Welcome To Wyoming. Kate Bridges

women, but why would any female feel the need to marry by mail? Especially one as good-looking as Natasha O’Sullivan.

      She turned around to deal with her trunk. The glossy ring of curls she’d pinned up at the back of her head bobbed. Her bosom moved up and down, accentuating her slender waist. With a swallow, he glanced away and took a step closer to the ticket counter, annoyed that the train she’d pulled in on had just left. He glanced at the chalkboard and the schedule for the next one.

      Today was Wednesday, almost seven in the evening. He scanned the departure times. The next one was Friday, then Sunday. There was no train leaving for two days?

      He rubbed his bristly jaw. How was he supposed to get her out of here?

      Stagecoach, he thought, or wagon train.

      He turned around, steeled himself, adjusted his hat and strode toward her. There was no chance Ledbetter would’ve sent a photograph of himself—or even a description—for fear that his criminal face would be plastered across the country. So there was no way she’d know Simon was a liar.

      A crazy thought hit him.

      Nah. Couldn’t be.

      Or could it? Could she have been more involved with Ledbetter than even McKern had suspected? Could she have been in cahoots with Ledbetter? Did she know anything at all about the stolen gold and jewels? She was a tiger in skirts. She had a temper she was trying to conceal. What else was in her character?

      His cowboy boots thudded on the platform. She looked up in his direction, seemed to sense who he was and smiled. Loose strands of brown hair twirled across her face and over her freckles. Lips the color of sweet raspberries parted.

      Hell, he nearly melted.

      She might be a criminal, he repeated in his mind. Before he could respond to her, other footsteps shuffled to his right and she turned to look that way.

      Simon frowned and turned his head to see who it was.

      His muscles tightened in warning as he spotted the two men from Ledbetter’s gang—Kale McKern and Woody Fowler. Simon had told them to stay put, that he would pick up his bride alone and see to them in a couple of days. What were they doing here?

      Then he recalled all the lewd remarks they’d made during the poker game—about what the mail-order bride might look like and how fast Simon could get her to bed.

      They’d likely had a few drinks and came to see for themselves.

      These weren’t stupid men; Ledbetter himself had gone to Harvard. In a time when few people were educated, Ledbetter’s wealthy grandparents had sent him to the best college in the country. He’d learned everything from books; Simon had learned everything he knew from the streets. Ledbetter had demanded that the men who worked for him be college educated, too, not only because he preferred the company of intelligent men, but as a cover. What sheriff would suspect a group of well-educated men to be cutthroats and train robbers? McKern and Fowler had gone to school in Upstate New York, violent thieves and scoundrels from an early age.

      Simon kept walking toward the woman, firm and steady. He was reassured by the weight of his concealed guns and knife. But McKern and Fowler also carried hidden weapons. Simon tried to think fast. He couldn’t turn Natasha O’Sullivan away in the presence of Ledbetter’s men, for that would raise suspicion that Simon wasn’t who he said he was. Then both he and she might get a bullet to the skull.

      So now he had to pretend to be the ever-lovin’ groom.

      Damn. This mission just got a lot more complicated.

      * * *

      Three men were walking toward her, and suddenly Natasha O’Sullivan was no longer sure if one of them was her groom.

      She had thought it was the tall, muscled one with shoulder-length dark blond hair, but it might be the thinner gentleman in the bowler hat or the heavyset one with the dark mustache. Her nerves took hold. It was one thing to write confidently to a complete stranger but quite another to be here in person. Surrounded by unfamiliar things and faces, she was scared and intimidated and lonely.

      Evening light shimmered through the canopy of leaves above them and danced across the wooden platform. The breeze brought a heavenly relief to the back of her sticky neck and the perspiration that clung between her breasts. She’d worked up a sweat due to the blasted trunk that had nearly made her miss her stop.

      The three men reached her at the same time.

      The tall, handsome one in the checkered suit held out his hand and smiled. “You must be my lovely Natasha.”

      Goodness. Relief washed through her, loosening her rigid shoulders, unlocking her knees and lifting the corners of her mouth in a very grateful smile. He was here. He’d come for her just as he’d written he would.

      She slipped her gloved hand into his large palm. My, what a firm grip. She turned her face to look into the warmth of his green eyes. Her stomach clenched with the intensity of his gaze, the strength of his profile and the thought that he was hers.

      For one thousand miles, she had hoped and prayed that she would feel some connection to him when they met. She’d felt that connection seconds ago, when they’d first locked eyes across the platform. She was blessed. Not only was he an educated man from Harvard, but about as sturdy and healthy as she could imagine.

      “I’m Jarrod Ledbetter,” he said with a deep rumble. “I could hardly wait to meet you, darlin’.”

      Her heart skittered at the endearment. “My pleasure, Mr. Ledbetter.”

      “Jarrod, please.”

      She inhaled a breath of fresh Wyoming air, laden with the scent of fir trees and pines. “Jarrod.”

      The man was intimidating.

      If she had to say, she’d say he was affected by her, too. She could see it in the heated manner of his gaze, the upturn of his silky lips, and how he slowly dropped his hand and rubbed the back of his neck. And yet he took a step away from her, his stance detached.

      Jarrod cleared his throat and then introduced the other two men.

      “These are my associates. Kale McKern and Woody Fowler.”

      They were all roughly thirty years of age, give or take a couple. Neatly shaven, well dressed, inquisitive.

      The thin man in the bowler hat stepped forward to shake her hand.

      “Mr. Fowler, how do you do?” she asked.

      “Welcome to Wyoming Territory, ma’am.”

      Then to the other she added, “Mr. McKern.”

      “You arrived on a right beautiful day.” His mustache wiggled as he chewed on a piece of grass. She thought she detected the scent of alcohol. Maybe they’d had dinner while they were waiting for her.

      “You all work together in the jewelry business?” she asked politely.

      The two men shoved their hands into their pockets and deferred to Jarrod. He was obviously the leader of the group. He likely employed them, judging by the respectful way they looked at him.

      “Yes, we do,” Jarrod said boldly, half a head taller than his associates and much more muscled. Goodness, by his letters, she’d never realized he’d be so handsome. “Pay no attention to them,” Jarrod continued. “They just came to say hello. Now they’ll be on their way.” He seemed to give them some sort of signal. “As soon as they pick up your trunk and deliver it to the hotel across the street. Right, fellas?”

      “Yes, sir.” Mr. Fowler heaved on one end of the trunk, and his friend the other.

      Jarrod was trying to get rid of them, she thought, likely so that he and she could be alone. It made her flush to think she would be alone with her future husband soon. There was only so much they could get across in letters. His had been rather formal and very proper. She was not expecting this bigger-than-life red-blooded male with rather