Linda Lael Miller has made the Western frontier her own special place, and never more so than in this heartwarming new series that brings four women west to share an inheritance—2,500 acres of timber and high-country grassland called Primrose Creek.
In this wonderful new series, four cousins discover the dangers and the joys, the hardship and the beauty, of frontier life. And each, in her own way, finds a love that will last an eternity. Join with the McQuarry women in a special celebration of the love, courage, and family ties that made the West great.
Four special women. Four extraordinary stories.
THE WOMEN OF
PRIMROSE CREEK
BRIDGET
CHRISTY
SKYE
MEGAN
Praise for Linda Lael Miller’s bestselling series
SPRINGWATER SEASONS
“A DELIGHTFUL AND DELICIOUS MINISERIES… . Rachel will charm you, enchant you, delight you, and quite simply hook you… . Miranda is a sensual marriage-of-convenience tale guaranteed to warm your heart all the way down to your toes… . The warmth that spreads through Jessica is captivating… . The gentle beauty of the tales and the delightful, warmhearted characters bring a slice of Americana straight onto readers’ ‘keeper’ shelves. Linda Lael Miller’s miniseries is a gift to treasure.”
—Romantic Times
“This hopeful tale is … infused with the sensuality that Miller is known for.”
—Booklist
“All the books in this collection have the Linda Lael Miller touch.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Nobody brings the folksiness of the Old West to life better than Linda Lael Miller.”
—BookPage
“Another warm, tender story from the ever-so-talented pen of one of this genre’s all-time favorites.”
—Rendezvous
“Miller … create[s] a warm and cozy love story.”
—Publishers Weekly
Acclaim for Linda Lael Miller’s irresistible novels of love in the Wild West
SPRINGWATER
“Heartwarming… . Linda Lael Miller captures not only the ambiance of a small Western town, but the need for love, companionship, and kindness that is within all of us… . Springwater is what Americana romance is all about.”
—Romantic Times
“A heartwarming tale with adorable and endearing characters.”
—Rendezvous
A SPRINGWATER CHRISTMAS
“A tender and beautiful story… . Christmas is the perfect time of year to return to Springwater Station and the unforgettable characters we’ve come to know and love… . Linda Lael Miller has once more given us a gift of love.”
—Romantic Times
THE VOW
“The Wild West comes alive through the loving touch of Linda Lael Miller’s gifted words… . Breathtaking… . A romantic masterpiece. This one is a keeper you’ll want to take down and read again and again.”
—Rendezvous
“A beautiful tale of love lost and regained… . A magical Western romance … that would be a masterpiece in any era.”
—Amazon.com
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For all my loyal readers, with gratitude and love
Chapter
1
Primrose Creek, Nevada
June 1870
Dust billowed around the stagecoach as Megan McQuarry stepped down, grasping the skirts of her black-and-white striped silk dress in one hand. She’d been traveling for several endless, bone-jolting days, but she’d taken care with her appearance all along the way. She’d washed whenever the opportunity arose, which was seldom enough, and done her best to keep her auburn hair tidy and her hat firmly affixed, at just the proper angle. She was penniless, a miserable failure, with nothing but a trunk full of missed cues and frayed dreams to show for two years on her own, but she still had the formidable McQuarry pride.
She had returned to Primrose Creek in defeat, there was no denying that, but not without a certain bittersweet sense of homecoming. Coming back meant seeing her sister Christy again, after all, and her two cousins, Bridget and Skye. They’d had the good sense to stay put, Christy and the others, and now they had homes, husbands, children. Their lives were busy and full, bright with color and passion; she knew that from the letters Skye had written while she was away, always pleading with her to return to Primrose Creek.
She sighed and squared her aching shoulders, bracing herself for what lay ahead. Her kin would welcome her, she knew; they’d enfold her in laughter and love, include her in their doings, defend her fiercely against the inevitable snubs and gossip her return would arouse. But they would be angry, too, and confused, for she had left suddenly, leaving behind only a brief note of explanation.
