by Ana Seymour
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Books by Ana Seymour
About the Author
Dedication
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
Copyright
“I was hoping to get another dance with you,” Parker said.
Molly gave a happy laugh. “All you had to do was ask.”
He pulled her to a stop, then pointed above her head. “I’m asking,” he said, his voice suddenly thick.
She looked up to catch a brief glimpse of mistletoe, just before his lips came down on hers.
Parker had meant the gesture to be friendly, but before he had reached her mouth he knew that it was going to be more than that. He kissed her once, before releasing her as if he’d been burned. Molly stood watching him for a long moment.
He put his arm back around her waist. “I… ah…could try it again.”
She stepped backward and shook her head. “No. Then I’d have to fire you.”
“So if I kiss you again, I lose my job? Hmm.” The decision took him about three seconds before he snatched her against him again….
Dear Reader,
Ana Seymour’s seventh book for Harlequin Historicals, Lucky Bride, is a sequel to Gabriel’s Lady. When ranch hand Parker Prescott discovers that his boss might be forced to marry a dangerous con man, he sets out to save her… only to fall in love with her in the process in this delightful Western set in Wyoming Territory.
Romance Writers of America RITA Award nominee Gayle Wilson is back with Raven’s Vow, a haunting Regency novel about a marriage of convenience between an American investor and an English heiress. Elizabeth Mayne, another March Madness/RTTA Award nominee author, is also out this month. Lord of the Isle is a classic Elizabethan tale featuring an Irish nobleman who unwittingly falls in love with a rebel from an outlawed family.
Our fourth title for the month, The Return of Chase Cordell, is a Western from Linda Castle, who is fast becoming one of our most popular authors. It’s a poignant love story about a war hero with amnesia who rediscovers a forgotten passion for his young bride.
Whatever your taste in reading, we hope you’ll enjoy all four of these terrific stories. Please keep an eye out for them wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.
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
Lucky Bride
Ana Seymour
Books by Ana Seymour
Harlequin Historicals
The Bandit’s Bride #116
Angel of the Lake #173
Brides for Sale #238
Moonrise #290
Frontier Bride #318
Gabriel’s Lady #337
Lucky Bride #350
ANA SEYMOUR
has been a Western fan since her childhood—the days of the shoot-’em-up movie matinees and television programs. She has followed the course of the Western myth in books and films ever since, and says she was delighted when cowboys started going off into the sunset with their ladies rather than their horses. Ms. Seymour lives with her two daughters near one of Minnesota’s ten thousand lakes.
In memory of my grandmother Jane Lovene Eiler my ever-present example of a woman of spirit
Chapter One
Wyoming Territory
November, 1876
Parker Prescott pushed back the brim of his lucky Stetson and grimaced as he surveyed the dusty street. Whoever had named this place Canyon City must have had a darn good sense of humor. This sure as hell wasn’t Parker’s idea of a city. And the closest thing he’d seen to a canyon in the brown plains he’d just crossed was the collapsed prairie dog hole that had lamed up his horse.
He sighed. It appeared the livery was at the far end of town, past a row of three saloons, a bathhouse and a tonsorial parlor. He took a step back and gave his mount a pat. “Just a little farther, Diamond,” he told the animal. “Then you can give that leg a nice long rest.”
Parker had walked the last few miles into town, and the thought of that bathhouse was appealing. He’d see to Diamond, then head back and try to soak away his aches and his gloomy mood in a steaming tub. The aches would disappear faster than the gloom, he reckoned.
Diamond seemed to sense that her limping journey was about over. She tossed her head and followed willingly as Parker started up the street. His horse’s mishap was the last in a string of plain bad luck that had set Parker to wondering why he’d ever left New York City in the first place.
He’d headed out of Deadwood in Dakota Territory in October and had intended by now to be clear to the West Coast, trying his luck in the dying gold fields of California. But he’d been hit by an early fall snowstorm and had had to hole up in a cave until his supplies were gone, forcing him to double back to Lead to restock. When he’d finally gotten out of the Black Hills and hit the vast, rolling plains, he’d lost the trail, wandering like an idiot for days. He’d never be a mountain man, he’d decided ruefully. There’d been no need to learn to steer by the stars in the busy streets of Manhattan.
And now Diamond had come up lame, forcing Parker to abandon the idea of making it across the mountains before winter. But he wasn’t about to get stuck for the season in Canyon City. There had to be someplace in Wyoming Territory where a man could find some of life’s amenities—a thick steak and a pretty girl would do to start.
He passed the third saloon, taking a step away from the wooden sidewalk as a cowboy out front spewed a poorly aimed wad of tobacco in his direction. Perhaps he could make it to Cheyenne for the winter, Parker mused. Surely the territorial capital would offer some…
His head spun around. As if conjured up by his thoughts, directly across the street from him stood the two prettiest females he’d seen since his last stroll down Park Avenue.
