by Jo Goodman
PRAISE FOR THE COWBOYS OF COLORADO SERIES
“With humor, a touch of mystery, and the efforts of a well-matched doctor and sheriff, Goodman draws the reader into the tangled lives of the citizens of Frost Falls, Colorado. Another winner by a master storyteller!”
—Kaki Warner, RITA Award–winning author of Texas Tall
“Goodman will satisfy fans of historical Western romance with this sprawling, lusty re-creation of life, love, and slowly uncovered secrets on a Colorado cattle ranch in the spring of 1892 . . . Her fairy-tale Wild West also surrounds the requisite sexy courtship with plenty of rip-roaring action and appealing Colorado scenery.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A Touch of Frost is the perfect Western for romantics. It has grit, spunk, and a lawlessness you’ll appreciate . . . Pure entertainment.”
—Romance Junkies
MORE PRAISE FOR THE BESTSELLING NOVELS OF JO GOODMAN
“Goodman has a well-earned reputation as one of the finest Western romance writers. Her strong plotlines; realistic, colorful backdrops; deep sensuality; and engaging characters are only part of her appeal. The winning combination of toughness and tenderness are what enthrall readers.”
—RT Book Reviews
“This first-rate tale easily measures up to its predecessors and will make readers eager for their next visit to Bitter Springs.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A tender, engaging romance and a dash of risk in a totally compelling read . . . Gritty, realistic, and laced with humor.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Jo Goodman is a master storyteller and one of the reasons I love historical romance so much.”
—The Romance Dish
“Fans of Western romance will be thrilled with this delightful addition to Goodman’s strong list.”
—Booklist
“A wonderfully intense romance . . . A captivating read.”
—Romance Junkies
“Exquisitely written. Rich in detail, the characters are passionately drawn . . . An excellent read.”
—The Oakland Press
Berkley titles by Jo Goodman
KISSING COMFORT
THE LAST RENEGADE
TRUE TO THE LAW
IN WANT OF A WIFE
THIS GUN FOR HIRE
THE DEVIL YOU KNOW
A TOUCH OF FROST
A TOUCH OF FLAME
A JOVE BOOK
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2018 by Joanne Dobrzanski
Excerpt from A Touch of Frost by Jo Goodman copyright © 2017 by Joanne Dobrzanski
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
A JOVE BOOK and BERKLEY are registered trademarks and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780399584305
First Edition: June 2018
Cover photo of couple by Claudio Dogar-Marinesco
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For Pam Hopkins and her steady guidance
Contents
Praise for the Bestselling Novels of Jo Goodman
Berkley Titles by Jo Goodman
Title Page
Copyright
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
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Excerpt from A Touch of Frost
About the Author
Chapter One
Frost Falls, Colorado
September 1898
Ben Madison tipped his chair until he had it balanced on its two rear legs. The top rail rested against the wall behind him, so he was of the opinion that he was not in danger of an embarrassing collapse. He stretched his long legs and casually set his boot heels on top of a keg that he’d cut in half to make the perfect stool. Ten minutes of shut-eye, he promised himself. He tugged on the brim of his pearl gray Stetson and pulled it forward to cover his eyes and the bridge of his lightly freckled nose. Positioning the hat in such a way meant uncovering more of the back of his head and exposing his carrot-colored hair to passersby who’d known him all their lives and still seemed to think they were the first to comment on it.
Nothing about being the newly elected sheriff of Frost Falls changed that.
Under his hat, Ben closed his eyes. Ten minutes, he reminded himself. There was a gentle hum of movement up and down the wide thoroughfare unimaginatively named Main Street. No one was in a particular hurry this afternoon, least of all him. He could identify the voices of the Saunders brothers deep in conversation outside the land office. Mrs. Fish, the owner of the town’s only dress shop, announced to someone that she was closing for a half hour while she visited the apothecary. Ben swore he heard her turn the sign on her door from OPEN to CLOSED.
The boardwalk vibrated gently under him as folks went on about their business. No one came close, which he appreciated. Even the children returning to the schoolhouse after lunch gave him a wide berth. He made out the sounds of some playful shoving and whispered teasing, but none of it lingered, and when the schoolmaster rang his bell, it was only to call in the last stragglers.
