The Unlikely Groom. Wendy Douglas

themselves, but none of them had approached her. Then Lucas had been there, kneeling next to her, and he’d helped her away from there. He’d seen to it that the reverend would take care of Ian, and he’d provided a safe place for her in the warmth and comfort of the Star of the North.

      A saloon, she reminded herself.

      The truth—that she found herself in this place again—hovered just beyond her ability to do something about it. It was wrong; she knew it with a vague uneasiness. She should have been aware of other emotions to concern her, as well, but…there was nothing. Rather, an ephemeral discomfort merely taunted her with the elusive impression of her complete and utter failure.

      She had let Ian down and now she was a disappointment to herself, as well.

      And still, she couldn’t do anything to change what had happened.

      “Here.”

      Ashlynne blinked, grateful for the diversion. Lucas stood next to the table, pointing to a steaming mug waiting on the table directly in front of her. She stared at it as though not quite comprehending exactly what it meant.

      “Drink it. It’ll help.”

      She nodded, not certain that he was right but touched by the gesture all the same. She recalled other times, when friends and relatives had made the same kind of offer or she’d done something similar for them. Remembering it now, she doubted that it had been of any real help. Still, it had been kinder than nothing at all.

      Slowly, Ashlynne reached for the cup and slipped her not-quite-steady finger through the handle. Coffee. She could smell it, see a sliver of steam waft upward. She curled her fingers around the warm mug and brought it close enough to peer inside.

      It was black, as these past days had taught her to drink both her coffee and tea. Sugar and cream had long ago become luxuries, a part of any fond memories of better days gone by. Ian had teased her that she would come to like the taste of the strong, bitter coffee favored by these Alaskans, and she had denied it with a certain laugh. Distance and necessity might require it, but she would never like it.

      Oh, Ian.

      Ashlynne gasped at the memory, her breath deserting her as a shaft of pain arrowed through her. It seemed for a moment as though she couldn’t stand it and she gulped the coffee without thinking.

      Heat scored her throat, and for reasons more than simply the temperature of the coffee. A different kind of fire scraped over her mouth, her tongue and down to the depths of her belly. It burned, stealing the last of her breath. Her eyes watered and her head swam with a crazy lightness.

      “Wha…” The words wouldn’t come and she was left wheezing for air. She clutched her throat with one hand and swallowed, then tried again. “What is that?”

      “Coffee.”

      She blinked and shook her head. “No. That’s not like…any coffee…I’ve ever tasted.” The words came slowly as she struggled for breath.

      Lucas tugged at the chair opposite hers. Wood scraped against wood as he dragged it across the plank floor and sat down. He leaned back and pointed to his own mug, waiting on the table in front of him.

      “It’s Irish coffee, of a sort, I suppose.”

      “Irish coffee?” Speech became easier as the breath rasped in and out of her lungs. She was Irish and she’d never heard of such a thing!

      He shrugged. “Coffee with a dash of whiskey. Supposed to be Irish whiskey, but we use what we have in Alaska.”

      “Whiskey!” She all but dropped the cup in her haste to return it to the table. “Whiskey?”

      Lucas nodded. “We sell a lot of it here. In Skagway and especially the Star.”

      “But…whiskey?” she repeated. The reminder of where she was and all that had just happened slammed into her with all the impact of a bullet. “I’m…well, ladies do not drink whiskey.”

      “The ones who come in the Star do. That or champagne, and champagne doesn’t mix with coffee. I thought you needed the coffee more.”

      He looked at her, but his expression told Ashlynne nothing. His blue eyes reflected the fathomlessness of a shimmering, shadowy pool. They drew her, tantalized her but promised nothing at all.

      “I…” She stumbled, uncertain exactly what she wanted to say. “How could you have served me whiskey? Whiskey!” she added one last time.

      Lucas straightened but only enough to reach for his cup. If she’d been a betting woman, which she was not and never would be, she’d wager that his coffee was laced with whiskey, as well. He took a long drink and then very deliberately placed the mug on the table.

      “What’s wrong with whiskey?” he asked with a smooth laziness that she didn’t believe for a minute.

      Ashlynne straightened, even gripped the wooden arms of her chair under the urge to explain the evils of liquor and places like the Star of the North. As if to punctuate the speech she would make, she jerked her head aside to indicate the bar itself…and then her equilibrium wavered for a moment. She took a breath and paused. Frowning, she waited for things to settle back to where they should.

      “Yes?” said Lucas, sounding smug, as though he doubted that she could answer the question.

      “If you don’t know, Mr. Templeton,” she said, adding a certain emphasis to his name, though her voice came out with none of the strength she meant it to, “I certainly can’t explain it to you. I can tell you, however, that I don’t drink spirits.”

      Lucas nodded, one corner of his mouth lifting in a semblance of a smile. “I can’t say that comes as any great surprise.” He paused, slanting her a look she couldn’t quite interpret. “But it seems like now might be a good time to start.”

      “Mr. Templeton!” Fortunately a good sense of her outrage underscored her tone this time.

      “What?”

      “That is a wicked thing for you to say.”

      He stared at her for a moment, his face without expression. “It’s not what I say that should worry you, Ashlynne. With your low opinion of me and the Star, it’s your being here at all that should concern you.”

       Chapter Three

       T he words weren’t rough enough. Lucas had wanted to say something…else. Something that would shock Ashlynne and send her running from the Star. He’d known from the beginning that he didn’t need or want her here, and her prim insistence that she didn’t drink spirits had only confirmed his conviction.

      She was a teetotaler—and trouble.

      How did he think his weak, sorry excuse for an accusation would convince a woman like Ashlynne Mackenzie to retreat? She had accompanied her husband to the frontier of Alaska, for God’s sake. And, teetotaler or not, she’d found the will to go from saloon to saloon, looking for the drunken wastrel to whom she was married.

      A woman who did those things was not a coward. A woman like that was beyond anything in his experience, but he could be certain that she wouldn’t run from a few provocative words—and the sorry dare he’d come up with couldn’t even be considered provocative.

      She was also a woman whose husband had just been shot. Murdered. And for that reason alone, Lucas’s more cowardly self couldn’t find, let alone use, any harder, more ruthless words. No matter that it was a mistake and he knew it, he simply couldn’t force himself to be deliberately cruel to her. Not tonight.

      It was too bad, too. A firmer declaration would have made life simpler for them both.

      “Drink your coffee,” he said instead.

      “I told you. I don’t drink spirits.”

      “There isn’t enough liquor in there to make you a drunkard, Ashlynne. Drink the damned stuff. You need it. Hell,