Читать книгу Welcome To Wyoming - Kate Bridges, Kate Bridges - Страница 11

Chapter Four

Jarrod was definitely attracted to her, thought Natasha with a combination of pleasure and confusion an hour later. Judging by the kiss that still had her stomach in knots every time she thought about his handsome face and his roaming hands, there was no doubt about his physical attraction to her. She pulled her thin robe tighter to her damp, bare skin. She’d just bathed in the hotel’s Spring Room for Ladies and had returned to her room to unpack.

So the hesitation she’d felt from him at dinner was not a physical one. That left her to wonder what precisely it was.

Wasn’t he pleased with their friendship and looking forward to a much deeper relationship? Falling in love? Having children?

Then what in blazes was wrong? One minute he was keeping her at arm’s length as though he didn’t know what to do with her, and the next, he was grabbing her by the behind and making it very obvious what he’d like to do with her.

“I don’t understand,” she grumbled, tossing aside the ropes from her trunk and lifting the monstrous lid. She didn’t know a lot about men from personal experience, but she was ready and willing to learn about Jarrod.

Rummaging through its contents, she tossed aside the worn blanket, then the patched dresses.

She reached for her jewelry box. She didn’t have an overabundance of jewelry, but there were some fine pieces given to her by her grandfather, and others that she’d taken a shine to at his shop. She had saved for some of it herself, investing her hard-earned wages into precious metals, gemstones and pearls. Sadly, over half of her items had been destroyed in the Great Fire. And she’d had to sell most of the few remaining pieces from his shop over the past two years as she struggled to make ends meet.

She spotted the exquisite wedding gown she’d tucked in the middle of the trunk, between the other clothing for protection.

Gingerly, she slid it out and stood up to assess it.

The gown was more beautiful than anything she’d ever owned. It had been bought just for her and graciously sent by train to Chicago by her dear friend Cassandra Hamilton in California. Cassandra had also been a mail-order bride from Mrs. Pepik’s Boardinghouse, the first one in fact, and was now happily living with her husband in the vineyards of Napa Valley. Cassandra and her husband were doing very well to be able to afford such an extravagant gown for Natasha.

“Oh, Cassandra, thank you.”

The billowing white satin wasn’t too wrinkled; nothing that hanging in the closet couldn’t solve.

Natasha spread the gown onto her bed and smoothed the front. The bodice was tailored and beautifully fitted along her bosom and waistline. The square neckline swept low. Mounds of bustling white satin formed the lower half. And, Lord, the train! Who would’ve thought she’d be wearing a ten-foot train? It was embedded with lace and pearls and cut-glass crystals. There were jewels of red glass sewn into the hem and trim around her long sleeves.

She vowed she’d be a good wife. She’d be respectful of Jarrod’s wishes and dreams, work hard to better both their lives, and the lives of their children when that time came. She’d fall into step beside him as his equal partner and lover.

Her pulse bounded again at the thought of that fabulous kiss. And the heart-pounding love affair they might start.

Could she allow herself the freedom of trusting Jarrod? If she couldn’t trust her husband-to-be, then whom could she trust? She’d never relied on a man before, not a suitor. She supposed she did follow by her grandfather’s example of never being able to fully trust someone who wasn’t family. The older he’d gotten, the more protective he was. Near the end of his life, he’d turned everyone away. She tried not to be like him in that regard, but it was difficult to peel away that layer of self-protectiveness that had been ingrained in her since she’d been fourteen and faced with the loss of both parents.

What if Jarrod’s indecision in setting a date was a hint of a deeper problem? Why didn’t he wish to talk about any details of the wedding? Was she being stupid in ignoring the signals that he didn’t want to marry her?

Don’t be a fool, girl. If a man doesn’t wish to marry, walk away quickly and find yourself another. That was what her friend Valentina Babbs, in her fifties and a former lady of the night, used to tell her at the boardinghouse.

“But when do I walk away, Valentina?” Natasha asked aloud. “How do I know if it’s time?”

You can tell how they really feel about you if you ask them about their mother. If they open up, it means they trust you more than they do her. Valentina gave a lot of odd advice.

Sighing, Natasha brushed at the creases of her lovely gown and wondered when or if she’d get the opportunity to wear it. She tried to ignore the feeling in the pit of her stomach, that troublesome anxiety that was building every time she thought of Jarrod.