She shaded her eyes as she looked up at the coach driver, who was unstrapping her secondhand trunk and getting ready to toss it down at her feet. She hoped he wouldn’t expect any sort of recompense, because she’d used the last of her funds the day before, to purchase a bowl of stew at a way station. She hadn’t eaten since.
“Be careful with that, please,” she said, indicating the trunk. It’s all I have. And it was. She’d long since sold her share of the prime timber-and grassland left to the four McQuarry women to some rancher, through a banker and a lawyer, and now she would be the poor relation, beholden for every bite of bread and bolt of calico she got until the day she went to her final rest. If only that were the worst of it, she thought.
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver answered, and let the trunk fall with an unceremonious clunk onto the wooden sidewalk, raising grit from between the boards. Megan would have taken off some of the fellow’s hide if she hadn’t been so weary, so hungry, and so utterly disconsolate.
She was just reaching for the trunk’s battered handle, meaning to drag the monstrosity across the road to her brother-in-law’s office—Zachary Shaw was the town marshal—when a large leather-gloved hand eased her own aside. She looked up, expecting to see Zachary, or perhaps Trace Qualtrough, Bridget’s husband, or Jake Vigil, who had married Skye around the time of Megan’s flight. Instead, she found herself gazing into a stranger’s face; a man with tanned skin, wheat-colored hair, and periwinkle-blue eyes grinned down at her. His teeth were sturdy and white as a new snowfall gleaming under morning sunlight.
He tugged at the brim of his weathered leather hat. “You planning to stay on here at Primrose Creek, ma’am? I do hope you aren’t just passing through—that would be a sore disappointment.”
Megan was used to sweet-talking men, God knew, and good-looking ones, too, but there was something about this one that caused her breath to catch as surely as if she’d just tumbled headfirst into an ice-cold mountain stream. All her senses, dulled by trouble and the long trip from San Francisco, leaped instantly to life, and she knew by looking into the man’s eyes that he’d taken note of her reactions to him, and been pleased.
She was furious, with him and with herself. If there was one thing she didn’t need, it was a man, however intriguing and fair to look upon that man might happen to be. “Thank you,” she said stiffly, “but I’m sure my brother-in-law will collect my baggage—”
The stranger looked around pointedly. “I don’t see anybody headed this way,” he observed in a cheerful tone of voice. “I’m Webb Stratton, just in case you’re worried that we haven’t had a proper introduction.”
The name slammed into Megan’s middle like a barrel rolling downhill. Sh
e waited to regain her equilibrium, then put out a slightly tremulous hand. “Megan McQuarry,” she said, by reflex. It was nearly too much to bear, that this man of all people should be the first person she encountered upon her homecoming. She had to admit there was a certain ironic justice in it, though.
His grin broadened in apparent recognition, and he pumped her hand, failing to notice, it would seem, that all the blood had drained from her face and she was unsteady on her feet. Mr. Stratton had bought her land, the land she should never, ever have sold. She cringed to think what Granddaddy would have said about such a betrayal.
“Well, now, Miss McQuarry,” said Mr. Stratton, still at ease and still gripping her hand. Megan felt a grudging gratitude, for between her empty stomach and her many regrets, she wasn’t entirely sure she could stand on her own. “I know your family. They’re neighbors of mine.”
A flush climbed Megan’s cheeks. Skye, always her closest friend as well as her beloved cousin, was likely to be understanding where Megan’s many mistakes were concerned, but Bridget and Christy would have an opinion or two when it came to the sale of the land. Especially when they found out how she’d been hoodwinked by a no-good man. She opened her mouth, closed it again.
“My wagon’s right over there,” Mr. Stratton said, nodding to indicate the end of the street. Only then did he release her hand, and she marveled that she hadn’t pulled away long since. “I’d be happy to drive you and your baggage out to Primrose Creek.”
