A Montana Brides Romance From the Montana Territory to the farthest railroad stops across the magnificent West, love has a way of finding those who need it the most . . . Heiress Colette Vanderpool-Vane needs to prove she’s outgrown her impetuous ways before her parents will allow her to open her beloved art museum. But when the solutions she proposes aren’t enough, her father tasks her with a mission that demands she keep her life in Denver a secret. It’s a clandestine train adventure that brings her face to face with an intriguing stranger . . . Jakob Gunderson has always come in second in matters of the heart. Hired to protect young ladies rescued from the streets of Helena as they journey to a better life, he is drawn to their lovely, free-spirited chaperone. He’s finally someone’s number one. When their train ride ends, Jakob proposes marriage. But then he learns the secrets Colette’s been forced to keep. How can Colette say yes? But—with their hearts on the line—how can she say no? Also in the Montana Brides Romance series!
Release date:
March 26, 2019
Publisher:
Zebra Books
Print pages:
121
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Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge.
—JANE AUSTEN, Sense and Sensibility
Denver, Colorado
Fitzroy estate
Thursday, August 9, 1888, approaching midnight
“Letty, what”—sniff—“what did you”—sniff—“say?”
At the sound of Beatrix’s heartbroken voice, Colette Vanderpool-Vane grabbed a second novel off the shelf, then descended the library ladder. “There’s more to life than this, and I have two books that will prove it to you.”
“Jane Austen does not have the answer to everything.”
“She was right when she wrote, ‘Know your own happiness.’”
A pitiful groan reverberated from Beatrix. “You quote Jane Austen because, like her, your heart has never been ripped out of your chest by a mons—” Another round of wails drowned out the last syllable in monster.
Colette stepped off the ladder. Her heart ached as she stared down at her dearest friend crying prostrate on the Persian rug, an uncorked bottle of wine in one hand, a corkscrew in the other. For all Beatrix’s claim that she’d spend the rest of the evening at home drowning her sorrows away, neither of them had anything to drink or eat since leaving the opera. Of course, they’d had no choice but to flee at intermission after the callous Henderson Smyth abruptly announced his wish to end his and Beatrix’s engagement.
Colette tossed the novels into Beatrix’s favorite reading chair. Life was too short for Beatrix to waste another second bemoaning a lost future as Mrs. Henderson Smyth. His actions tonight proved him to be the cad Colette knew him to be, and what Bea had refused to see because of his ability to say what a person wanted to hear.
With determination and force, Colette pried the corkscrew then the wine bottle from her friend’s grip. “Come on, get up. We’re going downtown.”
Beatrix turned her head toward Colette. “Why?”
“It’s time you see how big the world really is.” Colette wiped away Beatrix’s tears. “Uncle Schelley’s building has the best views in Denver.”
“Do you have a key?”
“We can sneak up the fire escape.”
“But that’s”—Beatrix’s voice lowered despite them being alone in the library—“trespassing.”
“Uncle Schelley is my godfather. He won’t mind.” And Colette knew he wouldn’t. For all practical purposes the Schellenberg building was hers, since she was the main inheritor of his estate, so she wouldn’t really be trespassing.
“Letty, did you forget that Denver has a curfew?”
Of course she hadn’t forgotten. She’d considered every potential hindrance to her cheer-up-Beatrix plan. “The curfew doesn’t apply to us.”
Beatrix’s brow furrowed in thought. “I’m pretty sure the mayor said anyone under the age of twenty-five caught out between midnight and five a.m. would be arrested.”
“No, only gang members and hooligans,” Colette clarified. “And we are neither.”
Besides, the curfew was wrong at best and discriminatory at worst—reasons enough to ignore the ordinance. She read the papers. She knew not all crime was committed in the evening or was done by those under the age of twenty-five. She also knew full well that some city officials and police earned graft from underworld bosses and brothel owners, like Soapy Smith and Mattie Silks.
“Come on.” Colette nudged Beatrix into standing. “Trust me, Bea. We can sneak in and out and no one—not even your parents—will be the wiser. You need this. Your heart needs to experience something wonderful.” Seeing the world—and Bea’s romantic future—was far grander than one little man named Henderson Smyth.
Beatrix’s eyes welled with tears. “You would do this for me?”
