Silver Hearts. Jackie Manning

grass. With a sigh of relief, he waved an okay sign to Noelle, who waited in the distance. She glanced around cautiously, then followed with the buckskin while Luke led the beasts, dragging their load, back to the wagon.

      “Fix something to eat while I water the animals,” Luke said when they returned to the wagon.

      Noelle wiped her palms on her apron, then climbed into the wagon. She blinked away any trace of emotion as she made a path through the shambles of her worldly goods to prepare their meal.

      By the time Luke had returned, the campfire was crackling, and the aroma of strong coffee filled the air.

      Noelle glanced up from tending the fire to watch as Luke hung the empty pail on the water barrel. A welcoming sense of relief flowed through her as she realized Luke could repair the wagon wheel. Soon, she’d be with her uncle.

      Noelle’s gaze lingered along the sparse knots of prairie grass while she fed the cattle chips to the fire. She’d purchased the bag full of animal droppings from a passing Conestoga wagon over a month ago. Survival had forced Noelle to quickly forget any squeamishness at using dung as fuel. In fact, she was proud of all she’d accomplished—more than she would have thought possible—since leaving New York City.

      Her mouth felt as dry as the endless dust. What might have become of her if Luke Savage hadn’t arrived? But he was here, and he’d promised to see her safely to Crooked Creek. Yes, she was very lucky, indeed.

      

      Beside the wagon, Luke balanced the half-empty coffee mug on a rock while he shimmied the cottonwood bolts into place. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the thought of Noelle Bellencourt out of his mind. But the harder he tried, the more those startling blue eyes made him want to take her in his arms and protect her.

      Damn, he wanted to do more than that, if he was honest. But women like Noelle spelled trouble, in any language, and he was too smart to get caught up with the likes of her, again.

      Once had been enough for a lifetime.

      Noelle looked nothing like his fiancée, Alice. But the Eastern manner of speaking and thinking were the same. Luke shook his head at the comparison. Alice had wed his best friend while Luke had been in the war. At the time, Luke thought he’d never get over the betrayal, but now, he realized that if he had married Alice, he would have been miserable to be part of that Philadelphia social circle.

      It takes a special breed of fool to be enticed by a woman, regardless of how alluring. And damn, he was no fool.

      Luke propped up the side of the wagon where the broken wheel had been. Greenhorns. They come out West, their wagons full of wares, their heads full of dreams, only to find their hopes busted like a broken wheel at the end of the trail.

      He swore under his breath. Why was he thinking about Noelle? His mind should be on Blackjack and getting his money back, not on a greenhorn woman who’d be on the next stage back to New York when she first set her eyes on Crooked Creek.

      “Supper’s ready, Mr. Savage.”

      His stomach growled. The tantalizing aroma of panfried biscuits and something else he couldn’t quite identify nearly drove him crazy. He grimaced.

      He dismissed his wayward thoughts as he took the tin plate of fragrant baked beans and biscuits she offered, and sat upon a flat rock a few yards from the campfire. Never had beans and biscuits smelled so delicious.

      “More coffee, Mr. Savage?”

      He shoved his hat back from his forehead. “Yes, miss,” he said with a jaw stuffed with biscuit. He watched the feminine curve of her hip as she leaned forward, pouring the dark brew into the cup. Where had she learned to cook like that? What else might she have learned about how to please a man?

      He frowned, totally disgusted with himself for his inability to ignore her.

      She smiled as she returned to the plate she had dished up for herself. Before she lifted a spoon, she bent her head and said a few words under her breath.

      Luke felt like a heathen. But he recalled a time, not so long ago, when blessings, manners and polite talk had been a part of his life. He scraped the last of his beans with a spoon. He’d prefer feeling like a heathen than remembering the past.

      He soaked up the bean juices with the ragged edge of the biscuit. Manners, be damned. West of the Mississippi, manners could get you killed if you took your mind off your six-shooter for long. No room for fancy manners in Indian country, Miss Noelle Bellencourt.

      “Mighty tasty,” he said instead. “Last time I had biscuits that melted in my mouth was in Philadelphia when—” His voice halted, as though he had divulged a great secret.

      “You’re from Philadelphia?” Surprise lit her blue eyes.

      He nodded.

      “Is that where you had your doctor’s practice?”

      “It’s not polite to ask questions of strangers,” he answered. He saw her cheeks color, and he felt ashamed for his rude remark. Yet if he admitted that he’d begun his practice in Philadelphia, she’d only ply him with more questions that he wasn’t ready to answer. He took a swig from his coffee mug.

      “Your voice doesn’t sound as though you’re from Philadelphia,” she said after a few minutes.

      Luke reached for the last biscuit, broke it in two and popped half into his cheek. “Best to talk like the locals. That way, you don’t go bringing attention to yourself.” He washed the mouthful down with more coffee.

      “Are you hiding something from your past?” Her eyes brimmed with questions.

      “Nope. Trying to forget.” He sensed her growing inquisitiveness. In the lengthening silence, he wondered if she could control her curiosity. After a long time, he discovered that her strong will had won out.

      “So, what will you do if you can’t find your uncle?” Luke asked, despite his refusal to get involved.

      She lifted her head and stared at him as if the idea never crossed her mind. “I thought you said it was impolite to ask questions of strangers.” Her mouth tilted into a smug little grin.

      “Of course I’ll find him,” she volunteered anyway.

      “Marcel Bellencourt. Never heard the name, miss. Where’s this silver mine of his suppose to be?”

      “I’m not certain. I do know that he owns a grand house with a small army of servants.” She laughed, and for the first time, he realized how very pretty she was. He wished he hadn’t noticed.

      “I’ve written to the lawyer in town, telling him of my arrival.”

      “Mike O’Shea?”

      “Yes, do you know him?”

      Luke nodded. O’Shea was a good enough lawyer for fixing miners’ quarrels, but he didn’t have the experience for much else. No need to tell her that, Luke decided.

      “Mister O’Shea will escort me to my uncle.” She smiled again in that confident way that often worried him.

      Luke ran his fingers across his chin. “You know, miss. It’s not unheard of for a man to work the mines for years, then not strike color—”

      “Strike color?”

      “It means not to find gold or silver.”

      She nodded, intent on his every word.

      “Not strike color,” Luke continued, “but write to his family back East, and with a gut full of the Silver Hearts Saloon’s finest whiskey, compose a boastful yarn or two.”

      Her chin lifted defensively. “What are you suggesting, Mr. Savage? Hundreds, no thousands of men and women have struck it rich in Nevada. Are you insinuating that my uncle is lying?”

      Damn, she and her uncle were none of his business. “Didn’t mean any disrespect, miss.” Luke scratched