Harlequin® Historical is proud to present WED UNDER WESTERN SKIES a special collection from
CAROLYN DAVIDSON
“Davidson wonderfully captures gentleness in the midst of heart-wrenching challenges, portraying the extraordinary possibilities that exist within ordinary marital love.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Carolyn Davidson creates such vivid images, you’d think she was using paints instead of words.”
—bestselling author Pamela Morsi
CHERYL ST.JOHN
“Ms. St. John knows what the readers want and keeps on giving it.”
—Rendezvous
“Ms. St. John holds a spot in my top five list of must-read Harlequin Historical authors. She is an amazingly gifted author.”
—Writers Unlimited
JENNA KERNAN
“…engaging characters, a colorful backdrop and [the heroine’s] personal growth make this classic western romance something special.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub on The Trapper
“With this strong debut, Jenna Kernan puts her name on the list of writers to watch for.”
—The Romance Reader on Winter Woman
Wed Under Western Skies
Harlequin Historical #799
CAROLYN DAVIDSON
Carolyn Davidson is a product of the marriage of two strong, stubborn individuals, who taught her the values and precepts by which she lives—a love of God, home and family, an abiding respect for this great land we live in, and a grateful heart that truly appreciates all she has been given in this life. She has a loving husband, six children, over twenty grandchildren and three great-grands. Life is good.
CHERYL ST.JOHN
Cheryl says that knowing her stories bring hope and pleasure to readers is one of the best parts of being a writer. The other wonderful part is being able to set her own schedule and work around her family and church. Working in her jammies ain’t half bad either! Cheryl loves to hear from readers. Write her at P.O. Box #24732, Omaha, NE 68124, or e-mail [email protected]. Visit her Web site, www.tlt.com/authors/cstjohn.htm.
JENNA KERNAN
Multipublished author Jenna Kernan is every bit as adventurous as her heroines. Her hobbies include recreational gold prospecting, scuba diving and rock climbing. Indoor pursuits encompass jewelry making, writing, photography and quilting. Jenna lives in New York State with her husband and two gregarious little parrots. Visit Jenna at www.jennakernan.com for excerpts of her latest release, giveaways and monthly contests.
CAROLYN DAVIDSON
CHERYL ST.JOHN
JENNA KERNAN
Wed Under Western Skies
Contents
ABANDONED
Carolyn Davidson
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
ALMOST A BRIDE
Cheryl St.John
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
HIS BROTHER’S BRIDE
Jenna Kernan
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Dear Reader,
Although few, if any of us in this lifetime, will be afforded the dubious pleasure of traveling on a covered wagon across this great land of ours, the prospect of just such a trip sounds appealing to many—me included. I’ve thought longingly of this sort of venture, and wished for fleeting moments that I might be transported to the days long ago of wagon trains, and the adventure involved in seeking out new worlds to conquer.
But I have limits. I am of the persuasion that hot showers and modern facilities for my personal comfort are important. Thus, I’d make a lousy pioneer woman. However, I have found the perfect solution to my dithering between the reality of this modern world and the lure of the past. I simply write stories that might have taken place back then. My heroes and heroines are purely products of my imagination, but to me they are very real, and I’m privileged to place them in situations that I then maneuver to suit my own fantasies.
Writing historical novels is a delightful occupation, one that encompasses a certain amount of talent. And for that talent I am appreciative. Daily I give thanks for the Lord of Creation who has allowed me to enjoy the pleasure of telling my tales.
Wagon trains are a thing of the past, but the love between decent men and virtuous women is still alive in this modern world. And because of that love, expressed through the bonds of marriage and parenthood, I find myself blessed—having been gifted with dreams of yesteryear and the brave souls who peopled that world.
Best,
Carolyn Davidson
ABANDONED
Carolyn Davidson
Abandoned is dedicated with love and respect to those of my ancestors who were pioneers in another way: that of traveling to the “new world” to make new lives for themselves and their loved ones. To all those stalwart men and women, I dedicate this story.
And, as ever, I offer it as a gift to my beloved.
Prologue
The flames were all around, and Elizabeth felt the heat as if the very fires of hell encompassed her. Although clothing protected her skin, the weight of cotton and linen against her body was almost too much to bear. Even through open eyes, she saw only the red glare of the wagon burning and blinked frantically to clear her vision.
Over her stood a figure. A man. Almost naked, holding a weapon. If this were to be her last memory of life, it would be only a preface to hell itself, for she could think of nothing worse than to be given her death blow by way of a monster waving a hatchet.
And yet, that was not the proper name for it, she thought. Her brain seemed to be operating in slow motion, for the man who crouched by her side moved almost languidly, one arm lifting the weapon high, his other hand reaching for her, grasping her hair and then hesitating, as his dark gaze fastened on the length of golden tresses he held. For a long moment she froze, her eyes staring as they met his.
