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 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 MINI-SERIES. . . . 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
Books by Linda Lael Miller
Banner O’Brien
Corbin’s Fancy
Memory’s Embrace
My Darling Melissa
Angelfire
Desire and Destiny
Fletcher’s Woman
Lauralee
Moonfire
Wanton Angel
Willow
Princess Annie
The Legacy
Taming Charlotte
Yankee Wife
Daniel’s Bride
Lily and the Major
Emma and the Outlaw
Caroline and the Raider
Pirates
Knights
My Outlaw
The Vow
Two Brothers
Springwater
Springwater Seasons series:
Rachel
Savannah
Miranda
Jessica
A Springwater Christmas
One Wish
The Women of Primrose Creek series
Bridget
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
A Sonnet Book published by
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright © 2000 by Linda Lael Miller
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue
of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 0-7434-4826-X
First Sonnet Books printing May 2000
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
SONNET BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of
Simon & Schuster Inc.
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
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ISBN-13: 978-0-6710-4244-8 (Print)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-4826-0 (ebook)
For Anita Carter,
the sweetest voice in any choir,
with love
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
Midsummer 1867
Primrose Creek, Nevada
Chapter
1
Trace was on foot when she saw him again, carrying a saddle over one shoulder, a gloved hand grasping the horn. His hat was pushed to the back of his head, and his pale, sun-streaked hair caught the sunlight. His blue-green eyes flashed bright as sun on water, and the cocky grin she knew oh-so-well curved his mouth. Oh, yes. Even from the other side of Primrose Creek, Bridget knew right off who he was—trouble.
She had half a mind to go straight into the cabin for Granddaddy’s shotgun and send him packing. Might have done it, too, if she hadn’t known he was just out of range. The scoundrel had probably figured out what she was thinking, for she saw that lethal grin broaden for a moment, before he tried, without success, to look serious again. He knew he was safe, right enough, long as he kept his distance.
She folded her arms. “You just turn yourself right around, Trace Qualtrough, and head back to wherever you came from,” she called.
No effect. That was Trace for you, handsome as the devil himself and possessed of a hide like a field ox. Now, he just tipped the brim of that sorry-looking hat and set his saddle down on the stream bank, as easily as if it weighed nothing at all. Bridget, a young widow who’d spent three months on the trail from St. Louis, with no man along to attend to the heavier chores, knew better.
“Now, Bridge,” he said, “that’s no way to greet an old friend.”
Somewhere inside this blatantly masculine man was the boy she had known and loved. The boy who had taught her to swim, climb trees, and ride like an Indian. The boy
she’d laughed with and loved with an innocent ferocity that sometimes haunted her still, in the dark of night, after more than a decade.
Bridget stood her ground, though a fickle part of her wanted to splash through the creek and fling her arms around his neck in welcome, and hardened her resolve. This was not the Trace she remembered so fondly. This was the man who’d gotten her husband killed, sure as if he’d shot Mitch himself. “You just get! Right now.”
He had the effrontery to laugh as he bent to hoist the saddle up off the ground. Bridget wondered what had happened to his horse even as she told herself it didn’t matter to her. He could walk all the way back to Virginia as far as she cared, long as he left.
“I’m staying,” he said, and started through the knee-deep, sun-splashed water toward her without even taking off his boots. “Naturally, I’d rather I was welcome, but your taking an uncharitable outlook on the matter won’t change anything.”
Bridget’s heart thumped against the wall of her chest; she told herself it was pure fury driving her and paced the creek’s edge to prove it so. “I declare you are as impossible as ever,” she accused.
He laughed again. “Yes, ma’am.” Up close, she saw that he’d aged since she’d seen him last, dressed in Yankee blue and riding off to war, with Mitch following right along. There were squint lines at the corners of his blue-green eyes, and his face was leaner, harder than before, but the impact of his personality was just as jarring. Bridget felt weakened by his presence, in a not unpleasant way, and that infuriated her.
