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Silver Hearts
Jackie Manning
Luke Savage Was Not A Marryin' Man. The funny thing was - Noelle Bellencourt just happened to come from a long line of folks with tricks up their sleeves. Certainly there was more to this Eastern miss than met the eye, for he suspected she had the power to transform his wandering ways!Noelle Bellencourt had come West to find family and fulfillment - and instead found herself stranded in the desert, arguing at riflepoint with Luke Savage. But could this mysterious stranger truly be the one to make all her troubles disappear?
“Just where do you expect me to sleep?” (#uec46b7f3-9785-58fd-9ad7-dbd36c4d438d)Letter to Reader (#u89ecd20d-1361-5937-a3c1-f2524950fa9e)Title Page (#u6400e63a-9223-5e5b-8b66-d118ab7bd72f)JACKIE MANNING (#u85450500-3251-541c-a79c-a4b0b6087a24)Dedication (#uc7391326-d6c7-5958-9172-8418010d86a9)Chapter One (#u438630e4-6a9c-541c-ade4-8818c1c97ed1)Chapter Two (#u7523b772-e6de-5b9c-b4b3-b7b572626f07)Chapter Three (#u9ecd101a-ff14-5f17-9200-25224f1a3b92)Chapter Four (#u103dde58-c224-5eb9-8369-c808da4c9e21)Chapter Five (#u525966d7-f11f-5de3-80b0-b48bd6c464f9)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Just where do you expect me to sleep?”
Luke angled the flat-crowned Stetson low on his head and squinted at her.
“You must find other shelter. It’s simply not decent—”
“Decent?” Luke sat up. “Is it decent to ask me to spend the night out in the rain?” He shook his head. “Sorry, lady. I’m quite comfortable just where I am.” He leaned back and settled his hat over his face again.
He heard an indignant sniff. In his mind, he could imagine those morning-glory eyes sparkle with outrage. He knew the only thing that kept him from Noelle’s tongue lashing was that proper Eastern upbringing of hers. And he’d bet a grubstake that she could really let loose, if she wanted.
Suddenly he wondered what that volatile passion that flared beneath her Goody Two-shoes facade might be like in bed.
His bed..
Dear Reader,
Entertainment. Escape. Fantasy. These three words describe the heart of Harlequin Historicals. If you want compelling, emotional stories by some of the best writers in the field, look no further.
This month, we are delighted with the return of author Jackie Manning, who has ventured beyond her usual English settings for a jaunt to the Wild West in her sparkling new novel, Silver Hearts. Since her debut in 1995 with Embrace the Dawn written as Jackie Summers, critics have described her books as “captivating.” “marvelous” and “five-star reading!” Here, a doctor turned cowboy with a soft spot for women rescues a feisty Eastern miss from the trail, and their paths just keep crossing! Don’t miss it!
Be sure to look for Joe’s Wife by the talented Cheryl St.John. It’s an emotional Americana story about a bad boy turned good and his longtime secret crush, now a widow, who proposes a marriage of convenience to him. In My Lord Protector by newcomer Deborah Hale, a much older man offers the protection of a temporary marriage to his absent nephew’s betrothed—never intending to fall in love with her....
The Bride of Windermere marks the debut book of the talented Margo Maguire. In this tension-filled medieval tale, a well-connected knight has been sent by King Henry V to escort a beautiful and mysterious young lady to court. Intrigue and passion abound from start to finish!
Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical
.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell, Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Silver Hearts
Jackie Manning
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JACKIE MANNING
believes in love at first sight. She and her husband, Tom, were married six weeks to the day after they first met and he proposed, many happy years ago. Home is a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old colonial in Maine where they live with their shih tzu and Aussie terrier. When Jackie isn’t writing romances, she’s researching and visiting interesting places to write about. She loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at P.O. Box 1739, Waterville, ME 04963-1739.
This book is dedicated to the many readers who hope to
someday write a book. Go for your dream, you’ll never
be sorry. And to my sisters in Romance Writers of
America, especially to the New England Chapter, the
Maine Chapter and to the future published authors of my
critique group.
And, of course, to my darling Tom.
Chapter One
Nevada, 1867
Noelle peered through the prairie schooner’s dusty curtains and studied the black speck emerging from the sun-bleached horizon. Hope brought tears to her eyes, despite the reality that the image might be a mirage. She’d known that heartache before.
By habit, her fingers clenched the Hawken rifle. But as the shape loomed larger, the unmistakable rhythm of horse and rider emerged before her eyes. No, the horseman wasn’t a fixation of her mind. Mr. Douglas was returning, just as he’d promised.
“Thank You,” she prayed, unsure whether to laugh or cry with relief. “Forgive me for doubting You.” But when the back wheel of her covered wagon broke down yesterday, and Mr. Douglas had left to find help, both knew that the mission might prove futile. Then later, when she noticed the jug of medicinal whiskey was missing, Noelle wondered if Mr. Douglas had planned to go on without her.
