Rocky Mountain Marriage. Debra Lee Brown
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“You’re right not to trust me.”
He paused, as if some terrible struggle were going on in his mind.
She was aware of her beating heart, of the room growing warmer. He grazed her palm with his thumb, tenderly, with affection, and the sensation of it sent a shiver clear up her spine.
Then without warning, as if he’d been dreaming and had all of a sudden come awake, he laughed. His face lit up, his eyes flashed mischief. She tried to draw her hand away as the man withdrew and the rogue appeared.
His fingers tightened over hers. “I’ve been known to lead women astray.” To punctuate the point, he arched one dark brow in a scandalously suggestive manner.
Dora pulled herself together. “Yes, well…” She yanked, and her hand was freed. She shook it to revive her circulation. “This woman is miraculously unaffected!”
Praise for Debra Lee Brown’s previous titles
Gold Rush Bride
“Debra Lee Brown’s traditional romance captures the era’s excitement and excess in lively characters meant for each other.”
—Romantic Times
Ice Maiden
“Ice Maiden is an enticing tale that will warm your heart.”
—Romantic Times
“This Viking tale of high adventure gallops through time and into the hearts of the reader.”
—Rendezvous
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
“A remarkable story. The fast pace, filled with treachery, mystery, and passion, left me breathless.”
—Rendezvous
Rocky Mountain Marriage
Debra Lee Brown
MILLS & BOON
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For Dad, Dorothy and Uncle Dickie
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
Epilogue
Chapter One
Colorado, 1884
“I t’s a saloon?”
“Yes, ma’am. The pride of Last Call. Draws customers from Fairplay to Garo.” The driver hefted her trunk from the buckboard and set it on the ground under a young oak, in front of the steps leading up to the entrance.
There had to be some mistake. Her father had owned a cattle ranch, not a…a… Dora couldn’t breathe. She gawked at the gold-leaf-lettered sign above the swinging doors. The Royal Flush. Established 1876. William Fitzpatrick, proprietor.
“The best damned gambling house in the state, if you ask me.” The driver tipped his hat to her, then climbed atop the buckboard to depart.
“W-wait. Please.” She plucked her father’s letter from the small, leather-bound diary she always carried with her, and read the first shakily written paragraph again.
If you’re reading this, Dora, I’m dead. Seeing as you’re my only living kin, I’m leaving you the place. Lock, stock and barrel, it’s all yours.
She gazed out across the high-country pasture surrounding the opulent two-story ranch-house-turned-saloon. A few stray cattle grazed in the meadow below the original homestead. Nowhere were the herds she’d expected, or any evidence that her father had made his fortune in cattle.
Several outbuildings were visible behind the house: a barn, what looked like a bunkhouse, and a few small cabins nestled between naked stands of aspen and oak. It had been a ranch once, by the look of things.
“I guess you’ll be running the place now. Good luck to you, ma’am.” The driver snapped the reins and the horses sprang to life.
Running the place?
“Wait a moment. Please!” Dora ran after the buckboard. “You’re not just going to leave me here?”
“You want to go back to town?” The driver pulled the horses up short. “Before you even get a peek at the place?”
The sun had already dipped well below the snow-capped peaks in the distance. Spring columbine checkered the rolling grassland as far as the eye could see, but winter’s chill still frosted the air. Dora pulled her cloak tightly about her as she glanced back at the bustling business her father had never once mentioned in his letters to her.
Horses stood in a line, tied up at the long rail outside the saloon. Buggies and buckboards and other conveyances were parked along the side. A corral flanked the building, where other horses were feeding. Presumably they belonged to customers, regulars she believed the term was.
Soft light spilled from the entrance of the saloon and from windows draped in red velvet. Tinny piano music, men’s voices and coquettish laughter drifted out to meet her. Fascinated, Dora took a step toward the entrance, then paused to consider her predicament.
“Ma’am?” The driver fished a pocket watch out of his vest. “Got to get these horses back to town. Are you coming or staying?”
Not once in her twenty-five years had she ever been inside a saloon. God would strike her dead, her mother had been fond of saying when she was alive, if Dora so much as set foot in one.
“Last chance, ma’am.”
Last chance.
She heard the driver’s words, the snap of the reins, and the buckboard rattling back down the two-mile stretch of road to the mining town of Last Call, where her only hope of securing proper accommodations for the night was to be found.
But Dora was already on the steps, her gaze pinned to the swinging doors, her eyes wide with excitement,