Luke's Runaway Bride. Kate Bridges

      “I can’t keep you here against your will.

      “Someone’s bound to get hurt. That’s not my intention at all.”

      Her insides fluttered. “Will you play any more tricks?”

      “No.” He said it with such honesty and compassion, but he looked so defeated standing there.

      Her heart would not go out to him, she warned herself. “Can’t you see—” she pleaded, stepping closer. “Can’t you see? How am I supposed to know who to believe?”

      Luke stepped closer. He lifted her hand, his unexpected touch sending a ripple cascading up her spine, and placed her palm over his heart. Then he flattened his own hand over hers. She felt the heat of his flesh beneath the cloth, the pounding of his blood.

      “You’re not supposed to know it, you’re supposed to feel it.”

      She withdrew her hand, feeling as if it had been singed in a flame….

      Praise for KATE BRIDGES’S previous title

      The Doctor’s Homecoming

      “Dual romances, disarming characters and a lush landscape make first-time author Bridges’s late 19th-century romance a delightful read.”

      —Publishers Weekly

      “The great Montana setting and high Western action combine for a top-notch romantic ending.”

      —Romantic Times

      “Kate Bridges has penned an entertaining, heartwarming story that will live in your heart long after you turn the last page.”

      —Romance Reviews Today

      Luke’s Runaway Bride

      Kate Bridges

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Dedicated to my dear friends Donna L. and Heather H.—thank you both for your encouragement, and your wonderful sense of humor.

      Contents

      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 One

      Denver, September 1873

      Tall, rugged and dangerous. Who was he?

      Jenny Eriksen spotted the stranger from across the deserted street. Her pulse strummed with awareness.

      Silhouetted in moonlight, the stranger walked his bay past the golden cottonwoods near the livery stable, then past the newly painted hitching posts of the corner café. A rough block of square shoulders and long legs, the man moved with muscled control. With a gun belt slung low around his hips, his Stetson tugged over his brow, he was the type of man in this wild mining town Jenny tried to avoid. Especially since the robbery in Daniel’s office that afternoon.

      For a moment, Jenny stopped breathing.

      She had just stepped out of the crowded dance hall onto the boardwalk with her housekeeper. At first, she’d been relieved to escape the charity ball to run her delicate errand, but now Jenny wasn’t so sure. In the cool night breeze, she studied the wavy black hair and somber, clean-shaven face of the stranger.

      Lord, he was handsome. But what set him apart from other men was his air of isolation, of danger. His long, deliberate stride and his easy, graceful movements commanded obedience. Definitely a man who’d never interest her. She preferred…a milder man, who thought with his head and not his hands. A man like her wonderful Daniel, her fiancé.

      The wind danced across her bare shoulders and stirred her blue velvet sleeves. Familiar piano music floating through the air eased her tension, reminding her she was safe. She yanked her peacock-feather shawl tight against her gown.

      “Six months in Denver,” she said, gulping perfume-scented air, “and I’m still not used to seeing strangers wearing guns.”

      Beside her, Olivia’s satin skirts rustled. Dressed in pleated burgundy, the pretty dark woman peered up at Jenny. “At least in Boston, the men conceal them.”

      Stepping from the boardwalk onto the rutted path, Jenny watched the stranger disappear down an alley. She brushed him from her thoughts. Glancing up at the quarter moon, she relaxed and smiled. Tonight at the ball, Daniel had formally announced their engagement, and she wanted to waltz with excitement.

      In four short months, she’d be Mrs. Daniel Kincaid. She was such a lucky woman. Wasn’t it Daniel himself who’d organized this fine charity event? Such a kind, loving man. Her father was right in his arrangement, after all.

      Two months wasn’t a long time from first meeting to engagement, she admitted, but she shouldn’t worry. She and Daniel had a solid base of companionship, and love and passion would grow from there. Marriage and children were what she’d always wanted.

      Olivia adjusted her fringed wrap. “Did you tell Daniel where we’re headed?”

      “I tried, but he was talking to the banker and his wife, getting a big donation. I couldn’t very well approach them with my bodice gaping open.” With good humor, Jenny glanced down at the space where her button used to be, and pulled her shawl tighter. Her beaded bag dangled at her wrist.

      “But we should tell someone—”

      “If one more person sees my dress like this, I’ll die of shame. Daniel’s house is just around the corner. His butler couldn’t leave the ball because he was serving drinks at the bar, but he told me where he keeps the sewing basket. He also gave me the key.”

      “Well…the fresh air’s nice. My eyes are waterin’ from the cigar smoke, and my nose…” Olivia, more of a sister than a housekeeper, chattered on in her usual lively manner, in a voice that had soothed Jenny since they were children.

      Jenny yanked at the tight curls pinned on top of her head, wishing she’d arranged her hair in her usual beaver tail. She agreed with the elderly Windsor sisters next door—her hair was as straight and thin as a plank—but why had she allowed them to curl and powder it? Powder hadn’t been used for decades!

      Well, because it was the first time in two weeks, since the loss of their beloved cat, that Jenny had seen the two sisters smile. She hadn’t the heart to refuse their offer.

      Thank you kindly, but no. She had to practice saying those words more often.

      They turned the corner, passing massive stone-and-cedar houses. Petticoats swished around their ankles. Tomorrow, Jenny would rise early. Her crate of bridal fabrics had finally arrived from the East, and she was itching to cut her wedding corset. In Boston, her late grandmother had taught her how to sew the finest undergarments—“lingerie,” the French called it—and it still gave Jenny such pleasure.

      Too bad she wasn’t able to convince Daniel a lingerie store would be appropriate for a woman of her stature, even though it had been her dream since she was fourteen. When