Mitch, she thought, and swayed a little. Her bridegroom, her beloved, the father of her three-year-old son, Noah. Her lifelong friend—and Trace’s. Mitch had traipsed off to war on Trace’s heels, like a child dancing after a piper, certain of right and glory. And he’d died for that sweet, boyish naïveté of his.
“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” Bridget said to him.
He took off his hat and swiped it once lightly against his thigh, in a gesture that might have been born of either annoyance or simple frustration, the distinction being too fine to determine. “Well,” he replied, in a quiet voice that meant he was digging in to outstubborn her, should things come to that pass, “I’ve got plenty to say to you, Bridget McQuarry, and you’re going to hear me out.”
His gaze strayed over her shoulder to take in the cabin, such as it was. The roof of the small stone structure had fallen in long before Bridget and Skye, her younger sister, and little Noah had finally arrived at Primrose Creek just two months before, after wintering at Fort Grant, a cavalry installation at the base of the Sierras. Right away, Bridget had taken the tarp off the Conestoga and draped it over the center beam, but it made a wretched substitute. Rain caused it to droop precariously and often dripped through the worn cloth to plop on the bed and table and sizzle on the stove.
Trace let out a low whistle. “I didn’t get here any too soon,” he said.
Just then, Skye came bounding around the side of the cabin, an old basket in one hand, face alight with pleasure. She was sixteen, Skye was, and all the family Bridget had left, except for her son and a pair of snooty cousins who’d passed the war years in England. No doubt, Christy and Megan had been sipping tea, having themselves fitted for silken gowns, and playing lawn tennis, while Bridget and their granddaddy tried in vain to hold on to the farm in the face of challenges from Yankees and Rebels alike.
Good riddance, she thought. The last time she’d seen Christy, the two of them had fought in the dirt like a pair of cats; they’d been like oil and water the whole of their lives, Christy and Bridget, always tangling over something.
“Trace!” Skye whooped, her dark eyes shining.
He laughed, scooped her into his arms, and spun her around once. “Hello, monkey,” he said, with a sort of fond gruffness in his voice, before planting a brotherly kiss on her forehead.
Bridget stood to one side, watching and feeling a little betrayed. She and Skye were as close as two sisters ever were, but if you looked for a resemblance, you’d never guess they were related. Just shy of twenty-one, Bridget was small, with fair hair and skin, and her eyes were an intense shade of violet, “Irish blue,” Mitch had called them. She gave an appearance of china-doll fragility, most likely because of her diminutive size, but this was deceptive; she was as agile and wiry as a panther cub, and just about as delicate.
Skye, for her part, was tall, a late bloomer with long, gangly legs and arms. Her hair was a rich chestnut color, her wide-set eyes a deep and lively brown, her mouth full and womanly. She was awkward and somewhat dreamy, and though she was always eager to help, Bridget usually just went ahead and did most things herself. It was easier than explaining, demonstrating, and then redoing the whole task when Skye wasn’t around.
“You’ll stay, won’t you?” Skye demanded, beaming up at Trace. “Please, say you’ll stay!”
He didn’t so much as glance in Bridget’s direction, which, she assured herself impotently, was a good thing for him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Behind the cabin, in the makeshift corral Bridget had constructed from barrels and fallen branches, the new horse neighed. He was her one great hope of earning a living, that spectacular black and white paint. She’d swapped both oxen for him, barely a week before, when a half dozen Paiute braves had paid her an alarming visit. His name, rightfully enough, was Windfall, for she’d certainly gotten the best of the trade. Granddaddy would have been proud.
People would pay good money to have their mares bred to a magnificent horse like Windfall.
Her little mare, Sis, tethered in the grassy shade of a wild oak tree nearby, replied to the stallion’s call with a companionable nicker.
