The Untamed Heart. Kit Gardner

drew a deep breath, flexed his massive hands and turned to enter the last car. As he did so, the polished tip of his pointed shoe nudged the gambler’s pistol. Bending, he retrieved the gun and, for several moments, stared at it, feeling the weight of the cool steel in his palm. His finger brushed over the ivory grip, curled around the trigger, traced the length of the scrollengraved silver barrel. And then he threw the gun over the side of the train and pushed open the door to his railcar.

       Chapter One

       Prosperity Gulch, Colorado

       April 1880

      “Classin’ up the place again, Miss Wilhelmina?”

      J. D. Harkness, owner of the Silver Spur saloon and dance hall, hoisted a crate of clean glasses onto the bar. Swiping a thick forearm over his brow, he dissolved like falling bread dough onto a bar stool and glanced around the deserted saloon. Midmorning sunlight slanted through the windows, capturing the dust that hung in the air. Deep in one corner, beside an upright piano, an old man dozed under his hat. Just outside the double doors two men perched on overturned barrels, taking turns spewing streams of brown goo at a cuspidor set in the middle of the street. A handful of folk drifted past the front windows. The day wasn’t looking promising for business, but today wasn’t any different than any other.

      Harkness swung his weary gaze to the flame-haired young woman polishing glasses beside him. “What the hell are you doing here, Willie?”

      Wilhelmina McKenna Thorne slanted eyes the color of summer leaves at Harkness. Several fingers slipped beneath her high lace collar, directly at the spot where the lace itched most.

      With the other hand, she poked at the knot on top of her head and wished she hadn’t stuck the pins in so far. “Why, Uncle Jeremiah, I’ve come to help.”

      “I was afraid of that No, don’t touch another glass. Just get on home, Willie, where you belong.” Harkness jerked his head to the corner. “And take Gramps with you.”

      Willie grabbed an apron and swung it around her whippetnarrow waist. “There’s nothing to do at the house for me or Gramps. I haven’t had a boarder in over six months, not since—”

      She bit off her words. A flush crept to her hairline and memory blossomed with relentless fury. She swung her face away from Harkness before she betrayed it right there—her secret, the one she intended to take to her grave.

      She found herself staring at the portrait of a young woman, ripe and lush and naked, hanging above the bar in framed gilt Willie closed her eyes and tried her best not to think about the things men wanted to do when they looked at a woman’s naked breasts and round hips, the love words they whispered that made a girl forget that her mama had told her never to take off her clothes except for her husband, and then only in the haven of a shuttered bedroom. Certainly not on a grassy knoll at midday when the sun would heat bare skin with a fever.

      Willie forced her eyes open. “Besides, Rosie had her baby last night”

      “And a fine boy he is. Looks just like his pa did. A shame he didn’t live to see him born. Ah, hell, go home, Willie.”

      Willie jerked the apron ties into a stiff bow. “Gertie left this morning to see her sick mother in Denver.”

      Harkness grimaced. “Gertie’s got more sick relatives than any widow I know. And she always comes back to work wearing a sassy smile that doesn’t belong on a travel-weary woman. I ‘spect she’s got a gentleman friend in Denver.”

      “She might not come back this time.”

      Harkness snorted then levered himself over the bar and produced a bottle and two glasses. Splashing the brew into each glass, he slid one over to Willie, eyeing her as if he suspected she was up to mischief. “I can run the place without my girls and you damned well know it.”

      Willie worked her glass between her fingers. “True. But without them, where’s your draw?” She jerked her chin at the portrait. “She’s not enough. Even for tired miners who can’t see and travel-weary folk who’ve lost their way. And if the cowboys come through town off the pass as I suspect they might today, all biting at the bit to spend their hard-earned pay, you wouldn’t want them to choose the Devil’s Gold Saloon in Deadwood Run over the Silver Spur just because they believe the whiskey tastes sweeter when it’s served by a woman.”

      “They want more from the women at the Devil’s Gold than sweet whiskey. And they get it there.”

      “Some, maybe. But not all want what the Devil’s Gold has to offer. Besides, Deadwood Run’s another ten miles further off the pass, a bit far to ride if a man only wants to look at a face that doesn’t grow whiskers.”

      “I don’t know many cowboys that would be content with only that.”

      Willie smiled, a soft easy curve of her lips that made Jeremiah Dagwood Harkness blush every time she swung it on him. “Sure you do, Uncle Jeremiah. You just can’t think of an argument.”

      “The hell I can’t. And don’t call me ‘uncle’ again, dammit. Quit your smiling. You still have to tell me the whole of it. Start talking. All of it. The truth this time.”

      Willie felt her smile fade a bit and wished Jeremiah Harkness hadn’t known her since the day she fell off her pa’s wagon over ten years ago and wandered into Harkness’s saloon. He’d taken her home that day and became her Pa’s best friend. Prosperity Gulch had been nothing more than a tent town then. “All of what? I’m here to help. We both know Prosperity Gulch needs the business. So does the Silver Spur.”

      “What about you?” Harkness waved his glass at the room. “A few turns around the floor, a buck here for a dance, two bucks there, especially if you smile.” Harkness lifted a smug brow that inched higher in direct proportion to the deepening of Willie’s flush. “Admit it. You’re broke.”

      “That has nothing to do with—”

      “I can loan you anything. All you had to do was ask.”

      “No.” Heat pulsed through Willie in angry surges and she laid a hand on Harkness’s arm as he dug into one pocket “No, J.D., no loans.”

      Harkness set his jaw. “You call me ‘uncle’ easy enough because you feel so God almighty friendly with a man just about old enough to be your pa. But when you need me most you treat me like a damned stranger. You’re as blind proud as your pa was.”

      Feeling every bit of her feisty nineteen years, she shoved her chin up at Harkness. “Fine. Then I’ll leave.”

      “Dammit, Willie—” Harkness caught her arm as she attempted without success to maneuver her bustled, knife-pleated, obscenely narrow skirts around and brush past him. “You’re better off in britches and boots. Suits your temper better, too. But I have to say you look damned pretty just the same. Mighty grown-up all of a sudden.”

      Willie squirmed. “I itch. I haven’t worn this dress in years. It took me three hours to iron it.” She fidgeted with the lace collar then drew a breath, feeling the fabric pull taut across her breasts. “It makes me look—young.”

      Harkness seemed to release a breath. “If the cowboys come through you’re sure to make a small fortune.”

      Willie glanced up at him, hope sputtering to life. She tried very hard not to look as desperate as she felt, even though Jeremiah Harkness was the closest thing to a father she had right now. Even he could guess she was desperate enough to do just about anything, short of leaving Prosperity Gulch. Dressing up in her best clothes and high-heeled shoes and dancing with a few miners and cowboys was nothing. Even

      Gramps understood that. No, they’d have to tie her up and gag her to get her out of town, starving and all. No McKenna or Thorne had ever abandoned a dream without one hell of a fight, even if the