She reminded herself that she had options here. She had to ask herself whether he would be a great choice for her. She wanted an incredible partner, someone to watch out for her as much as she would for him. If he wasn’t committed to that loyalty and to her in every way, then perhaps she shouldn’t select him.

It wasn’t too late for her to back out. A feeling of remorse lodged in her throat. Surely it would not come to that.

She was ashamed to think of what her grandfather would say, to know she’d come all this way in a bid to marry a stranger—only to be sorrowfully disillusioned. Not to mention embarrassed, unprepared, broke and indescribably hurt.

* * *

Simon hadn’t slept well. After rolling for hours, he was relieved when the sun finally came up and he could rise out of the damn bed. He tried not to think about her. She was the reason for his tossing and twisting last night.

He thought about his jewelry assignment. For the past few years as a detective, jewelry missions had become his specialty. Some detectives knew all about livestock, others the construction and valuation of houses, and for him, it was gems and gold. He’d had an early interest in the field since he was kid, bartering and selling watches and gold chains in train stations with other runaways. Some became pickpockets. He’d picked a few fine pockets himself, but it had always left him with too much guilt, so he’d stuck to lawful trade.

He shoved aside the covers and planted one hard foot on the soft rug. Naked, he stood up, walked to the windows and peered through the sliver of curtains to the street below. The cool air in the room ruffled the hairs on his torso. He assessed the hustle of the street vendors and listened to the clomp of horses as strangers went about their business.

He felt nothing.

Just as every other morning when he rose and wondered what town he was in, there was no stirring in his heart that he might belong here, that there might be someone important waiting for him and binding him to this place.

No one was waiting for him. No friends, no work colleagues, no woman, no wife.

He wondered how it could be possible to meet as many people as he did in his line of work as a detective, traversing the country on covert missions, yet still be unconnected to everything and everyone.

Except there’d been Clay and Eli. They’d been his close friends. And look where that had gotten them. Knowing Simon meant death and destruction. Don’t depend on Simon Garr as a friend. He’ll watch you get killed, then brush off his trousers and walk away.

He sighed.

Lately, it was hard to know who he was anymore and where he wanted to go from here.

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” he mumbled to himself. All this soul-searching because he’d met Natasha O’Sullivan? When it came to women, it had taken him years to get his life to this point where he liked it. No attachments, no responsibilities, no damn obligations, no one to live up to or to possibly disappoint when they truly got to know him.

He veered away from the window to dress.

The full-length mirror tacked to the armoire reflected his nakedness as he got into his trousers. He buttoned them, the muscles of his torso flexing in the coolness of the morning. He took out a neatly pressed white shirt, shoved his arms into it and repositioned his concealed weapons. Derringer behind his back, dagger to his ankle, shoulder holster across his chest.

Even a sauna last night in the Gent’s Spring Room and Sauna hadn’t been able to calm him. What the hell had he been thinking, kissing her like that?

Blazes. He was an idiot.

Did he want to sabotage his own assignment?

Sure, no one had told him a mail-order wife was on her way, but he’d dodged plenty of women before, hadn’t he?

She was no different from the dozens of others he’d come across in his years of travel, he tried to tell himself. Some women had thrown themselves at him, depending on who he was supposed to be while undercover. Posing as a rich and powerful man always seemed to make him the biggest magnet. Other women preferred him when he was impersonating a drifter, whom they thought needed love and attention. Once he pretended to be a schoolteacher, and that had uncovered a woman twenty years his senior who kept surfacing every time he was alone, putting her hands all over him and trying to woo him to her place for dinner.

He’d never taken pleasure or spent the night with any of the women in his line of duty, only the tougher ones he met in saloons, the ones he knew could handle his leaving and didn’t expect much in terms of settling down or his making false promises. There’d been some humor in the delicate situations he’d sometimes find himself in while undercover, but he’d never been truly distracted to the point of losing control.

He’d come awfully close with Natasha O’Sullivan last night.

Yes, she was different from all the rest, he admitted. What was it about her?

Something in her eyes. A glimmer of vulnerability.

He reached into his armoire and pulled out a black suede jacket that had fringes hanging from its sleeves. He tugged into it, donned his black hat and told himself that he knew exactly what he found attractive about her. Why he’d kissed the hell out of her last night.

Because he’d sensed the same thing in her that lately seemed to be engulfing him.

Loneliness.

That deep, throbbing ache in the pit of his soul that always came out late at night to whisper, Hello, I’m here again to keep you company.

He swore and pushed the ache from his heart. He’d been alone since he was eight years old. He was tough and impenetrable and didn’t need anyone. To hell with everyone who might think differently.

