An Inconvenient Bride: Westward Hearts, #7

By Blythe Carver

Kidnapped and held for ransom, Holly Reed escapes and makes a run for it.

Half Indian, half Scottish, Roan MacIntosh's just another mountain man. One who wants to be left alone. He doesn't want company, especially not some yappy female he saves from a blizzard. He also doesn't need anyone.

Until he's got new set of unexpected visitors. And now, Holly Reed, the one who needed saving is the one to do the saving.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: BCP
• Release date: Feb 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393686743

Book preview

2

Snow had fallen during the night.

Roan had predicted this, having felt the change in the air so many times before. It had gone from merely being cold to being cold with an icy chill, telling him that in spite of the clear skies, a storm would soon roll in.

Sure enough, within the few hours which he had spent sleeping, the world had turned to a swirling, frozen mass of pure whiteness. Serene, even in the face of the wind which blew in from the north and down the face of the mountain on which he’d made his home.

It was never an easy time here. He considered himself fortunate to possess both the smarts and the skills needed to prepare himself to wait out the long winter. Trapping had gone well that spring, summer, and autumn, leaving him quite comfortable and prepared to outlast the worst of the weather.

He busied himself at the stove, heating over the fire a pan of beans and salt pork which he intended to eat before going out to survey the surrounding area. There would likely be at least one or two animals who had not been able to reach their dens before the first flakes fell. If anything, it would be a mercy to hunt and kill them, sparing them the pain of starvation in the harsh winter wind.

He had his traps to check, as well. The chances of having ensnared a raccoon, a wolf or a bobcat might be slimmer than usual with most animals choosing to take cover under the circumstances, but it was as much a part of his daily life as was tending to Merlyn and seeing to his own needs.

Merlyn enjoyed his morning meal of straw and water in the lean-to attached to the rear of the shack in which Roan made his home. When the weather turned truly cold, he sheltered the horse indoors though would not go so far as to share living space with the animal. While he and Merlyn had been through a great deal together, there were limits to the lengths Roan was willing to go to.

Besides, it did help. Knowing there was another living creature besides himself in that otherwise desolate shack.

Loneliness was nothing new. In fact, he found it preferable to the company of most people. Perhaps he was too set in his ways, he reflected as he sopped up the juice from the beans with a hunk of old cornbread.

Trapping provided all he needed. His life was a simple one, and he wanted for little.

He had already dressed in his buckskin trousers and moccasins, and once he’d finished eating, he washed up his plate and fork before donning his fringed buckskin shirt. Next came the long coat which reached his knees and wide-brimmed hat which would keep some of the snow from reaching his eyes.

His possibles bag hung from a peg just inside the door, containing flint and striker, tobacco, and beads for trading with Indians passing through the area. He slung it over his head, the strap crossing his chest. His rifle, his tomahawk. He would have felt undressed leaving the shack without them.

I shall return, Merlyn, he murmured, stroking the horse’s fine, black mane.

The horse nosed around near one of the pockets in Roan’s coat, and he smiled before withdrawing a small carrot.

I have spoiled you, he admitted, rather rueful.

It was easier to check the traps on foot than to mount the horse and walk it in the storm. Once the snow stopped falling, he could take Merlyn out with him.

It was bitter cold, the wind cutting straight through his clothing. He was well accustomed to the temperature, however, and merely acknowledged it before tugging down the brim of his hat to protect his eyes and setting off for the traps along the stream.

They were empty. All eight of them. He cursed under his breath, and reminded himself he had not hoped for much. He reminded himself, too, that he was not in need of additional pelts to trade. No fewer than a dozen times in as many weeks had he come down from the mountains to trade his furs in Carson City.

That was never a chore which he enjoyed, as it meant being in the presence of a great many people at once, but there was no avoiding it if he hoped to sustain his existence.

Mountain men such as himself were either regarded as an oddity, something to avoid as one would avoid a dangerous plague, or as a mythical figure worthy of admiration and even legend. He knew that figures such as Kit Carson and those of his ilk were to blame for this, the tales of his exploits having reached far and wide.

Roan had even listened to some of these tales and had laughed to himself at their outlandishness. Truly, the reality of life as a trapper was far from romantic or even terribly exciting much of the time.

Certainly, one might cross paths with a bear or a full-grown wolf, which would necessitate the use of one’s rifle and tomahawk. Many times had he brought down an animal much larger than himself with these weapons in hand.

Yet he could hardly imagine sharing these tales with others and expecting them to sigh in satisfaction when he told of how close he had come to losing the fight on more than one occasion.

There were certain things men did not need to speak of.

The only thing Kit Carson—just the thought of the man’s name made Roan want to spit on the ground in disgust—managed to do was to attract the attention of men who believed themselves up to the challenge of such a life. Men who believed after reading of Carson’s exploits that life in the mountains was a grand adventure which one did not need to prepare himself for in both body and spirit.