Ben wondered about the Salt children, but only long enough to make another promise to himself he would drop in on the
m later, make sure they were settled, and see if there was anything he could do for their mother. As for their daddy, there was no point talking to the man while he was still sleeping off another two-day drunk in a cell. Anyway, there was only so much Ben could say to Jeremiah Salt about his behavior, and Ben reckoned that over the years, he’d said all of it. Not that anything changed for the better, not permanently, and there were times that saying something changed things for the worse. He needed to think on that, and as long as his office reeked of sour body odor, warm piss, and stale brew, he was doing his thinking outside.
Wrinkling his nose, he fell asleep.
And woke to the sound of a train whistle as No. 459 approached the station.
It was a month ago, a couple of weeks after the election results were in, that Dr. Dunlop had taken Ben aside and confided his intention to leave Frost Falls for a teaching position at the Boston University School of Medicine. Ben immediately understood what Doc’s exit would mean to the town. The man had been looking after folks for better than twenty-five years, delivered most of the children born during his tenure, removed a coffee can’s worth of bullets from various body parts, set broken bones, prescribed healing tinctures and poultices, took out an appendix now and again, treated gout and head colds, and knew everyone’s name and their common ailments.
Doc was set on not having a fuss made over his departure, but neither could he leave like a thief in the night. His housekeeper for all the years he was in residence, who often as not was called into the surgery to assist, made no secret that she felt betrayed and abandoned, and, oh yes, there was the town to consider. Her way of expressing her disapproval and displeasure was to organize a farewell celebration of Bacchanalian proportions. The good citizens of Frost Falls mourned the loss of their doctor with dancing and feasting and plenty of alcohol, which provided the catalyst for what became Jeremiah Salt’s first two-day bender under Ben’s sole oversight. No one blamed Mary Cherry because it was well known that Jeremiah did not require much in the way of provocation and because Mary Cherry was so obviously crying in her beer.
Doc assured anyone who asked that arrangements had already been made for a replacement. His patients were not comforted to hear it. Who, after all, could replace him? To ease their minds, he gave them a name: Dr. E. Ridley Woodhouse, a graduate of his alma mater, the Boston University School of Medicine, where he was returning to teach. In fact, Dr. Woodhouse’s father was a former classmate of his and was now a professor at the university. No one was particularly mollified by that news. What would be a homecoming of sorts for Doc was still an uncertain future for the folks who had been under his care. Even more unsettling, they were able to deduce from the information that their new physician was on the youngish side.
They either did not remember, or did not care to remember, that once upon a time, Dr. Dunlop had been on the youngish side himself.
It was when Ben accompanied Doc to the station for his departure a few weeks ago that the doctor elicited Ben’s promise to meet Woodhouse on arrival and offer support throughout the transition. In his mind, Ben imagined that he would either amble or mosey—he was not sure of the distinction—down to the station so as not to give any impression of urgency or anxiety regarding the new doctor’s arrival. That was impossible now. Neither ambling nor moseying would get him there on time.
Ben dropped the chair on all four legs, resettled his hat on his head, and shoved the stool aside. He jumped to his feet, wavering just a bit as he was still recovering his senses, and then started south toward the station. He had a long stride that quickly covered the planked sidewalk and he had to force himself to shorten his steps so as not to attract attention. Still, by the time he passed Maxwell Wayne’s bakery, he was once again moving at what most observers would characterize as a brisk pace. He slowed a second time, took a moment here and there to exchange pleasantries with Mrs. Preston, who, judging by the warm scent emanating from the bakery box dangling from her fingertips, was carrying cinnamon buns, and Miss Renquest, who sought his opinion regarding her new straw hat. Was it sitting at the proper angle on her head? Should she have chosen a black ribbon over the royal purple? Did it complement her age? The answers were: Yes, no, and your age complements the hat. Miss Renquest was eighty-four, and she was very pleased to hear it.
Passengers were already disembarking when Ben reached the platform. He had arranged earlier for a wagon from the livery to be waiting for him. Doc had warned him that Woodhouse would arrive with trunks, bags, books, and enough equipment to support the use of a wagon. Ben supposed it was something Doc had learned in the course of corresponding with Woodhouse, or perhaps in his correspondence with Woodhouse’s father. Ben had been assured that Doc had full confidence in the new doctor’s skill and education, and had not made the decision to leave on a whim. Neither had Woodhouse’s decision to leave Boston for Frost Falls been without serious contemplation. Ben was left with the impression that the coming and going was an exchange of sorts, a bargain made, and he wondered if that could possibly be right or good. What he knew for certain was that he had no say in it then or now and what he owed the doctors was the fulfillment of a promise made.