He wouldn’t get close enough to the O’Sullivan woman to kiss her again. In fact, he would try to physically avoid her so there was no opportunity for him to be drawn in. If he kept his cool and stayed his distance, he’d get the information he damn well needed to get from her—the location of the railroad’s stolen property—and be on his way to the next assignment.

It was simple. And simple plans always worked the best.

* * *

At the sound of the firm knock on her hotel-room door, Natasha’s pulse leaped. It rattled her composure. She reached to open the pine door and found Jarrod Ledbetter on the other side.

He was dressed more casually today, in a black suede coat and hat that might belong to a cowboy, but a crisp white shirt and tailored wool trousers that a businessman might wear. In the light of day, he seemed more alive and intimidating than ever. Good heavens, she thought, her mind racing with sensual thoughts of what it might be like to disrobe him of those fancy clothes.

“Good morning.” He gave her a charming smile that in no way alluded to any uncomfortable regrets he might have about the intimate kiss they’d shared last night. Her face, however, flushed with heat at the searing memory.

“Morning, Jarrod.”

His gaze sharpened over her plain calico dress. It had been a hand-me-down gift from one of her friends at the boardinghouse. It was a size smaller than she usually wore and therefore too snug in the bodice. However, she would take her shawl with her and drape it over her shoulders for modesty. She’d leave her hair loose, too, in the manner she’d noticed other younger women wearing last night at dinner.

“How did you sleep, Natasha?”

“As deep as an ogre. Utterly wiped-out. You?”

He shrugged. “I never seem to sleep well.”

“That’s a shame. Perhaps it’s because of all the traveling that you do. Have you ever tried camomile tea or—”

“That’s a lovely cameo,” he said, glancing at her throat.

She wondered if he’d purposely changed the subject. “Thank you.”

“Made of pink shell,” he said, “mounted on a black velvet ribbon. The scene depicts ‘Rebecca at the Well.’”

Her hand sprung to the nicely weighted oval above her cleavage. She was pleased he knew so much about jewelry and that she could share this love of the craft with him. “I thought the length of the ribbon nicely balanced the size of the cameo.”

“Very becoming. And cameo earrings to match.”

“Do you like them? They were originally mounted on posts. I converted them to fish hooks so they dangle, more in keeping with the length of the velvet ribbon.”

His penetrating eyes flashed. “Very simple, yet very elegant.”

The heated manner in which he said it made her feel as though he was appraising her, not her jewelry. Either way, she was flattered. His opinion meant a lot, since he was such a fine and experienced jeweler. He didn’t wear much jewelry himself, besides the handsome silver buckle on his belt that was engraved with his initials, J. L., and encrusted with studs. Most men did not wear a lot of jewelry, but she truly enjoyed seeing the occasional lapel pin or watch fob on a well-suited man.

“Ready to go?” he asked. “I thought we might take a stroll and have breakfast outside in one of the cafés. The food’s not fancy, but the sightseeing is grand.”

She was relieved to take the focus from herself and happy to explore the town.

She took her white shawl and exited the room. He tugged the door closed for her, and she turned to lock it with her key. Their fingers brushed accidentally. Her belly rippled with sensations, but he removed his hand so quickly from hers that she felt the space between them rather cold. When she turned around and placed the key in her beaded handbag, he was already standing several feet away.

Oh.

Such an abrupt parting.

He seemed more relaxed when they got outdoors. He smiled at her and motioned her to pass first along the crowded boardwalk and shops, all with the good manners of a schoolboy.

This man was no schoolboy.

She swallowed hard at the glint of metal in his eyes. There was something hardened in him, something she feared might be impenetrable.

Valentina from the boardinghouse popped into Natasha’s head, reminding her to ask about his mother.

“Jarrod, I—I was wondering if you might tell me more about your family. I realize your parents passed away when you were rather young. Six, right?”

He nodded, his expression remaining hard. “Barn fire.”

“I’m awfully sorry. Do you recall anything about your mother?”

He shook his head.

Nothing? Six was old enough to have some memories, wasn’t it? Valentina wouldn’t want Natasha to give up on the line of questioning. “How about your grandmother? What was she like?”

“A nice lady.” Jarrod ushered her through a crowd of people coming at them at the boardwalk, then changed the subject. “That’s an unusual clasp in your hair.”

The signs were not good. He wasn’t letting her into his world.