Diamond gave a slight whinny of protest as her owner tugged on her reins. Parker hesitated a moment. Diamond needed attending to, but by the time he made it to the livery and back, the two visions across the street might have disappeared. He reached over to tie the horse to the saloon hitching post, then gave a halfhearted swipe to the dusty front of his clothes. His appearance couldn’t be helped. He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. If the ladies had any sense, they’d be able to see through the dirt to the sterling qualities of the man underneath.
He strode across the street and planted himself in front of the two women, scooping his hat off his head and giving a little bow. “Morning, ladies,” he said politely. Their pastel dresses were as fresh and pretty and sedate as an Easter church service. The two were obviously not the kind of women who sold themselves in the upstairs rooms of saloons. Too bad. Parker wasn’t much interested in decent women these days. But it still would be a pleasure to hear a feminine voice.
“Excuse my taking the liberty of addressing you two ladies without an introduction.” He flashed the easy smile that never failed to charm and tried to keep from staring at two sets of golden lashes fluttering over two sets of enormous blue eyes.
&n
bsp; “The name is Parker Prescott, at your service,” he continued with another slight bow. “I’m new in town, and I wondered if I might prevail on you ladies to help a weary traveler with a bit of information.” He made his speech New York-formal and his manner as elegant as if he were wearing cutaways at the opera instead of buckskins in the middle of a godforsaken cow town.
His efforts appeared to have some effect. The taller of the two gave him a shy, dimpled smile and said, “What kind of information, sir?”
This time Parker’s grin was genuine. The girl’s smile was the loveliest thing he’d seen in a month of Sundays. And her voice would stand out in an angel chorus. After a fascinated moment he managed to say, “I’ve had an accident with my horse and am in sore need of a hearty meal and a good hotel.”
“There’s just the one place for both,” the girl answered, pointing to a faded yellow clapboard building behind her. A sign over the double doorway said Grand Hotel.
Parker’s smile dimmed, but he recovered and continued. “Perhaps you ladies would join me for a meal? I’ve had a long, lonely trip, and I’d surely appreciate a bit of company.”
The girl who had answered him looked at her companion. They had to be sisters. Their delicate features were nearly identical, noses tilting upward and cheeks pink with a natural blush. The shorter one spoke for the first time. “Don’t even think of it, Susannah. You know nothing about this man.”
Susannah tossed her head, sending her blond curls bouncing under the silk-ruched bonnet. “If we have to sit around all afternoon waiting for Molly we might as well be comfortable in the café with a nice cup of tea.”
“She’s right, you know,” Parker said, addressing the shorter sister with a serious expression. “You shouldn’t be out here on the street waiting for your companion. It would be much better to wait inside enjoying a nice piece of apple pie.”
The girl’s face brightened a bit at this suggestion, but she still looked skeptical. “Molly would throw a fit,” she said slowly to the girl she had called Susannah.
“Oh, pooh. She’s not our mother, you know, for all she tries to act like one.”
“You ladies are sisters?” Parker asked.
Susannah nodded and held out a gloved hand. “Susannah and Mary Beth Hanks. Molly’s our older sister. She’s over at the Feed ‘n’ Seed.”
Parker took the offered hand and held it in both of his. For a moment he lost track of his thoughts in the depths of Susannah Hanks’s blue eyes. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Hanks,” he said finally. Lord almighty, it had been entirely too long since he’d been around decent women. He felt as tongue-tied as a schoolboy at his first afternoon social. Where was that glib Eastern patter that had set all the ladies back in Deadwood to sighing? Of course, the ladies of Deadwood hadn’t exactly been ladies.
He dropped Susannah’s hand and turned to her sister. “And yours, Miss Hanks. I can hardly believe my good fortune at meeting two such lovely examples of Wyoming aristocracy.”
Mary Beth gave a little giggle and slowly offered her hand. “I reckon that’s the first time the Hanks sisters have been called aristocracy,” she said.
Parker took the girl’s hand. It was plumper, smaller than her sister’s. He lifted it toward his lips. “It isn’t hard to recognize—” he began, then froze as he felt the cold pressure of a gun barrel against the back of his neck.
“Take your hands and your eyes off my sisters or I’ll blow that fancy-talking tongue clear out of your head.”
The voice behind him held nothing of the melodious grace of her sisters. Parker held one hand in the air and with the other carefully reached behind his head to grasp the end of the gun and move it away. “I assure you, Miss Hanks,” he said smoothly, “I mean no disrespect to your sisters or to you.”
