Montana Man. Jillian Hart
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could leave a child behind her. Not a husband—no ring marked her fourth finger, not even the imprint of one was visible as she grabbed the sides of her skirts to better maneuver in the aisle.
“Miranda.”
She turned. The train bucked again as the swift edge of a blizzard hit. The car rocked as the light drained from the windows. Alarm widened her eyes, and she looked vulnerable and young. He remembered the men racing to the edge of the platform, the dangerous ruffians who’d fired loaded six-shooters, trying to intimidate an innocent woman.
Josie sniffled against his chest and held him with bruising force. He had a child to comfort, and he knew next to nothing about children. He had his own problems back home. But something about Miranda drew him, and he wanted to pay back her kindness to Josie. Or maybe he simply couldn’t bear to let her go.
“Come sit with us.” He held out his hand.
“No. I have my own ticket.” She turned, chin set, her knuckles white around the walnut grip of her expensive satchel. There was no mistaking the softness of her hands; they bore no calluses from hard work or redness from lye soap. She was a gentlewoman, city bred, and she was alone. A young woman of means did not travel this rugged land without an escort.
Again, Trey thought of the men following her. The train crept along the tracks as the furious north winds and icy snow battered it. He figured if a man was determined enough, he could race a horse down the tracks and catch up to the now slow-moving train.
Judging by the look on Miranda’s face, the same thought occurred to her.
Trey took another step, leaving his hand outstretched, waiting for her touch. “This storm has both me and Josie scared. We could use a little of your good luck up here with us.”
“I thought your niece said that you weren’t afraid of anything.”
“She lied.” Dimples cut into his cheeks, a grin hinting at the corners of his mouth.
But it was his gaze that drew her—the steady, warm concern that made him feel so substantial. That made her palms turn moist and her heart knock against her ribs.
She was on the run—the men hunting her would be watching the train routes, would question passengers, one could even be in this very car.
Of all the people she’d come across since she’d fled her father’s home with only the contents of one small satchel and her savings, she’d never told a single soul, living or dead, her name. She had a better chance eluding her father’s men alone and unnoticed. How could she accept Trey’s invitation? Even if the hardship of six months on the run and the loneliness in her heart tugged at her.
Her gaze strayed to Trey’s outstretched hand, palm up, offering more than someplace to sit on this slow-moving train. He’d seen the men after her. He must have been able to read the panic in her eyes. Even in the dim lamplight the revolver holstered to his hip gleamed.
“Come on,” his rum-rich voice soothed, a contrast to the fast rat-a-tat of her pulse and the brutal howl of the blizzard battering the north windows. “Josie and I need a little more of your good luck, don’t we, honey?”
The little girl tucked safe in his arms nodded fiercely, scattering strawberry blonde curls around her pale face. How vulnerable she looked, how needy.
Everything lonely and hurting in Miranda’s heart ached. She had a weakness for children—a gigantic pillowy soft spot that had always been the reason she’d worked so hard in her father’s hospital. She’d done what she could for the sick and suffering children when her friends were busy counting up the number of their beaus, attending parties and filling hope chests with fine lace, linens and dreams of happy marriages.
Regret slammed so hard into her chest it might as well have been the gust of bitter wind that rocked the car. How she missed the children. Even now, that sadness filled her.
“Please, Miranda.” Tears glistened in Josie’s emerald eyes, as precious as those rare gems. “I’m awful scared.”
She couldn’t do it. Every instinct she had screamed for her to head back to the third-class cars, the cheapest ticket available. She had to be alert. The blizzard could mean the men after her had given up. It also meant the train was now crawling blindly, making a diligent bounty hunter with the hopes of a substantial cash reward more determined and bold.
One of those men had been without enough of a conscience to shoot at the train to stop her—not caring whom he might injure. Could she be a danger to everyone on this train? To the very people she sat beside?
“Josie, please, don’t be scared.” Miranda ignored Trey’s steady hand, offering her much more than she could accept, and traced her fingertips across the etched roses in the center of the polished locket. “You have my mother’s necklace to keep you safe.”
“But what will keep you safe, Miranda?” Trey asked, his words resonating with a blend of concern and knowledge that slashed through her defenses and her arguments.
It had been a long time since she’d felt anyone’s concern. “I’m not a little girl. I’m old enough to make my own luck.” She stubbornly took a step back, watching tears spill down Josie’s face, torn. She hated that she had to go. She wished she could do more to stop this child’s pain.
“I admire that.” Trey lowered his hand and squared his shoulders.
Of all the men she’d come across in her life, she’d never seen a man more mesmerizing and captivating. Trey was sure of his strength, and he created a presence so strong that the light and noise in the car faded until all she could see was him. His gaze latched onto hers.
“I’m armed.” He laid his well-formed hand over the gleaming wooden grip of the Colt. “Are you?”
She shook her head. She could not tear her eyes away from the breadth of his thigh, where the holster hugged what looked like rock-hard muscle.
This was a man who didn’t spend his life indoors away from the sun and wind, his body growing soft with leisure and time. No, Josie’s Uncle Trey looked like a man who rode the range for a living, from the hard ridge of his shoulders down to the tips of his well-worn but polished riding boots. Every inch looked as tough as nails, like the lawman she’d first figured he might be.
“Then stay with me. You’ll be safer.” He laid one hand on her shoulder. “I doubt those men would be foolish enough to brave this storm, but if they do, they could catch up with us in no time. I don’t know what you’re running from, Miranda, and it’s none of my business.”
“Then why—”
“Because where I come from, a man worth his grit protects a woman. He doesn’t fire a gun at her on a crowded platform with a train full of people behind her.” His grip tightened.
Miranda instinctively tried to brush him away, but stopped when she realized his hold on her wasn’t bruising or possessive, like Lewis’s had been. Nor was it controlling like Father’s. Trey’s touch was firm and binding, but as respectful as a promise made and kept.
“I could put you and Josie in jeopardy—”
“Don’t you worry about that. We’re tough, aren’t we, Red?” He gave the little girl wrapped in one arm a slight squeeze.
“That’s right. We’re real tough.” Josie bobbed her small chin once despite the heartbreak in her eyes.
“So am I.” Could she stay? Should she?
For the first time in months, Miranda felt the mantle of fear slide off her shoulders, leaving her weak and tired and strangely at ease. The longing in her heart spurred her. She stepped forward, twisting away from the burn of Trey’s fingers curling into the rise of her shoulder.
She was lonely, after all. Miranda eased along the seats flanking a window made dark by the brutal storm. “I usually travel alone, but just this once, just for you, Josie, I’ll make an exception.”
She