Montana Man. Jillian Hart
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“Does your family know you’re unchaperoned and in trouble?”
“No, and I’d like to keep it that way.” She couldn’t believe it. Six long months she’d kept her secrets safe, and in less than an hour, she’d opened up her heart and her life to a man she didn’t know—to a doctor, no less, to the kind of man she was running from.
“I know how to keep a confidence.” Trey—she didn’t even know his last name—flashed her a wink. The devil shone in his eyes and in the cut of his one-sided grin. “I’m a doctor.”
“I know what you are.”
“Handsome, charming, debonair. Kind to children and damsels in distress.” Twin dimples danced and beguiled, and he was far too sure of himself, yet, with those wicked eyes and the mesmerizing cut of his muscled body, he was that and more!
Praise for Jillian Hart’s previous titles
COOPER’S WIFE
“Well-crafted and poignantly funny…this is a feel-good story for both veterans and newcomers to the genre.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
LAST CHANCE BRIDE
“It will touch you deeply.”
—Rendezvous
“The warm and gentle humanity of Last Chance Bride is a welcome dose of sunshine after a long winter.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
Montana Man
Jillian Hart
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
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 One
Montana Territory, 1884
P lease, don’t let them find me. Miranda Mitchell glanced over her shoulder at the snow-covered town street that stretched out behind her. Breathing hard, she kept running. She might not be able to see them, but she could feel them coming closer. A crowd surrounded her, blocking her view of the street. She was still safe. For now.
Driven by fear, she swiped at the snow gathering on the brim of her bonnet and kept running, her shoes tapping on the slippery ice toward the train at the end of the platform. The conductor’s last call to board rang in the crisp morning air, carried by the bitter wind that knifed through her clothes as she picked up her skirts and sprinted across the slick platform, her ticket crumpled in one hand.
Dark smoke plumed into the air, ash mixing with snow, and the train gave one long departing whistle. Miranda kept running. The platform seemed to go on forever. Well-wishers crowded next to the train, waving to loved ones safe inside, blocking her way.
Determined, she shouldered through a break in the crowd only to see the doors shut tight, the train ready to leave. Her faint hopes tumbled, and she simply stared. It couldn’t be. She had to make this train. Her entire life depended on it.
“They’re still taking passengers down there.” A kindly woman touched her elbow and then pointed with one gloved hand. “Maybe you can still make it aboard.”
“Oh, thank you.” Miranda gathered up her hopes and her skirts and ran, barreling down the edge of the platform with all her might. She still heard no commotion on the street, but wouldn’t be able to hear anything over the deafening roar of the train’s engine. If they saw her, would they shoot? No, not in a crowded place. Surely even a bounty hunter would have that much sense.
Then again, the man who’d tracked her down didn’t have the look of wisdom about him. Hard-eyed and ruthless, he’d kicked in the back door of the boardinghouse, both guns already drawn. The sound of wood breaking had given her enough time to grab her satchel and run out the front. Without this warning, she would be in his custody now, enduring Lord knows what kind of treatment.
Her stomach turned to ice, and she skidded to a stop at the end of the line. A conductor was helping an old man board, and the train waited impatiently, engines rumbling. Miranda glanced over her shoulder but couldn’t see the street. There were too many people. She eased up on tiptoe, but still couldn’t see much more than an array of hats and a slice of the icy platform. The bounty hunter and his men could be out there, maybe as close as the ticket window, and she wouldn’t be able to see them, wouldn’t even know they were near.
Fear tasted cold and metallic on her tongue, and her heart thudded so hard in her chest, it hurt. The line in front of her was growing shorter, but not fast enough. Please, hurry, she prayed, her fingers curling around the tiny gold locket at her throat. Please, keep me safe.
“No-o-o-o. No train.” A little girl’s voice cut above the din of voices, the rumble of the engine and the clang of baggage being loaded, her heartbreak and terror keening on the wind.
Miranda turned and noticed a man, not three paces away, kneeling on the platform before a fragile child, holding her tenderly in his solid arms. He had the look of a lawman—broad shoulders and intelligent eyes, strength and a hint of danger. He radiated might and competence. But there was no badge on his chest and nothing more than a six-shooter strapped to his muscled thigh. Two train tickets peeked out from his jacket pocket too fine to be bought and paid for with a sheriff’s salary.
She shuffled a step forward in line, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the handsome man made stronger by his tenderness for a child.
He brushed at the layer of snow that clung to the girl’s wool cap. “Josie, if you and I don’t board this train, then how are we gonna get to my house?”
The girl’s brow wrinkled as she thought. “We can walk right on down the road, Uncle Trey. Then we don’t gotta take no train.”
“You want to walk all the way to Willow Creek?”
“I won’t complain none. Not once.”
“But it’s a hundred miles from here to there.”
“I