A muscle pulsed in Trace’s jaw. Even after all that time and trouble, flowing between them like a river, she could still read him plain as the Territorial Enterprise. If there were horses around, Trace was invariably drawn to them. He was known for his ability to train untrainable animals, to win their trust and even their affection. All of which made her wonder that much more how he’d come to be walking instead of riding.
“Where’s the boy?” he asked. “I’d like to see him.”
Bridget sighed. Maybe if he got a look at Noah, he’d leave. If there was any justice in the world, the child’s likeness to his martyred father would be enough to shame even Trace into moving on. “He’s inside, taking his nap,” she said shortly, and gestured toward the cabin.
“What happened to your horse?” Skye wanted to know. Skye had many sterling traits, but minding her tongue wasn’t among them.
“That’s a long story,” Trace answered. He was already on his way toward the open door of the cabin, and Skye hurried along beside him. “It ends badly, too.” He paused at the threshold to kick off his wet boots.
“Tell me,” Skye insisted. Her delight caused a bittersweet spill in Bridget’s heart; the girl had been withdrawn and sorrowful ever since they’d buried Granddaddy and headed west to claim their share of the only thing he’d had left to bequeath: a twenty-five-hundred-acre tract of land in the high country of Nevada, sprawled along both sides of a stream called Primrose Creek. Too much loss. They had all seen too much loss, too much grief.
Trace stepped over the high threshold and into the tiny house, just as if he had the right to enter. The place was twelve by twelve, reason enough for him to move on, even if he’d been an invited guest. Which, of course, he wasn’t. “He took off,” he said. “Nothing but a knothead, that horse.”
Bridget, following on their heels, didn’t believe a word of it, but she wasn’t about to stir up another argument by saying so. Trace would have known better than to take up with a stupid horse, though she wasn’t so sure about his taste in women. He’d probably lost the animal in a game of some sort, for he was inclined to take reckless chances and always had been.
Noah, a shy but willful child, so like Mitch, with his wavy brown hair and mischievous hazel eyes, that it still struck Bridget like a blow whenever she looked at him, s
at up in the middle of the big bedstead, rubbing his eyes with plump little fists and then peering at Trace in the dim, cool light.
“Papa,” he said. “That’s my papa.”
A strained silence ensued. Bridget merely swallowed hard and looked away. She would have corrected her son, but she didn’t trust herself to speak.
Trace crossed the small room and reached out for the boy, who scrambled readily into his arms. The little traitor.
“Well,” Trace said, his voice thick with apparent emotion. “Hullo, there.”
“He calls everybody ‘Papa,’” Bridget blurted, and then, mortified, turned to the stove and busied herself with pots and kettles, so Trace wouldn’t see her expression.
Trace chuckled and set his hat on the boy’s head, covering him to the shoulders, and Noah’s delighted giggle echoed from inside. “Does he, now?”
“Some of the folks in town think Bridget is a fallen woman,” Skye announced. “On account of her name still being McQuarry, even though she was married to Mitch. I told her she ought to explain how he was a distant cousin, but—”
“Skye,” Bridget fretted, without turning around. It was too early to fix supper, and yet there she was, ladling bear fat into a pan to fry up greens and onions and what was left of the cornmeal mush they’d had for breakfast.
Trace came to stand beside her, her son crowing in his arms, evidently delighted at being swallowed up in a hat. “He sure does take after Mitch,” Trace said. His voice was quiet, low.
Bridget didn’t dare even to glance up at him. “More so every day,” she agreed, striving for a light note. “I wouldn’t say he’s easygoing like Mitch was, though. He’s got himself a strong will, and something of a temper, too.”
“That,” Trace said, “would have come from you.”
“Skye,” Bridget said crisply, as though he hadn’t spoken, “go and catch a chicken if you can. And take Noah with you, please.”
Skye obeyed without comment, though she might reasonably have pointed out that the two tasks just assigned were in direct conflict with each other. Noah protested a bit, though, not wanting to be parted from Trace—or, perhaps, his hat.
Bridget Page 1