His mouth opened and a guttural sound spewed forth, a word that to her mind sounded like a curse. He dropped her hair, stood abruptly, and then lifted her from the edge of the flames. As if he were undecided, he backed to where a horse stood, those dark eyes impaling her.
Elizabeth yearned to awaken, for surely this could not be reality, but she felt a shriek of despair rise from her throat as she realized she existed, alive in the midst of her nightmare. Another voice called out and the man who held her answered the summons, shouting out unintelligible words she strained to understand. With a last look of pity, she thought, or perhaps resignation, he placed her on the ground, and she closed her eyes.
If he were going to kill her, she had no desire to see the death blow, and yet, in some separate part of her consciousness, she knew that he would leave her there, alive. Her face hurt, her eyes felt scorched, and she curled into herself, more fearful now of enduring a hellish death than of facing the men who had surrounded her so recently. The wood of her wagon crackled in the silence, devouring itself with the fire that sought to destroy it. But the sounds of men, their voices, their movements, had vanished. Indeed, it seemed she was alone. No more sounds of chanting and shout
ing. No sense of being watched by eyes that devoured her.
She lifted a hand, the motion slow, for her arms and shoulders were surely afire, so great was the pain. Her fingers felt once again for the throbbing spot near her temple, and she winced at the smarting sting of open flesh. Rubbing her eyes, where smoke and fire had brought tears flowing, she glanced fitfully at her fingers and could not mistake the bloodstains there, blood that must surely be her own. The crimson glow she peered through was that of her own blood.
She breathed slowly, wondering if her wounds were fatal, and in that moment, knew she would survive. For her father had told her she was strong, strong enough to survive this trip to a new land where fortune awaited them. Strong enough to withstand the heat and the rutted trail that stretched into the West. For him, the man who had brought her thus far, who had cared for her and protected her as best he could, she must honor his faith in her, and survive.
And yet, he was not there, not beside her, and her heart cried out vainly for his presence, whispering his beloved name as she sank into unconsciousness.
“Father?” And then with a sob, she whispered again. “Where are you, Daddy?”
Chapter One
Kansas, July 1848
“Will you look at that! She ain’t dead, but I’ll warrant she’s right close to it.”
Joe Campbell, a hardened veteran of the Indian wars, bent low over the bruised and battered young woman curled on the ground at his feet. His exclamation held a trace of horror.
“What have you found?” A second man rode closer, skirting the still-smoking embers of the wagon that hid the female from his sight. Cameron Montgomery’s horse picked his way through the litter strewn for yards in every direction, all of it shattered and ruined for any useful purpose. Yet each piece had once been part of a household, and now lay abandoned by whoever had attacked this wagon. And if the signs he’d already seen were anything to go by, Indians had had a heyday here, burning everything in sight, leaving carnage behind. How the girl had managed to crawl far enough from the wagon to save herself from the fire was a miracle, he decided. Perhaps she had been dumped from a horse when her captors decided she wouldn’t live long enough to make hauling her along with them worthwhile. Joe was right. She appeared more dead than alive.
Cameron dismounted quickly as he reached the young woman’s side, hoping to find more than a bare flicker of life within her battered body. It was unlikely that her attackers had left her with more than a spark of life, but it was a point of honor that the scouts either rescue the victims or bury the bodies they found in a situation such as this.
Scouts for a wagon train were privy to sights that chilled their blood and yet inured them to the presence of those who could not be helped, those whose broken and bloodied bodies they buried beneath the grassy plains. Cameron and Joe were only a few miles ahead of the train they worked with, scouting out the trail for the fifty or so wagons that followed them. They’d have to make a wide berth around this scene, Cameron thought. One look at the havoc created here would cause the womenfolk to gather their young’uns around them, and worry for the whole livelong days ahead about what would become of them.
Stray children were targeted by those who lived in this part of the country, those men who knew the value of a child, white and Indian alike. More than one had been spirited away, never to be seen again. And Cameron’s wagon train would not be prey to such thieves if he could prevent it.
He knelt by the young woman, driven to straighten her arms and legs, making her appear more comfortable on her resting place of hard, crusted dirt. No meadow grass softened her bed, only the tracks of wagons, ground into place by the thousands of wheels that had rumbled past this place.
The slight movement of her breasts signified an attempt to suck in a breath, and Cam bent lower, holding his hand beneath her nostrils, hoping to feel her warm breath. Now she moved her bloody hand and inhaled, then released the air from her lungs with a sigh. He bent closer, his ear almost touching her mouth, hoping to catch the whispered words she spoke. It was only a soft mumble, but the broken syllables sent an unaccustomed chill down his spine.