He turned around and tried to keep his astonishment from showing in his expression. The woman he faced was as unlike the two pastel confections behind him as a rattler from a pair of buttercups. She stood like a man with her feet planted apart, a mean-looking buffalo rifle cradled easily in her arms. At least it was no longer pointed at him. She wore denim pants that hung on her like a half-empty flour sack and a bulky buckskin jacket, also several sizes too big. An oversize man’s felt hat was pulled down over her hair, but he could see from the wisps that escaped along each side that, unlike her sisters’ blond tresses, her hair was a nondescript brown. Her cheeks were chapped and roughened by the wind.
“You can be on your way,” she said, swinging the rifle barrel in the direction of his horse. “We’re not interested in talking with any traveling sidewinders.”
He felt a surge of irritation, but hid it behind a smile. “My own sister has called me worse things at times, Miss Hanks, but she never really meant them. She has a right feisty temper when she gets riled. I believe it was my homesickness for her that emboldened me to address your lovely sisters.”
Molly Hanks’s expression did not soften. “There’s a telegraph at the end of the street. Why don’t you go send your sister a wire and leave mine alone?”
Parker turned back toward Susannah and Mary Beth, but they were both staring down at the ground. “I didn’t mean any harm, ladies,” he said.
Susannah looked up quickly, and he thought he detected a hint of apology in her eyes before she shifted them downward again.
“I just might take your advice, Miss Hanks,” he said softly, turning back to the oldest sister. With a last glance at her rifle, he clapped his hat on his head and headed across the street toward Diamond.
His delight at the unexpected encounter with the two lovely sisters had faded, and a wave of homesickness hit him. Perhaps he would send Amelia a telegram, let her know where he was. She and her new husband, Gabe Hatch, would be back in New York City now, with Gabe taking over the family banking position that Parker had so detested. He grinned as he thought about his former mining partner turning on the charm for all the reformer friends of Parker and Amelia’s mother. He wondered if the true story would be revealed—that his bluestocking sister had gone to Deadwood to save Parker from the evils of the Wild West…and had instead fallen head over petticoats for a wickedly handsome professional gambler.
He found the telegraph office and sent his message, then went back out into the street with a lump the size of a potato in his throat. All of a sudden, winter was looking mighty long.
As he stepped off the sidewalk, the three Hanks sisters exited from a doorway across the street. All three turned their heads his way. He gave a little bow and tipped his hat, but as the two younger sisters started to smile at him again, the oldest grabbed each by an arm and tugged them in the opposite direction.
“He was being a regular gentleman, Molly,” he heard the tall, pretty one say in a loud, angry whisper.
Molly didn’t bother to lower her voice. “There’s no such thing as a gentleman, Susannah. Leastwise, not in Wyoming Territory.” She uncocked her rifle and passed it to her left hand. “I’m finished here. Let’s get home.”
She turned and marched up the street toward a wagon parked out in front of the feed store. Susannah looked across to where Parker stood with Diamond, watching them. She gave him a furtive wave, to which he tipped his hat and winked. Mary Beth nervously grabbed her sister’s arm. “C’mon, Susannah. Molly says we have to go.”
Parker watched them leave with a sigh of regret. He’d best put the beautiful Hanks sisters out of his mind. If their older sister was such a tigress, he’d hate to imagine what their father or brothers would do to guard their virtue.
Parker eased his shoulders into the steaming, soapy water. It felt even better than he had anticipated. He hadn’t had bathwater this hot since he’d headed west. Perhaps Canyon City would do for the winter after all. The Grand Hotel, despite its unimpressive exterior, had yielded a prime sirloin the size of a serving platter. The liveryman who was tending to Diamond appeared to be a proper expert in horseflesh. And then, of course, there were those intriguing Hanks sisters.
>
He’d promised himself to put them out of his head, but the rest of his body kept bringing up the subject. If he could just get the two younger ones alone, preferably the taller one, Susannah… He closed his eyes and pictured them, standing there in the dusty street. Her eyes had been the color of his mother’s prize china. Cornflower blue, it was called.
“I ain’t about to fish you outta there if you fall asleep, sonny.”
Parker jumped at the strident voice. He sat up with a slosh. A large woman had come in at the far end of the room carrying a load of towels. She was as tall as Parker and twice as wide. Parker looked down at the water in consternation. The last of the bubbles had gone over the side of the tub when he sat up, leaving him fully exposed to view.
“Don’t worry,” the woman said, following the direction of his gaze. “You ain’t got nothing in there I ain’t seen before.” She lowered the towels and craned her neck to peer at the water. “Though it don’t look too bad for a pilgrim like you.”
Parker felt his skin grow hotter than the temperature of the water. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, ma’am,” he said, masking his discomfiture.
“Maxine McClanahan,” she said, her voice booming. “Most folks just call me Max. I thought you’d need a towel.”
“Much obliged.” His embarrassment faded at the woman’s brisk manner. He met her steady gaze. Her hair was shot through with gray, but she was definitely not the grandmotherly type. She had a nononsense air about her. Max. It suited her.