“Something my grandfather gave me,” Natasha answered sadly due to Jarrod’s refusal to confide in her. “My most valuable piece, actually.” The stones were modest in size, but beautifully set, and she recalled how delighted her granddad had been when he’d presented it to her. “It contains four precious stones, set in eighteen-karat gold from the new mines in California. The brooch means the world to me, not because of its monetary value but its meaning.”

“Of course. The gems are arranged in a secret code to spell out a message from your granddad to you.”

My, she thought as he continued to elaborate, Jarrod Ledbetter was very keen to notice details, wasn’t he? She tried to understand that it might take some time for him to open up about his family. His mother’s passing must’ve been tragic for him.

That’s all it is, Valentina.

Jarrod elaborated on the one topic he seemed quite pleased to pursue. “The first letter of each gemstone spells out the word DEAR. There’s a diamond, emerald, amethyst and ruby.”

“He was sentimental,” she explained. “An excellent goldsmith and gem setter. He made it himself.”

Many people from many different countries used gemstones to spell out words in their jewelry. It was a common practice, and if the message was written in a different language, extremely difficult to decipher.

“I once repaired a ring that I secretly deciphered,” she recalled. “It spelled out FOREVER. And a lapel pin that spelled APOLOGY.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Did you share the information with the owners?”

She shook her head. “That would have been indiscreet. They more than likely already knew the messages, and I was simply the hired help.”

“Ah, the ethics of jewelry repair. You must keep your eyes and ears closed to the secrets of others.”

He was teasing her. A rush of excitement coursed through her at the possibility of what the day might bring.

It was interesting to discuss jewelry with him. She had always been thrilled in learning and practicing what she’d learned with her grandfather. Intimate messages and meanings in jewelry were also represented with symbols, not only spelled out with words. Shamrocks were symbols of luck, for instance, and mistletoe represented a desire for a kiss.

Jarrod strode beside her. It seemed that he was being very careful to leave several inches between them as they walked. She could understand his desire to be a gentleman, but she wouldn’t be put off if he were a bit bolder. She might not be very experienced about what exactly would happen on the wedding night, but she did yearn for a display of affection, to be romanced.

The August sky was clear and sunny. The day was already warming, and the bustle of cattlemen and miners and shoppers enthralled her. There were so many different types of people here. Most were men, but occasional women passed by, too, dressed in various tastes ranging from simple country fashions to elegant coiffures and wealthy dresses.

Soldiers from nearby Fort Russell strode by, dressed in uniform and headed toward the livery stable across the street. A church sat nestled next to it, and a gambling hall next to that. What a mix of affluence and attitude.

Two men in shiny jackets and cravats mused at a jewelry-store window. She glanced at the gold chains that draped across their ruffled shirts, the diamond lapel pins, the silver-tipped watch fobs, the ruby cuff links and golden rings. She’d never seen any men wear so much jewelry.

“Heavens,” she whispered in surprise, trying to fathom who these flashy men were.

“Gamblers,” Jarrod whispered back.

“Ah.” She glanced at the jewelry-store window as they passed. George’s Fine Gold, the swinging sign above them read. When she turned the corner, she realized there was an entire row of jewelry shops on this street.

“Oh, my.” Such wealth.

Close by, near the Union Pacific Railroad Depot, where she’d arrived yesterday, tents were slapped up with makeshift bakeries, coffeehouses and cafés. There were market stalls of all sorts of merchandise being sold from coffeepots to snowshoes to hammers and mining equipment. One man specialized in ropes, and all sorts of these fibers, in various thicknesses and colors, dangled from the top of his awnings.

What interested her most were the jewelry stores ahead of her.

“How on earth do you compete, Jarrod, with all these shops?”

He had a ready answer. “My stores have been around longer than most and I’ve got established customers. I give them expertise in the field. Honesty and value in transactions. Half of these shops are nothing but fronts for dishonest thieves.”

She frowned in surprise and scrutinized the customers going in and out. Many were what seemed like hardworking folks dressed in everyday work clothes, some were travelers with luggage, others were more wealthy folks dressed in finer clothes. It was disappointing to know that some of them were being hustled and cheated.

“There’s a nice café around the corner, but if you’re appetite’s not burning yet, I thought we could investigate one of the larger shops.”

“I’d like that.” She was curious to see how the shops and the jewelry compared with Chicago’s.

“After you,” he said, flagging her into the wide storefront ahead. The sign read Wyoming Jewelry Exchange. “It’s the busiest exchange in the territory.”