“No,” he ground out, raising a hand. “It’s not that. It’s not you, Josie. It’s my back.”
She clutched the robe closed over her breasts. “What’s wrong with your back?”
“Muscle cramps. I thought it would get better, but it hasn’t.” He gave that crooked smile. “And if seeing you naked doesn’t do the trick, nothing will.”
Relieved that she hadn’t ruined everything, she quickly belted the robe, tossed the quilt on the bed, and went to him. “Let me see.” She gently eased the jacket from his wide shoulders.
Something clinked against the table. Curious, she reached into the jacket pocket and pulled out a dark bottle. Liniment. Setting it aside, she helped him pull off his shirt. “Shall I put the liniment on you here at the table, or would you rather lie down?”
“It’ll stink up the whole room.”
“I’ll open the porthole.”
“You don’t have to do this, Josie.”
“Oh? And how will you apply it to your back? Pour a puddle on the floor and roll around in it? Sit.”
“I . . . don’t think I can.”
“Then brace yourself.” She filled her cupped palm with the evil-smelling liquid and clapped it to his back.
He sucked in air. “That’s cold.”
“Stand still.” Eyes watering from the fumes, she quickly smeared oily liniment over his back, recapped the bottle, then set it in a safe nook so it wouldn’t roll off and break. “Now turn around.”
When he did, she unbuckled his belt, striving to be as matter-of-fact about his body as he was with hers.
“It’s my back that hurts. Not my front.”
“And yet, look how swollen you are,” she quipped nervously as she slipped his drawers over his . . . parts . . . and down his hips. “Perhaps I’ll find a way to ease that, too.”
“Not with hands covered in liniment, I hope.”
“No, not with my hands.”
Mercy. Had she truly said that?
Perspiration damped her brow. In fact, she felt damp everywhere, and entirely too warm. She quickly opened the porthole, then trying not to stare at the tall, strapping, completely naked body of her husband, she ushered him to the bed and told him to stretch out on his stomach.
Nudity always made her feel vaguely ashamed. Not so, Rafe. Her watchful presence seemed not to bother him a whit as he climbed into bed, adjusted himself, then settled facedown on the pillow.
More muscles, lean hips, rounded buttocks . . . oh, my.
Hiking the hem of her robe, she climbed on top of him, her bare bottom straddling his bare thighs. It felt odd and immodest and delicious. “Am I hurting you?” she asked, settling her full weight on him.
“You’re killing me,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Let me turn over and I’ll show you.”
“Later.” She began to work his back, massaging the liniment into knotted muscles, using long strokes, then gentle circles with the heels of her hands. She tried to remember all she had seen him do when he’d massaged Pems. Instead, she thought of those strong hands moving across her own body.
“Am I doing it right?”
His answer was a deep sigh, and a mumbled “Don’t stop.”
As she kneaded and stroked, she marveled at the strength and masculine grace in the body beneath her hands. Long, firm muscles spreading out from the dip of his spine. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Skin tinted a golden brown by the sun . . . except for those lovely, firm buttocks. Sculpted marble, heated from within. The only things that marred his perfection were the three bullet scars.
Her hands began to ache, but she kept at it until she heard a faint snore. Careful not to wake him, she climbed off and rinsed her hands in the bucket of water hanging from a hook. After opening the porthole wider to draw out the lingering stench of the liniment, she blew out the lamp on the table then took off her robe. Moving quietly, she climbed in beside him and pulled the quilt over their naked bodies.
Not a memorable wedding night. But she felt closer to him than she’d ever felt before. He had let her see his pain, and then allowed her to help him. There was trust in that. And what could be more compelling to a woman than to be needed by a strong, capable man? His vulnerability touched her in a way nothing ever had. She felt truly married now. Needed. Loved. A partner.
Cuddled against his side and lulled by the distant throb of the steam engines belowdecks and the gentle sway of the ship, she drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
• • •
Rafe awoke to an acrid stench and the sensation of movement. He tried to roll onto his back, couldn’t, and twisted to see a warm body pinning him to the mattress with an arm over his shoulders, and a leg twined with his. Josie.
He blinked in drowsy befuddlement. The stench was liniment—the motion was because they were on a moving ship—and the spasms in his back had dwindled to a dull ache. By the faint dawn light showing through the porthole, he could see they were both nude.
Excellent.
Gently extracting the arm trapped between them, he rolled onto his side facing her, and ran his hand down her bare back. Her skin was as smooth and warm as a new colt’s belly—but without the hair.
When she didn’t respond, he stroked her again.
On the fourth stroke, she sighed and rolled onto her back.
He happily set to work on her breasts, trailing his fingertips over the soft mounds, tracing the rounded contours in decreasing circles until he reached the puckered tips. He gently tugged.
She sighed again.
Rafe watched her come awake under his touch. She was so beautiful. So responsive and trusting. He prayed she harbored no regrets, or second thoughts, or doubts about the dramatic change he had asked her to make in her life. He was determined to make this work, and would gladly spend the rest of his years making it up to her for all that she had left behind.
Leaning down, he drew his tongue over her nipple.
