A Christmas Waltz. Jane Goodger

much time in the sun, and his face was clean-shaven, unlike so many men of the West she’d encountered.

      “Excuse me?” he said slowly in a Texas drawl she recognized, and his eyes did a quick and completely neutral scan of her person. His voice was low and raspy, like a person who hadn’t spoken yet that day.

      “I need to hire someone to take me to the Kitteridge ranch,” she said a bit louder, just in case the man was hard of hearing.

      “The Kitteridge. Ranch.”

      He was becoming annoying.

      “Yes. I’m here to see Carson Kitteridge, Mr….”

      “Kitteridge. Boone Kitteridge.”

      Oh, goodness. That explained a great deal. Boone was Carson’s older brother, and Carson had mentioned more than once that he was quite dimwitted. She smiled, completely relieved that at least something of all the things Carson had told her was true. He seemed almost startled by her smile, and actually backed up a step. Oh dear, she’d frightened the poor man.

      “Boone. How wonderful to meet you. I am Lady Amelia Wellesley, Lord Hollings’s younger sister.” At his blank stare she felt a snag of pity for him. What a trial it must have been for Carson to care for him. “I’m Carson’s fiancée,” she said, raising the volume of her voice. “From England. Surely he’s mentioned me. He’s told me all about you.”

      Boone Kitteridge wouldn’t have been more surprised if this exquisite creature in front of him sprouted fairy wings and granted him three wishes. Carson’s fiancée? It was almost as impossible as finding a woman this beautiful standing in front of him. She didn’t seem real.

      She wore a buttercup-yellow dress that made the air around her fairly glow as if from a light within. It had lace and beads and all sorts of things that glittered beneath his store’s skylights. Her hair was nearly the color of that dress, a golden halo around her face. She reminded him of a doll sitting on a shelf, perfect, and something you really shouldn’t touch, never mind play with.

      And for some reason, she thought she was Carson’s fiancée.

      “Carson’s not here,” he said, full of caution. There wasn’t a woman this side of the Mississippi who was dumb enough or crazy enough to agree to marry Carson. And from this girl’s accent, he figured she wasn’t from anywhere near here.

      She smiled again, and Boone started to wonder if perhaps she wasn’t all that bright. “Where can I find him? Is he, perhaps, at the ranch? I’ve come a very long way to see him, all the way from England, you see. He should be expecting me.”

      That’s when it fully dawned on Boone. This girl actually thought she was engaged to Carson. For some reason she thought Carson had a ranch, and even though she was acting sure of herself, he thought he detected just the slightest bit of worry, a small quaver of uncertainty in her lovely, melodic voice. The situation, he realized darkly, was going to get a whole lot uglier for this girl, and she didn’t have the slightest clue of what was about to happen to her. Or perhaps she did.

      “You can stay here, miss. I’ll go get him.”

      “If you could just direct me where to go, I’m certain I can find him myself. I’ve become quite independent on my journey here.”

      “I’ll get him,” he repeated, because God knew he couldn’t send this pretty thing where Carson was at the moment—likely between the legs of Geraldine Turner. “I doubt I’ll have any customers while I’m gone. You sit tight now. And if someone does come in, you just tell them to wait.”

      “All right, but…”

      He didn’t even wait to hear what she was going to say, just headed out the door, grabbing his hat on the way and jamming it angrily on his head. There was no way in hell that his brother was going to marry that girl. No way in hell.

      He made his way to the saloon and pushed through the door, ignoring the surprise on George’s face when he came in. The only time Boone ever set foot in the saloon was when he was looking for someone else.

      “George,” he said politely as he could, taking off his hat and slamming it on the bar.

      “Boone. What brings you in here?”

      “My brother still upstairs?”

      “This got something to do with that pretty young thing what just come off the train and went into your place?” George asked, full of rabid curiosity.

      “My brother.”

      “Yeah,” George said, purely disappointed Boone was going to be so closedmouthed. “He’s still here. Third door on the left.”

      Boone nodded grimly before heading up the steps to the hotel part of the building, though the word “hotel” was a rather grand word for the three shabby rooms George let out on occasion. Geraldine Turner was the town whore. The town whore because she was the only one, and practically the only woman living in the town proper. Most of the respectable women lived in the outskirts on the three ranches that surrounded Small Fork. As such, she was kept busy by most of the men in town, but she had a special fondness for Carson. What woman didn’t?

      Boone didn’t bother knocking, but opened the door calmly and stared daggers at his brother, who was lying in bed well satisfied, his long hair a tangled mess around his head. It didn’t look as if he’d shaved or bathed in a while, and Boone couldn’t help thinking how insane it was that the bit of feminine perfection standing in his store could possibly want Carson. Then again, it was difficult to believe Geraldine, whose bloom had long since started to wilt, would see anything in him, either. Geraldine didn’t even bother acting surprised, and certainly didn’t bother covering up her phenomenally large breasts.

      “Hey, Boone,” she said, smiling in a way that Boone guessed was supposed to make him horny, but just served to annoy him. She was lying in bed with his brother, after all.

      “What the hell you doing, Boone?” Carson asked goodnaturedly, putting his hands behind his head as if he had all day to loll about in bed, which was pretty much the case.

      “Your fiancée’s here, you stupid son of a bitch.”

      Carson didn’t move an inch, but his face turned a deadly pale. “My what?”

      “Your fiancée.”

      Carson sat up in bed, a look like death in his eyes. “What did she look like?” he asked, as if expecting the worst.

      “Why don’t you tell me?”

      “No. No, no, no, no…”

      He continued to say that word over and over, terror in his eyes, and so Boone, rather enjoying his brother’s pain, proceeded to describe the fiancée. “She’s blond. Pretty. With blue eyes the color of blue sage in the spring.”

      “Shit.”

      Boone set his jaw hard as he watched Carson scramble to find his clothes. Meanwhile, Geraldine was laughing so hard, there were tears streaming down her face. At least she had a sense of humor.

      “Who is she?” Boone demanded, and Carson stopped pulling on his last boot and slumped back onto the bed.

      “She’s a lady,” he said.

      “Didn’t notice.”

      “No. I mean she’s a lady. Lady Amelia Wellesley. Her brother is a goddamn earl. Lord Hollings. What the hell is she doing here?”

      Boone felt the urge to punch his brother in the face, but like all the other times he’d felt that urge, he resisted. “Apparently, she thinks you’re engaged and she also believes you’re expecting her.”

      “I was supposed to send for her,” he lamented. “I told her specifically. Holy God. What the hell am I going to do, Boone?” He clutched his head as if he were trying to stop it from exploding, which likely wasn’t far from the truth. He turned to Geraldine, who was still laughing beside him, and said, “Shut