businesses. That they even had the right to vote.
She had little money in her pocket, which was frightening on its own, but outside the train depot, she’d spotted two signs in storefront windows saying Help Wanted. She could apply for one of those positions to make sandwiches, or for a jeweler’s shop assistant, or any number of small jobs until she decided how to open her own jewelry store.
But...she was being ridiculous. Things were going as planned. She was here and her fiancé across the table was prepared to marry her. How on earth had she allowed her mind to wander off in this manner?
Because she was seeing it through the eyes of her protective grandfather, who’d always warned her not to give her heart away too freely. Any man who came into the shop and gave her a second glance got a cold stare from him in return.
Not until you’re sure of his intentions, Natasha, he’d say, should you ever allow a man to court you.
But Jarrod had given her no reason to doubt that he still intended to marry her.
“Tell me something more about yourself.” He seemed to be enjoying his roast venison and took another bite.
“Such as?”
“Anything and everything. Start from the beginning.”
“But you already know so much from my letters. I have to apologize how much I poured onto those pages.”
“Nonsense. I liked that. And now that you’re here in person, I want to hear about you all over again.” His green eyes flashed with flecks of deeper colors. His gaze lowered to linger on her lips.
Her pulse rippled. “You sure I won’t be boring you?”
He shook his head. His dark blond hair shifted about his broad shoulders, and she very much enjoyed the absurd length of it. All the cultured men in Chicago trimmed theirs short. But this was the Wild West.