She was not the sort of woman who accepted favors from men she had never met before, but Mr. Stratton wasn’t exactly a stranger, and Primrose Creek certainly wasn’t San Francisco. “Very well,” she said. “Thank you.”
She had time to consider the rashness of her decision while Mr. Stratton went to fetch the wagon. It was drawn by two well-bred paint geldings, Megan noted as she watched him approach; as did everyone else in her family, she appreciated fine horseflesh.
Stratton jumped easily to the ground, after setting the brake lever with a thrust of one leg, and Megan’s attention shifted back to him, taking in his tall frame, broad shoulders, and cattleman’s garb of denim trousers, chambray shirt, and buckskin vest. His hat was as worn as his boots, and, unlike most of the men Megan knew, he did not carry a gun.
Megan straightened her spine and studiously ignored the curious looks coming at her from all directions. She could almost hear the speculations—Isn’t that the McQuarry girl? The one who ran away to become an actress? She has her share of brass, doesn’t she, coming back here, expecting to live among decent people, just as if nothing had happened …
The sound of her trunk landing in the rear of Mr. Stratton’s wagon brought her back to the present moment with a snap. He tugged his hat brim in a cordial greeting to two plump matrons passing by on the sidewalk. “Last I heard,” he remarked, “it was considered impolite to stare.” Caught, the women puffed their bosoms like prairie hens and trundled away. She could almost see their feathers bristling.
Megan couldn’t help smiling with amusement, as tired and discouraged as she was. Webb—Webb?—was grinning again as he handed her up into the wagon box. He rounded the buckboard, climbed up beside her, took the reins in his hands, and released the brake lever. The rig lurched forward.
“Seems you’re the topic of some serious speculation,” he observed dryly as they reached the end of the street and left the busy little town behind for the timbered countryside.
Megan heaved a soft sigh. Her smile had already slipped away, and her hands were knotted in her lap, fingers tangled in the strings of her empty handbag. “Surely you’ve realized, Mr. Stratton—”
“Webb,” he interrupted kindly.
“Webb,” Megan conceded, with some impatience. She started again. “Surely you’ve realized that the land you bought last year was mine.”
He regarded the road thoughtfully, though Megan suspected he could have made the journey over that track in a sound sleep. “Well,” he allowed, after some time, “yes. I reckon I figured that out right away.” He glanced at her, sidelong, and a sweet shiver went through her. “Does it matter?”
She sat up even straighter and raised her chin. “I did not like parting with my property,” she said stiffly. “Circumstances demanded that I do so.” That wasn’t his fault, of course, but knowing it didn’t change the way she felt. “Perhaps we could work out terms of some sort, and I could buy it back.”
Again, he took the time to consider her words. It annoyed her; he was well aware that she was in suspense—she could see that in his eyes—but apparently he didn’t mind letting her squirm awhile. “Couldn’t do that,” he said finally. “I built myself a house there. A good barn and corral, too.”
Megan bit her upper lip and willed the hot tears stinging behind her eyes to recede. It was going to kill her to see someone else living on her share of Granddaddy’s bequest, but she had no one to thank but herself. She’d been so gullible, believing Davy Trent’s pretty promises the way she had, and she was more ashamed of her brief association with that thieving polecat than anything she’d ever done. She learned some valuable lessons, but they’d come at a high price.
McQuarry that she was, the land as much a part of her as her pulse and the marrow of her bones, she had nonetheless made the sale, handed over the profits so that she and Davy could buy a small ranch near Stockton and be married. Instead, he’d swindled her, left her alone and humiliated, with barely a penny to her name.
“They expecting you? Your people, I mean?” Webb’s voice was gentle and quiet, and the teasing light that had been lurking in his eyes was gone.
She swallowed hard, shook her head. “It’ll be a surprise, I think,” she said. “My showing up now, I mean.”