Back arching, she stretched, arms over her head. Then she relaxed and opened her eyes. “You’re awake.”
“I am.” He nibbled his way to the other breast.
“How’s your back?” Her voice was husky with sleep. Unbelievably arousing.
“Better.” He continued to caress her, learning again what made her shiver and sigh. When he thought she was ready, he said, “Roll toward me.”
She did, lying half across his chest. “Like this?”
“Exactly like that. Now put your leg over my waist.”
“I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” When she complied, he pulled her the rest of the way on top of him. “I’ll let you do all the work.”
Seeing her puzzled look, he told her to sit up, then positioned her knees forward against his sides so that she straddled him. “How’s this?”
Understanding dawned. She watched him, her beautiful eyes growing dark with passion as he reached down to stroke her. Soon she was squirming against him, until finally she reached between their bodies to position him, then slowly took him inside.
Her lips parted. Her eyes fluttered closed.
“Now ride me,” he ordered.
It was better than he had imagined . . . Josie rising above him, head thrown back in abandon, her beautiful body gilded with dawn light and open to his touch.
He didn’t question how he had won this remarkable woman. He simply embraced the gift that she was, and vowed in his heart to love and cherish and protect her for all of his life.
Epilogue
DECEMBER 1871, NEAR PUEBLO, COLORADO
She should have been prepared.
She had seen paintings in London galleries, tintypes in books, even several of Maddie Wallace’s artful photographs. In addition, Rafe had spoken at length about the sheer scope of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains.
But after over a mont
h of flat prairies and bison-dotted grasslands, and two entire days of watching a distant jagged silhouette that never seemed to grow closer, Josephine’s anticipation had begun to wane.
Then just as they neared the town of Pueblo, when she had almost convinced herself that the lofty descriptions of the majestic Rockies were simply another American exaggeration, suddenly there they were, rising like a wall before them.
The closer they grew, the more inspiring they became. Giant, towering peaks. Stately firs, limbs bowed under a burden of snow. Ice-crusted boulders rising out of white-water brooks—which Rafe called “cricks.” She saw sheep poised on sheer rocky outcroppings—“bighorn”—herds of enormous deer grazing in wooded meadows—“elk”—and once, foraging in the brush alongside the tracks, a huge late-hibernating bear—a “griz”—that would have outweighed a horse and stretched almost ten feet into the air when it rose on hind legs to glare at the train rolling by.
The Highlands were impressive. The Rockies were frightening. Definitely a world away from the manicured estates and carefully tended fields of home.
“How much longer?” Jamie asked for at least the hundredth time over the last few hours.
“Around the next bend we start into Heartbreak Creek Canyon.”
“Why is it called Heartbreak Creek?” Henny asked, sitting beside Jamie on the couch opposite Rafe’s and Josephine’s in their private compartment. With Gordon remaining in the drovers’ car to oversee the unloading of the horses when they arrived at Heartbreak Creek, she had joined them for this last leg of their journey. Josephine was grateful for the moral support.
“Probably because of the water. Or maybe a disgruntled miner gave the place the name. This used to be silver country, but the mines are mostly played out now.”
“What’s wrong with the water?” Josephine wondered what other surprises awaited them. Like snow. There seemed to be a great deal of it, even for December. How soon before it began to melt and this dreadful cold abated.
“Nothing’s wrong with it now,” Rafe explained. “Thanks to the Rylanders and the sluice they commissioned, we have all the sweet water we need.”
We. Even though Rafe had spent only a short while in Heartbreak Creek before traveling to England, he already thought of it as home. So she would, too. These people were all part of what Maddie called her “Heartbreak Creek family,” and Josephine was determined they would be her family, as well.
Assuming they accepted her as readily as the earl and countess had—or Maddie and Ash, as the Kirkwells preferred to be called when in America. It was all rather confusing.
The locomotive ahead gave a long whistle blast, followed by several shorter blasts. The train began to slow.
Her heart beat faster.
“There’s the church.” Rafe pointed to a distant small, steepled structure situated in a broad open stretch blanketed with snow. Through the glare of sunlight bouncing off all that white, Josephine saw people coming out of the open church doors and walking in the same direction the train was headed.
“Looks like we’ll arrive in time for Sunday dinner,” Rafe said. “Let’s hope it’s not at the Brodies’ this week. His wife’s not much of a cook.”
Josephine looked at him in alarm. The wives did the cooking?
Maddie had told her about the Sunday dinners—rowdy family gatherings that rotated each week between the different households. She had assumed they all had cooks. If not, she was in dire trouble.
Henny must have seen her panic. Struggling against a smile, she mouthed, I’ll teach you.
Mollified, but still hoping for a reprieve, Josephine gave a deep sigh. “I suppose with the horses to unload, we’ll miss the family dinner today.”
Rafe laughed. “You won’t get off that easy, sweetheart. Since the Rylanders own this branch line and have connections with several of the main lines, I’m sure they’ve been tracking us for the last thousand miles. In addition to the men coming to help with the horses, I know the women are chomping at the bit to welcome the newest Heartbreak Creek bride. They’ll wait for us.”
Josephine smiled weakly. “Well, that’s a relief.”
