Welcome To Wyoming. Kate Bridges

spread the gown onto her bed and smoothed the front. The bodice was tailored and beautifully fitted along her bosom and waistline. The square neckline swept low. Mounds of bustling white satin formed the lower half. And, Lord, the train! Who would’ve thought she’d be wearing a ten-foot train? It was embedded with lace and pearls and cut-glass crystals. There were jewels of red glass sewn into the hem and trim around her long sleeves.

      She vowed she’d be a good wife. She’d be respectful of Jarrod’s wishes and dreams, work hard to better both their lives, and the lives of their children when that time came. She’d fall into step beside him as his equal partner and lover.

      Her pulse bounded again at the thought of that fabulous kiss. And the heart-pounding love affair they might start.

      Could she allow herself the freedom of trusting Jarrod? If she couldn’t trust her husband-to-be, then whom could she trust? She’d never relied on a man before, not a suitor. She supposed she did follow by her grandfather’s example of never being able to fully trust someone who wasn’t family. The older he’d gotten, the more protective he was. Near the end of his life, he’d turned everyone away. She tried not to be like him in that regard, but it was difficult to peel away that layer of self-protectiveness that had been ingrained in her since she’d been fourteen and faced with the loss of both parents.

      What if Jarrod’s indecision in setting a date was a hint of a deeper problem? Why didn’t he wish to talk about any details of the wedding? Was she being stupid in ignoring the signals that he didn’t want to marry her?

      Don’t be a fool, girl. If a man doesn’t wish to marry, walk away quickly and find yourself another. That was what her friend Valentina Babbs, in her fifties and a former lady of the night, used to tell her at the boardinghouse.

      “But when do I walk away, Valentina?” Natasha asked aloud. “How do I know if it’s time?”

      You can tell how they really feel about you if you ask them about their mother. If they open up, it means they trust you more than they do her. Valentina gave a lot of odd advice.

      Sighing, Natasha brushed at the creases of her lovely gown and wondered when or if she’d get the opportunity to wear it. She tried to ignore the feeling in the pit of her stomach, that troublesome anxiety that was building every time she thought of Jarrod.

      She reminded herself that she had options here. She had to ask herself whether he would be a great choice for her. She wanted an incredible partner, someone to watch out for her as much as she would for him. If he wasn’t committed to that loyalty and to her in every way, then perhaps she shouldn’t select him.

      It wasn’t too late for her to back out. A feeling of remorse lodged in her throat. Surely it would not come to that.

      She was ashamed to think of what her grandfather would say, to know she’d come all this way in a bid to marry a stranger—only to be sorrowfully disillusioned. Not to mention embarrassed, unprepared, broke and indescribably hurt.

      * * *

      Simon hadn’t slept well. After rolling for hours, he was relieved when the sun finally came up and he could rise out of the damn bed. He tried not to think about her. She was the reason for his tossing and twisting last night.

      He thought about his jewelry assignment. For the past few years as a detective, jewelry missions had become his specialty. Some detectives knew all about livestock, others the construction and valuation of houses, and for him, it was gems and gold. He’d had an early interest in the field since he was kid, bartering and selling watches and gold chains in train stations with other runaways. Some became pickpockets. He’d picked a few fine pockets himself, but it had always left him with too much guilt, so he’d stuck to lawful trade.

      He shoved aside the covers and planted one hard foot on the soft rug. Naked, he stood up, walked to the windows and peered through the sliver of curtains to the street below. The cool air in the room ruffled the hairs on his torso. He assessed the hustle of the street vendors and listened to the clomp of horses as strangers went about their business.

      He felt nothing.

      Just as every other morning when he rose and wondered what town he was in, there was no stirring in his heart that he might belong here, that there might be someone important waiting for him and binding him to this place.

      No one was waiting for him. No friends, no work colleagues, no woman, no wife.

      He wondered how it could be possible to meet as many people as he did in his line of work as a detective, traversing the country on covert missions, yet still be unconnected to everything and everyone.

      Except there’d been Clay and Eli. They’d been his close friends. And look where that had gotten them. Knowing Simon meant death and destruction. Don’t depend on Simon Garr as a friend. He’ll watch you get killed, then brush off his trousers and walk away.

      He sighed.

      Lately, it was hard to know who he was anymore and where he wanted to go from here.

      “Oh, don’t be stupid,” he mumbled to himself. All this soul-searching because he’d met Natasha O’Sullivan? When it came to women, it had taken him years to get his life to this point where he liked it. No attachments, no responsibilities, no damn obligations, no one to live up to or to possibly disappoint when they truly got to know him.

      He veered away from the window to dress.

      The full-length mirror tacked to the armoire reflected his nakedness as he got into his trousers. He buttoned them, the muscles of his torso flexing in the coolness of the morning. He took out a neatly pressed white shirt, shoved his arms into it and repositioned his concealed weapons. Derringer behind his back, dagger to his ankle, shoulder holster across his chest.

      Even a sauna last night in the Gent’s Spring Room and Sauna hadn’t been able to calm him. What the hell had he been thinking, kissing her like that?

      Blazes. He was an idiot.

      Did he want to sabotage his own assignment?

      Sure, no one had told him a mail-order wife was on her way, but he’d dodged plenty of women before, hadn’t he?

      She was no different from the dozens of others he’d come across in his years of travel, he tried to tell himself. Some women had thrown themselves at him, depending on who he was supposed to be while undercover. Posing as a rich and powerful man always seemed to make him the biggest magnet. Other women preferred him when he was impersonating a drifter, whom they thought needed love and attention. Once he pretended to be a schoolteacher, and that had uncovered a woman twenty years his senior who kept surfacing every time he was alone, putting her hands all over him and trying to woo him to her place for dinner.

      He’d never taken pleasure or spent the night with any of the women in his line of duty, only the tougher ones he met in saloons, the ones he knew could handle his leaving and didn’t expect much in terms of settling down or his making false promises. There’d been some humor in the delicate situations he’d sometimes find himself in while undercover, but he’d never been truly distracted to the point of losing control.

      He’d come awfully close with Natasha O’Sullivan last night.

      Yes, she was different from all the rest, he admitted. What was it about her?

      Something in her eyes. A glimmer of vulnerability.

      He reached into his armoire and pulled out a black suede jacket that had fringes hanging from its sleeves. He tugged into it, donned his black hat and told himself that he knew exactly what he found attractive about her. Why he’d kissed the hell out of her last night.

      Because he’d sensed the same thing in her that lately seemed to be engulfing him.

      Loneliness.

      That deep, throbbing ache in the pit of his soul that always came out late at night to whisper, Hello, I’m here again to keep you company.

      He swore and pushed the ache from his heart. He’d been alone