He took off his hat, replaced it again. The gesture reminded Megan of her granddaddy, Gideon McQuarry. He’d had the same habit; it was a sign that he was thinking. “They’ll be glad to see you, you know,” Webb ventured.
Megan bit her lip for a moment, in order to recover a little. “They’ll take me in,” she said, very softly. It didn’t seem necessary to point out that taking somebody in was a world away from welcoming them. Forgiving them.
“You were an actress,” he said, with no inflection at all.
She sat up a little straighter, shot him a fiery glance. “Yes.”
“What sort of roles did you play?”
She was taken aback by the question. There was no mockery in his tone or manner, and nothing to indicate that he considered her loose by virtue of her profession, as many men did. “Shakespearean, mostly,” she allowed. “Ophelia. Kate in The Taming of the Shrew.”
He chuckled. “I don’t see you as Ophelia. Just by looking at you, I’d say you weren’t the type to lose your mind over a man. Any man. Now, the part of Kate, on the other hand—I can imagine that right enough.”
Megan was amazed, not so much by his statements—frank to the point of being downright forward though they were—as by his knowledge of the Bard’s plays. In her experience, most cowboys found them incomprehensible, if they paid any notice at all. Somewhat haltingly, she told him how she’d favored the role of Ophelia, simply because of the challenge it represented, being so at variance with her own nature. She even admitted that she would miss the stage.
Webb listened and nodded once or twice, but he offered no further comment. Shortly thereafter, the rooftop of Christy and Zachary’s house came into view. Once an abandoned Indian lodge, with leaky animal hides for a roof, it had been renovated into one of the finest places around, and it was a very happy place, according to Skye’s newsy letters. Joseph, Megan’s nephew, was two already, and his baby sister, Margaret, was approaching her first birthday.
Megan yearned to lay eyes on those children, to feel Christy’s arms around her, to be a part of the clan once again. She wished she’d never left home in the first place, of course, but hindsight was always clear as creek water. Besides, she’d learned a great deal during her brief career, learned to project confi
dence even when she was terrified. And God knew, she’d learned something about men—specifically Davy Trent.
Christy came out into the dooryard, hearing the noise of the wagon, shading her eyes from the late-morning sunshine. Caney—dear Caney—was soon beside her, gazing their way, but Megan could tell nothing of her mood from her countenance. Caney Blue, a black woman, had worked for Gideon and Rebecca McQuarry for many years. When the farm in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley was sold for taxes after the war, and Megan and Christy, fresh from England, had set out to claim their one-quarter shares of a twenty-five hundred-acre tract known as Primrose Creek, Caney had come along.
Christy’s face kindled with joy as she recognized her sister. She clapped one hand over her mouth, caught up her skirts with the other, and ran toward the wagon, limber as a girl. “Megan!” she cried.
Megan was down from the wagon box and flinging herself into Christy’s arms within the space of a heartbeat. They clung to each other, the pair of sisters, laughing and crying, while Caney stood back, smiling. Webb Stratton unloaded the trunk without a word and carried it into the house.
“Look at you!” Christy cried, beaming, as she gripped Megan’s upper arms in both hands and held her away. “You’re beautiful!”
Megan didn’t feel beautiful, she felt broken and soiled, used and discarded, and her throat was clogged with emotion. She couldn’t speak but merely hugged Christy again, hard.
Webb came out of the house again, climbed back into his buckboard.
“Thank you,” Christy told him, as warmly as if he’d gone out and searched the world for Megan and then brought her back to Primrose Creek like a prodigal daughter. “Oh, thank you.”
He merely nodded, touched Megan lightly with that wildflower-blue gaze of his, and set the team in motion again, the buckboard jostling along the high grassy bank overlooking the sparkling creek.
“Where on earth have you been?” Christy demanded good-naturedly, linking her arm with Megan’s and steering her toward the house. In the doorway, a little boy with bright blond hair looked on, a tiny dark-haired girl at his side.
Megan Page 1