She’d heard tales of trail guides who took advantage of single women left with all their worldly goods within the cumbersome prairie schooners. But Noelle had faith in Mr. Douglas, and he hadn’t failed her.
She laid the rifle down beside her in the wagon, then wiped the trickle of sweat from her temple with her apron. No need for her driver to see that she’d been crying. With shaky fingers, she tucked the stray wisps of blond hair under her poke bonnet. When she looked as presentable as possible, she stuck her head through the curtains to wait for him.
The noon heat caused the green dots of sagebrush and mesquite to shimmer into wavy patterns along the prairie. The endless heat. Thank God she still had half a barrel of water. More than enough to last until they reached Crooked Creek.
She ignored the trickle of sweat running down her spine; her gaze fixed on the advancing horse and rider.
Mr. Douglas’s gelding was a chestnut brown, not a grayish tan horse with black mane and tail!
Noelle’s heart pounded; her breath caught in her throat. The stranger who was riding toward her wasn’t the man she knew and trusted.
For good measure, she pulled out the old spare rifle that Mr. Douglas had brought with them. Two rifles were better than one, even if one was a relic.
Her hands shook while she clutched the powder horn and loaded the old weapon. Willing her fingers to stop trembling, she forced the panic from her mind. With teeth clenched, she laid the spare beside her and grabbed the Hawken, poking the barrel through the crack in the canvas.
The rider was well within her sights.
Dear God, she had never shot a man. But Mr. Douglas had coached her on what to do if the need arose. She pushed back the images of what terror might have befallen him. If only the wagon wheel hadn’t broken...
She could shoot a man if she must.
The rider, dressed in black, brought the horse to a stop. Although Noelle hid inside the wagon, she sensed the man knew, somehow, that he was being watched.
Tall in the saddle, the dangerous-looking stranger studied the wagon. Maybe, she hoped, he’d think the prairie schooner was deserted and leave.
She pressed the walnut stock against her shoulder until it hurt. No, if he thought the wagon abandoned, he might rummage through her goods for anything of value.
“Put down your rifle. I mean you no harm.” The man’s deep voice rang with authority. He dismounted and ambled toward her. Sunlight glinted off the pistols riding low on his gun belt. She saw with alarm that his right hand hovered close to his holster.
Tall, with a black hat tipped low over his eyes, the man’s face remained hidden. She was certain his features were ugly. Only ugly, dangerous men sauntered in that sneaky way.
When he was within twenty feet of the wagon, she yelled. “Stop right there or, I swear, I’ll shoot.”
He froze. He raised his head. Dark eyes glittered menacingly below the black hat’s wide brim. She knew he was deciding how to separate her from her weapon.
“Save your gunpowder. I’m here to help.” Noelle’s only answer was the click click of the hammer of the Hawken rifle.
“Are you alone?”
“No,” she lied. “My men have you covered.”
His deeply tanned hand shoved the wide brim from his forehead, revealing an unsmiling, lean and angular face. His dark brown eyes trapped her with their unblinking stare. The well-defined jaw and chin was hidden beneath a week’s growth of black beard. Her scalp tightened in reaction.
A black eyebrow lifted. “If your men are hiding behind your skirts, they’re not the sort who’ll do you much good.” His mouth curled, creasing the dimple like scar under his cheekbone.
“Get back on your horse or I’ll shoot you dead.” Noelle’s voice held a control she didn’t feel.
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Charitable of you for offering to put me out of my misery.” He took a step forward, his dark brown eyes glittered in earnest. “Found a man on the trail. Need to know if he’s one of yours.”
A well of fear ran through her. “Mr. Douglas?” she cried out before she thought.
The man scuffed the prairie sand with his scarred boots. “Was Mr. Douglas about fifty, sandy grey hair, and did he come to about my shoulders?”
Noelle’s breath caught; her heart pounded. “Yes. Is he all right?” she added, hoping to sound less desperate than she felt.
The man took off his hat, the breeze parting his longish black hair. “Sorry, miss. He’s dead.”
The stranger’s image blurred with her tears. She bit her lip, forcing back the reality of his words. “Why should I believe you? If he’s dead, where’s his body?”
The stranger’s right hand brushed his gun belt, then slipped behind to pull something from his hip pocket. Noelle tightened the grip on the Hawken. But when the man retrieved a square cloth to wipe his face, she realized how tense she felt.
“I covered the body with rocks until he can have a proper burial. When we get to Crooked Creek, you can give the sheriff the necessary details.” The man glanced at the sun, high in the cloudless sky. “We better get a move on. It’s a good day’s ride.”
He took a step toward her.