Those men either found themselves mauled to death or starving to death or simply frozen to death.

How responsible. But why should a famous figure of mountain man lore care for the lives of those he inspired?

Roan double-checked the traps to ensure they were working order and set to ensnare the next animal who stopped at the stream for a drink before continuing on, rifle in hand. He might still be able to find a young buck or fox before returning to the shack to warm himself by the fire. It did not take long for such bitter wind to work its way into a man’s bones.

He descended the mountain, making his way slowly along the rocky slopes which were now more treacherous than ever thanks to a thick layer of snow. He thanked the Lord that it was not ice, which would make any travel infinitely more treacherous.

Movement up ahead caught his attention, and he stopped to determine its source. The snow fell thickly, heavily, obscuring his vision. He squinted, certain he had seen something, yet unable to see it now. His hand tightened around the rifle before he raised it, pressing the butt to his shoulder and aiming.

Though what he aimed at, he could not say. He would simply rather not leave himself at a loss should a hungry, desperate animal suddenly lunge at him.

More movement. Then to his surprise, sent up a cloud of snow as it collapsed. Whatever it was, it was exhausted.

He hurried down the slope which sat between him and the animal, and on reaching it found himself standing over a gray gelding.

It wore a saddle, so it had to belong to someone. But who? Roan’s frown deepened as he imagined some fool believing he could travel into the mountains unencumbered even as they sat at the threshold of winter.

He looked around then, searching the snow for tracks which the horse would have made as it continued on its way without its rider. Perhaps he would find this fool and be able to knock a bit of sense into his head.

He got no more than twenty or perhaps thirty paces from the gelding before finding a slash of dark blue in the snow. To his surprise, what he found was a lady’s skirt.

A skirt, which the lady in question happened to be wearing.

What the devil? he gasped, clawing at the snow which had fallen around her after she fell. No telling how long she had been there, freezing in a snow bank. She was deathly white, as pale as the flakes which fell upon her cheeks. Only her dark hair and brows provided any color. Even her lips were so pale as to appear frozen.

Was she frozen? Was he too late?

As if she heard him, the girl moved. He breathed a sigh of relief and lifted her in his arms, only then looking around to see if there was shelter nearby. It would be too much effort to carry her in her condition back up the treacherous slope, and it would also mean leaving the gelding behind. He could not bring himself to do this.

There appeared to be a ledge no more than a few hundred feet away . She might have found it herself had she not collapsed out of exhaustion. He hurried there, trudging through the thick snow, and was gratified to find space deep enough to hold them both along with the horse, if he managed to lead it there.

Rest here, he murmured, knowing she could not hear him but feeling as though he ought to say something.

She wore no coat, which only deepened the mystery surrounding her. Who would venture out in a storm such as this without even wearing a coat? Her clothing was hardly shabby, and she appeared well-nourished enough.

Rather than staying to ponder this, he turned and hurried back to where the horse had fallen. It could scarcely lift its head, its breathing rather labored. This told him the beast had struggled quite a bit before finally falling. He crouched beside it, clearing the snow from its nose and mouth.

He murmured to it, his mouth close to his ear, coaxing it. Just as his father had taught him when he was a boy and Merlyn was no more than a pony.

Come, now. Let us go where you can be warm. It is not much farther. Come, I know you can do it. He held the reins, encouraging the horse to rise and follow. It took a bit of time and a great deal more encouragement, but eventually, the beast rose on shaky legs and made its slow, careful way through the snow. He praised it all the while, speaking in the low, soft tones which would not frighten the poor animal.

He allowed it to rest beside the young woman while he removed his possibles bag and fetched his flint and striker from inside. There was a handful of what appeared to be dry brush which had not yet been touched by the snow, and he offered up a silent prayer of thanks as he gathered together and set it ablaze. It would not be enough to warm them for long, but he hoped it would be long enough to at least rouse the girl into wakefulness.

He wished now that he had brought Merlyn along with him, for he might have packed blankets or something otherwise suitable for covering the girl. He removed his coat and draped it over her, careful to cover as much of her as possible. It meant drawing her legs up and tucking her skirts around her feet before placing the buckskin over the top.

Already some of the color had returned to her cheeks, and her chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm which bolstered his confidence.

It was then that he turned his attention to the gelding, whose breathing was markedly heavier than hers. He removed the saddle and used it to prop the girl’s head up.

Just what was he supposed to do with her? He could not imagine a young woman of means losing herself in the mountains, especially without a coat and without supplies. There had been nothing secured to the saddle, though he supposed they might have lost it along their journey.

A coat? A good, strong pair of boots? She had neither of those things, nor was she wearing a hat or muffler. Nothing to protect her.

With this in mind, he lifted the buckskin just enough to withdraw her hands and hold them between his own. They were still so cold, though the fingers were red rather than white. That was a relief, as white would mean freezing.

Only then did he take note of the condition of her wrists. Chafed, rubbed raw. Dried blood had long since crusted over the