Welcome To Wyoming. Kate Bridges

thought she would find all of that and more with Jarrod. His letters had been cordial and, although a bit detached, had filled her with an intense desire to join him in his travels on the railway, tending to his jewelry shops across the West and scattered over the Rockies, and creating an empire of prosperity.

      Yet why was there such a chasm between them?

      Granddad would never approve of her becoming a mail-order bride.

      Perhaps that was why she’d done it. That thought burned inside her. But there were extenuating circumstances, she reasoned, trying to push away her shameful feelings that she wasn’t quite good enough for her grandfather’s standards.

      She’d always tried to be such a good girl, abiding by his rules, listening to all of her elders with politeness, being ever so demure. It was her time now, wasn’t it? Time to do as she pleased with whom she pleased. Time to follow her heart and any desire to fulfill her life with her own dreams, no matter how silly or outlandish they might appear to any onlooker.

      She had that right.

      “Ah, here we are. Room 208.” Jarrod inserted the key into the door at the end of the corridor.

      He turned the knob, swung the door open and stepped aside for her to enter.

      “Is that it, then, Jarrod? No more talk of wedding plans?” Why was he elusive?

      “Only until tomorrow. It’s been a long day for both of us.”

      “Long day?” she snapped. “That’s how you think of this? Of me?”

      “Of course not, darlin’.” He swooped in to brush his lips against her cheek.

      The light kiss was unexpected. A sexual current rippled between them, hot and fierce, as she wavered past his looming body, inches close to his chest and his firm, square jaw.

      His skin, bristling with unshaven shadows, held the scent of fresh outdoor air mingled with leather. She inhaled sharp and quick, and his gaze snapped down to hers. A moment of fire burned between them. Who were they to each other? Soon-to-be husband and wife?

      The thought that they would soon share a bed made her tremulous. Heat shot through her chest, flushing her skin and heating her limbs.

      She was so inexperienced yet so lonely that she couldn’t wait to share her nights with Jarrod.

      Her nostrils flared with the heady scent of his masculine presence, and she stepped past him, desperate to breathe neutral-scented air. It was almost as though she couldn’t think straight when he came too close.

      And she had to think straight to surmise her next step. What would be the proper requirements to set her mind at ease that he was indeed the man she should spend the rest of her days with?

      “Jarrod, I don’t wish to be one of those couples who pretend for appearances that we are happily wed, when beneath the surface we might live in separate homes in separate towns in separate beds.”

      “You have given this a lot of thought.”

      She frowned. “Haven’t you?”

      He seemed to be getting exasperated. He tugged at the collar of his shirt as if it were too tight. “Yes, it’s all I’ve been thinking about. For days.”

      “Only days?”

      “Weeks. Three months.” He groaned. “What do you want me to say?”

      She opened her mouth in disbelief. “How can you be so...so detached?”

      Still looming at the doorway, he held up his palm in a sign of forgiveness. He seemed sincere as his voice softened. “I’m sorry. Let me rephrase this. Since the moment you stepped off that train, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off your beauty. Since the moment you kicked that trunk halfway down the platform, I thought there’s no other woman in the world for me.”

      “You truly mean that?”

      “And every word I said in my letters.”

      At his bright expression, she felt buoyed. Then somewhat embarrassed. “You saw me kick the trunk?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “Oh.” So much for appearing ladylike.

      She stepped into the large room, her skirts and petticoats swirling about her ankles. It was a fine room. Large and airy, decorated in clean white linens with fresh-cut flowers on the nightstand and a lantern lit on the wall above the bed.

      Her trunk had been placed at the foot by the closet door, and the bed had been turned down. The pillows had been fluffed and patted and looked inviting after her long, tiresome journey. Comfortable feathers awaited her.

      She tossed her satchel onto the bed, lifted her arms to unfasten the pin holding down her bonnet, removed it from her head and turned to face Jarrod.

      Staring at her from several paces away, he pressed a bulging shoulder against the door opening, one massive cowboy boot crossed over the other. He studied her as she patted down the unruly hairs that followed her bonnet, and mistakenly knocked out a pin from her hair.

      One side of her curls fell to her shoulder, so she quickly unfastened the pin on the other side till it tumbled down, too. The weight of her hair fell onto her collar and spine.

      He was watching it all, as if he’d never seen a woman fix her hair before.

      The lapels of his suit jacket opened. She got a glimpse of the shoulder holster crossing his chest and swallowed hard at how intimidating he looked. The men in Chicago rarely displayed their weapons. She wasn’t naive enough to think the men in the East didn’t carry any, but this vision of Jarrod made her realize how rough and crude and lacking in the law the West was. She’d observed it on the train ride here. Every man had the right and duty to defend himself, and most carried guns.

      She placed her bonnet and hairpins on a stand.

      His posture stiffened, as if watching her made him uncomfortable in some way, as if being here in her room made him uncertain how to proceed. But, Lord, he hadn’t even crossed the threshold of the door. How tense would it make him if he moved closer?

      “I trust you’ll be comfortable tonight, Natasha. I’ll swing by in the early morning.”

      Startled that he was leaving, she asked, “Where will you be tonight?”

      “Right next door.”

      Her eyes widened. “Next door? In this hotel?”

      “I thought it would be more convenient if we could spend more time together. No sense going back to the cabins with McKern and Fowler. I’m here to spend time with you.”

      Her pulse hammered in her throat. So he did care.

      Her lashes lifted as she walked closer, experimenting with this new relationship, this new man. What did he want to know about her?

      And what did she wish to know about him?

      The answer was quite simple, really.

      She wanted to know what he truly thought of her as a potential bride, beyond their cordial first greeting and the predictable words of How was your trip? and How do you do? There was one quick way to find out, and he seemed to be too shy, or too much of a gentleman, to make the first move.

      Her lady friends of a certain kind back at the boardinghouse had often told her that some men, especially upstanding gentlemen, often needed a nudge to know when a woman wanted to be touched. And where she wanted to be touched.

      Natasha stepped close, craned her neck to stare up at him and tangled her slender fingers into his. An invisible current shot through her at the contact. She tugged in a breath of air. He froze.

      Kiss me on the lips, she thought. Show me what you truly feel and kiss me properly.

      * * *

      Her touch was unexpected.

      Simon’s