He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. “Relax, Josie. I know you dislike the attention, but they want to meet you and I’m raring to show off my beautiful wife and handsome son.” Had his accent become more pronounced the farther west they’d traveled?
“Are those the boys you told me about?” Jamie pointed to two youngsters racing beside the slowing train.
Rafe nodded. “The middle Brodie boys. The blond is Joe Bill. Lucas is the smaller one with brown hair. That tall one by the cowboys is the oldest, R.D. The youngest is still a baby.”
The train rolled slowly up to the platform, where a small crowd waited.
Gripping her gloved hands tightly in her lap, Josephine hiked her chin and strove for serenity.
“Don’t do that,” Rafe murmured, putting his big hand over hers. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, honey. Just give them a chance.”
Give them a chance?
But seeing his concern, she put on a smile. The people waiting on the platform were Maddie’s dearest friends. If they were anything like the countess, they would soon be enveloping her in hugs, whether she knew them or not. Exuberant people, these Americans.
Brakes squealed. Billowing steam curled around their railcar, reminding Josephine of a thick London fog.
The train jerked to a stop.
“Finally!” Jamie bounded off the couch.
Rafe rose. Bending beside the window, he tipped his Stetson to the people waving and grinning on the platform.
Josephine peered through the coiling mist, struggling to put faces with the names Maddie had mentioned.
The tall, broad man with the toddler bouncing on his shoulders must be Declan Brodie, the cattle rancher and sometime sheriff. The blue-eyed woman clinging to his arm and displaying an abundance of ruffles beneath her coat must be his Southern mail-order wife, Edwina—or Ed, as most called her.
The more sedate couple beside them were probably the wealthy Rylanders—Tait, handsome in an austere way, and Lucinda, his beautiful, very pregnant wife, and the owner of the town’s only hotel.
The third couple must be the newlyweds—an architect named Ethan Hardesty, and his wife, Audra, who was the editor of the local paper. There were also several cowboys, one with a wooden leg, Josephine noticed, a grinning Negro couple dressed in their Sunday best, and beside them, an older woman with a cane she used to menace the boys running by. Lucinda’s guardian and Pringle’s previous employer.
“Hurry, Mother,” Jamie called back as he rushed after Henny down the narrow aisle of the railcar.
She rose. “I’m coming.” Her voice sounded tinny in her own ear. Hoping to ease the sudden constriction in her throat, she took a deep breath, then another, yet couldn’t seem to fill her lungs. Grateful for Rafe’s hand on her elbow, she left the compartment on wobbly legs.
But when they reached the door to the rear platform, he pulled her to a stop. “I love you, Josie.”
She looked up, saw the warmth and pride in his eyes, and her anxiety faded away. She could do this. She could face all these strangers. She would make a home for herself and Jamie here in this harshly beautiful place. With this strong, loving man by her side, she could do anything.
“I love you, too, Rafe.”
“Then smile.” With a quick kiss, and taking her hand firmly in his, he guided her out onto the platform.
Tiny pellets of frozen mist pricked her cheeks and eyes, momentarily blinding her. The air was so cold it seemed to sear her throat. She faltered, the leather soles of her traveling boots slipping on the icy boards.
“I’ve got you, honey,” Rafe murmured in her ear.
Clinging to his sturdy arm, she started down the slippery steps.
“There she is!”
<
br /> “She’s so pretty!”
“Quit staring, Declan.”
“Welcome to Heartbreak Creek!” several voices called.
A blush warmed her cold cheeks. She looked at the faces smiling back at her, and suddenly the challenge awaiting her no longer seemed so intimidating. This was going to work. They would be happy here.
“Thank you,” she called back. And putting on her brightest smile, Josephine stepped boldly off the train and into her new life.
Their grand adventure had begun.
Read on for a special preview of the next
HEROES OF HEARTBREAK CREEK NOVEL
Available soon from Berkley Sensation
LATE NOVEMBER 1871, SCHULER, INDIANA
Squinting against bright morning sunlight, Prudence Lincoln stood at the library window of the Friends School and studied the letter in her hand.
“. . . rise from your dreams, Voaxaa’e, and together we will fly away.”
What did that mean? She knew Voaxaa’e was the Cheyenne word for eagle, a fanciful name Thomas had given her months ago. But “fly away” where? Back to Heartbreak Creek?
Their last meeting had been horrid. When she had told him she still had work to do here at the school and needed to stay longer in Schuler, he had allowed his anger and frustration to show. It was the first time Thomas had ever raised his voice to her and it had frightened her, awakened old memories she fought hard to keep buried. She had reacted without thinking. When he had seen her cowering before him, arms raised in defense, he had been stunned. Then hurt. And without allowing her to explain, he had walked out the door and never come back.
Pru’s half-sister, Edwina, had written from Heartbreak Creek to tell her he had gone with Ash and Maddie—the Earl and Countess of Kirkwell—and Ash’s horse wrangler, Rayford Jessup, to England to purchase thoroughbreds.
But she hadn’t heard a word from Thomas.
Terrified that she would never see him again, she had written to him in England, trying to explain her fears.
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