Ben saw Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds step down from the train, Mr. Reynolds first, then his wife. Their fearless toddler twins jumped gleefully to the platform without assistance and begged to be allowed to do it again. They were bundled up and carried off, one under each of their father’s arms. Mrs. Reynolds followed, smiling indulgently and waving to Ben as she passed.
A few more passengers left the train, but there was no one he did not recognize. Had Dr. Woodhouse missed a connection? Left the train at an earlier stop? There was nothing to be done but wait, so Ben waited.
His first indication that Dr. Woodhouse was indeed on the train was when two porters appeared on the platform carrying what was obviously a heavy trunk between them. When they tried to set it down, the leather straps slipped out of their hands and the trunk thudded to the deck. Their equally guilty expressions made it clear to Ben they had instructions to treat the trunk with more care. He wasn’t surprised, though, when they shrugged it off and disappeared back inside the baggage car. They came out again less than a minute later, this time carrying smaller trunks they could manage on their own. They placed the trunks beside the large one and then removed several valises and a canvas carryall. There was nothing that Ben identified as a doctor’s black bag, but then Ben considered that Woodhouse might be carrying it.
It was only a moment later that his thought was confirmed. Dr. Woodhouse appeared on the steps of the car, carrying that identifying bag, and waited for a conductor to add a wooden stool to make disembarking easier. Yes, this was Dr. Woodhouse. Dr. E. Ridley Woodhouse. And it was suddenly clear why Ol’ Doc Dunlop had asked for his promise to meet the train and support the transition.
Dr. E. Ridley Woodhouse was a woman.
Ben swore softly under his breath. Six weeks ago this would have been Jackson Brewer’s problem. He was the sheriff then and still would be if he hadn’t gotten it in his head that he wanted to retire and take his wife to Paris. Paris! Jackson and Addie had their bags packed and were ready to go as soon as the election was over and it was clear that Ben would be the new sheriff. They did not even wait for the swearing in. At the time, Ben was relieved. It meant Jackson did not have to hear his former deputy stutter through a speech he never wanted to make for a position he never sought to hold.
And now there was this absurdity.
Ben walked toward the trunks and valises and canvas carryall and stopped when he reached them. He waited for her to alight from the car and approach. He touched the brim of his hat, gave a short nod, and greeted her. She was no longer carrying her black leather satchel in one hand. She cradled it against her midriff as though it offered some sort of protection.
“Yes,” she said in response to his greeting. “I am Dr. Woodhouse. You are?”
“Ben Madison. Doc as
ked me to look after you, make sure you get settled in, have everything you need. I’m supposed to show you the lay of the land.”
“Really.”
It was not exactly a question the way she put it. More like she was unimpressed. He wondered if he should have mentioned that he was the sheriff. He smiled a trifle unevenly as that thought came and went. She didn’t miss it, though.
“Do I amuse you?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. Mostly I amuse myself. That’s what I was doing just then.” It was clear to him that she did not know what to make of that so she said nothing, just continued to stare at him from behind a pair of gold wire spectacles. Her eyes were brown, same as what he could see of her hair. Her wide-brimmed navy blue straw hat sported an extravagant pink bow on the flat crown and hid her hair and shaded her face until she lifted her chin. That small chin was lifted now and to considerable effect as she eyed him candidly. Ben had an urge to tug at his collar and clear his throat. What was he going to do when she cupped his balls and told him to cough?
He knuckled his mouth to suppress a laugh.
She arched an eyebrow. “Amusing yourself again?”
Ben lowered his fist and gave himself fair marks for presenting a straight face. There was nothing he could do about the heated color in his cheeks. It was the curse of all redheads. “Yes, ma’am. I believe I am.”
“I see.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” He did not give her an opportunity for comment but waved a hand over her belongings. “Everything here?”
She followed the sweep of his hand, regarded the baggage, and nodded. “Yes.” She finally lowered her black bag so that she was carrying it in her right hand. “Do you have some sort of conveyance?”
“Yes, ma’am. A right proper conveyance. We call it a buckboard.” He pointed to where it stood at the end of the platform. He thought she was going to comment on the wagon or the restless bay mare that was going to pull it, but what she did was turn back to him and say, “You and I are of an age, I think. I prefer that you do not call me ma’am.”