“Stay where you are.” She poked the end of her rifle farther into the sun. “How do I know you didn’t shoot him and aren’t planning to shoot me, too?”
“The man wasn’t shot. Heart attack, from what I could make out.” He cocked his head to one side and raised his hands in the air. “You’re holding the rifle, not me. Besides, what would I want with a prairie schooner with a busted wheel?” He squinted one eye and waited, as if challenging her for an answer, but she gave none.
Finally he said, “Look, miss. You’d best ride back to town with me. I noticed Indian tracks following your Mr. Douglas’s trail back here. Only God knows why the Indians veered from the hunt. Otherwise, they’d have attacked by now.” He put his hat on, then gathered the reins of his horse.
Tears welled at the corner of her eyes, and she fought down the whimper in her throat. “All I know is that Mr. Douglas was a decent, God-fearing man, even if he liked a nip or two. All he spoke of was wanting to see the Pacific.”
The stranger shook his head. “Damn fool greenhorns come out here...” He paused, then pulled the hat brim low over his eyes. “Hurry, lady. We’re losing valuable daylight.”
“I won’t go with you.”
She heard him swear under his breath. “I’m sorry about your loss, miss. Truly I am. But patience isn’t my strong suit. Now gather your water jugs and any whiskey you’ve got. Hop on back of my horse, and I’ll give you a ride into Crooked Creek.”
“You don’t understand!” She poked her head out from the canvas opening. “I can’t leave the wagon.”
“Pardon?” He tipped his hat at a rakish angle and studied her. The sunlight bounced off his cheek, and he didn’t appear quite so menacing. “We’re in big trouble, miss. Those Indians could attack any minute. Now, I’m riding out of here, with or without you. If you stay, you’ll end up just like your Mr. Douglas, only—”
“He’s not my Mr. Douglas. I-I mean, Mr. Douglas is...was my trail guide, not...” She felt embarrassed to explain anything to this man. “I-I won’t leave. You’ll have to fix the wagon wheel.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Won’t leave? Why the hell not?”
“I’m carrying precious cargo. That’s all you need to know.” She brushed her fingers across her damp collar. “And I’d prefer that you speak to me without profanity, Mister...?
“Savage.” She sniffed.
His mouth curled, revealing the dimpled scar. “Luke Savage.”
“I’m Noelle Bellencourt. I’d be obliged if you’d fix the wagon, then guide me into Crooked Creek. I’ll pay you most handsomely.”
His black eyebrows rose, and wary dark eyes appraised her. “Miss, I’ve been on the trail for six straight days. All I want is a bloody steak, a bottle of rye whiskey and a bed with a...” He paused, as though weighing his words. “Real sheets,” he added without looking at her.
She felt her cheeks warm, aware that he’d meant a woman—a painted-hussy woman that she’d heard about. She delicately cleared her throat. At least he’d been enough of a gentleman not to say so.
“I’ll more than pay you what it’s worth, Mr. Savage.”
“I’d help you without payment, if I could. But it’s a matter of life or death that I make Crooked Creek by Friday noon. Now put down that rifle and gather your things. We’re losing time we don’t have.”
Noelle raised her rifle. “It’s you who does not understand, Mr. Savage. You’re not leaving without me and the wagon.” Her voice held strong. “I’m a good shot, but even if I wasn’t, at this range I couldn’t miss shooting your head off.”
His deeply tanned face showed no sign of her threat as he studied her. “Where you heading, anyway?”
“My uncle, Marcel Bellencourt, lives in Crooked Creek. He’s a very wealthy silver miner who struck it rich during the fifties. He’ll reward you for your trouble, Mr. Savage.”
Luke scratched his week’s growth of black beard. “Funny. I know all the folks in Crooked Creek. Never heard of a Marcel Bellencourt, rich or poor.” He eyed her in that suspicious way that made her uneasy. “Sure it’s Crooked Creek where your uncle lives?”
“Of course. My family received Uncle Marcel’s letters from there since he arrived in Nevada. When my father died, my uncle asked me to make my home with him.” Noelle felt a warm blush rise to her cheeks. She hadn’t told a fib, exactly. But what difference did it make if Luke Savage thought her uncle’s request had been recent rather than a general understanding? Her father made her promise that if something were to happen, she should go West to live with Uncle Marcel. All that mattered now was that she persuade Luke Savage to help her.
Luke scratched his head and frowned at the broken wheel. His deep sigh spoke louder than words. “That wheel’s busted up good, miss. I’ll take you to town, then you can find your uncle and have him come out here with another rig.”
He sighed again. “You’ve no proper tools to fix a wheel. Didn’t your Mr. Douglas tell you that?”
“I’ve brought my possessions all the way from New York City. I’ve traveled the last three and a half months by steamboat, railroad and wagon train, and I’m not giving up this close to Crooked Creek, Mr. Savage.”