“Don’t. Please, don’t.” And then her voice faltered and her eyes opened, wide and staring, their blue depths filled with horror. “No!” It was a scream of pure terror and without thinking, Cameron placed his hand over her mouth, lest the sound carry to the tops of the hills surrounding them on three sides. God only knew who hid from sight, watching the small drama take place in the unsheltered area of carnage.
The sun beat down, not yet at its full strength as it would be at noontime. But in July he’d expected the heat of early morning, had known that sweat would accompany him daily on this journey from St. Louis to the placid rivers of Oregon.
“What do you think?” Joe asked. “How bad is she hurt?”
“Not as badly as I thought at first. We’ll take her with us,” Cameron told Joe quietly. “And if she dies, it won’t be because no one cared enough to get her out of this mess.” Cameron looked up to see the hopelessness of Joe’s gaze on the girl, and knew that his partner held little hope for her life.
“I’ll take her on my horse,” Cameron said, rising and lifting the slight form with ease. He was a big man, used to hard work, and his muscles were barely challenged by the weight of the woman he held. His dark hair blew in his eyes and he tossed his head impatiently.
“Take her for a minute, Joe,” he said shortly, handing his burden to the other man, and then easing himself into his saddle. His big gelding stood quietly, used to the weight of the man who had ridden him from Independence, Missouri, to this spot on the plains of Kansas.
Joe held the girl as ordered, and then reached up to give her into the hands of the man who waited. She fit nicely across his lap, Cameron thought, a good armful, definitely more woman than girl, now that he had a chance to feel her against his body. His horse shifted a bit, acknowledging the extra weight he was being called on to carry, and Cameron steadied him with a movement of his knees.
Then, gathering the woman closer, he turned his gelding away from the rubble surrounding him, his gaze filtering through the abandoned clothing and bits of furniture left behind by the marauders. Perhaps there was something there, some bit of her past that was important to the woman. A bit of lace-trimmed fabric caught his eye and then a single half-boot that smouldered in the remains of the fire.
They’d done all they could, their rescue operation consisting of just one woman; the rest of the small group either missing or buried in shallow graves.
Impatient with his own dilly-dallying, recognizing that nothing of value lay at his feet, he turned his horse around and rode in a wide circle past the smouldering remains of three more wagons, heading east toward the train whose wagonmaster would be expecting the return of his two scouts.
Joe moved more swiftly, his own horse seemingly anxious to leave the scene, and rode ahead of Cameron. He pulled his hat a bit lower and eyed the hills closely as they followed the trail of wagon wheels across the prairie, his gaze alert for movement, lest they fall victim to an attack before they reached the relative safety of the wagon train.
His hand lay easily over the butt of his rifle as he rode, for it was his lot to protect Cam and the girl, although Cam was well able to fire his pistol, no matter that his arms were currently occupied with the female he held.
The woman moaned, her eyelids fluttering a bit as she attempted to rejoin the land of the living, and Cameron wished silently for a wet rag to wipe the streaked blood from her face. His canteen was over half-full and in a careful movement, he shifted the woman on his lap, then jerked the kerchief from his neck and sloshed water on it.
He wiped the cloth gently across her cheek, and then against her forehead, where a gaping gash and an abundance of dried and clotting blood gave evidence of the blow she had sustained. Why they hadn’t scalped her was a miracle for she possessed a long length of golden hair, one which would have been highly prized by any Indian brave. In
fact, why they hadn’t taken her along with them to their camp was another mystery. She’d have been a prime trophy at the least.
Around her throat, more bruises testified to her assailants’ attempt to remove the necklace she wore. Hanging from it was a simple gold ring, a circle he would guarantee was a wedding band. Probably a keepsake of some sort, perhaps her own. But if that were hers, it should have been on her finger. That was a puzzle he’d think about later, he decided.
Her features were small and regular, the gash on her temple and the bruising surrounding her eye dark reminders of her pain. But not even that evidence, or the cut on her chin could disguise the natural beauty of the woman. She opened her eyes again and focused on his face, and he ached for the pain of her memories…for the utter hopelessness of her expression was silent testimony of what she had endured.
“You’re safe now,” he said quietly. “The Indians are gone, and we’re on our way to the wagon train just east of here.”
“How?” She seemed to search for the words she would speak, and Cameron shushed her with a finger on her lips.
“We’re scouts for a train, ma’am. You must have been attacked yesterday from the looks of it, and we found your wagon an hour ago.”
“I hurt,” she whispered. “I didn’t expect…I thought I would surely die.”
“Well, I have a notion you’re a strong woman,” Cameron said, holding her close to his chest. The urge to bind her to him, to protect the woman, was strong within him, a strangely possessive emotion, one he was not familiar with.
“Thank you.” The sounds were barely discernible, but the smile she attempted to offer spoke to him as no words could. Her lips trembled as she lay back against his strength and her head turned away a bit, revealing the heretofore hidden side, where blood had dried earlier, but was even now seeping from a cut high on her cheek.
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