Colette touched her dear friend’s tear-moistened cheek. “I would do anything to make you happy again.” She paused, thought about what she’d committed herself to, then amended her pronouncement with: “Except murder.” She grinned mischievously. “I have to draw a line somewhere.”
The corners of Beatrix’s lips eased up a fraction. Not a smile per se. Nor did her desolate expression change any, but for the first time since Henderson Smyth shattered his better-than-he-deserved fiancée’s heart, Colette saw—and felt—a spark of hope. Today was the beginning of Beatrix Fitzroy’s future, and a good future it would be…if Colette had any say about it.
* * * *
Monday morning, August 20
Colette folded the quilt, then wedged it between the jail bars separating her cell from Nehemiah Foster’s. “From one friend to another.”
Mr. Foster’s eyes grew watery. “Thank you.” He stretched his mammoth hand out to her.
She clasped his hand between her equally grimy ones. “Please write that letter to your wife.”
“Ruth won’t forgive me.”
“She may already have and is merely waiting for you to say you’re sorry.”
A throat cleared.
Mr. Foster’s gaze flickered left, to the police officer standing outside the door to Colette’s cell, and he withdrew his hand from her hold. “You do right, Miss Colette, and stay out of trouble, you hear?”
“I hear.” And she fully intended to. Of course, what she should do and what she did didn’t always match up. Which was why she’d spent the last ten days in jail. Eleven, if one wanted to count the night she and Beatrix were arrested.
She should’ve—
She halted the thought because, if her godfather taught her anything, it was that life was too short to live with regrets and should’ves.
Colette raised her chin. “If trouble finds me, Mr. Foster, I will do as Mr. Shakespeare advised—‘The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief.’” Pleased with her clever response, she strolled through the cell door that Sergeant John Phillips held open while wearing a look on his face as if he’d rather be anywhere but guarding the city jail today.
“You’re not funny,” John Phillips said—more like grumbled—as he walked next to her.
“That’s mean of you to say.”
“I don’t get paid to be nice to you.”
Colette winced. How could he say that? She’d been a dear friend to John Phillips since her father had hired his father to be the gardener of their estate. She’d helped him win the love of his life. She’d never been anything but sweet to him. Yet the moment he locked her in a jail cell, he’d been cold and distant. Maybe something else was bothering him.
Was that gray at his temple? Colette tilted her head to the side for a better look at John Phillips’s close-cropped black hair. Twenty-two was too young to start graying. The poor dear seemed burdened. A wife and children did that to a man. Or so Papa claimed was the reason his ginger hair had been gray since Colette could remember, which meant a majority of Papa’s burdens came during her siblings’ maturation years and not hers.
She lowered her voice so no one else in the jail would hear. “Did you and Millie have a spat?”
He gave her a flat-eyed, don’t-meddle-in-my-life stare.
Before she could respond, he impolitely nudged her into the main office. A trio of police officers standing next to a desk stopped talking. They all looked her way. Chief Lomery exited his office. The four men took turns shaking her hand and wishing her well, a surprise considering how uncordial Chief Lomery and half his police force had been to her after she’d insisted she could not in good conscience pay the fine for trespassing or the one for breaking curfew, nor would she pay any other fine they thought they could get away with charging her with. Nor would she accept anyone—not even her godfather—paying the fines.
“Under the circumstances,” Chief Lomery finished saying.
Colette gave him a gracious smile. “Actually, sir, Uncle Schelley had wanted to dismiss the charges against—”
“She understands,” John Phillips said, cutting off her defense, “and she won’t make the same mistake again.” He gripped her elbow, then rudely pulled her down a side corridor leading to an iron-covered, wooden door.
Colette raised her chin. “You certainly know how to make a girl feel welcome.”
“You’re still not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying—”
“Stop!” He jerked the door open. After they stepped outside, he slammed the door behind them. “You need to take life more seriously.”
More seriously? Colette blinked as her eyes adjusted to the afternoon sunlight. “I lasted ten days in jail without my parents’ financial aid or emotional assistance. I survived on two meals a day and slept on a tick cot with nothing but the quilt Beatrix was only allowed to give to me only after she paid a minor fee, which we all know was a bribe. To top it off, I endured a lack of toiletries and luxuries to which I am accustomed. Not once did I cry. Not once did I complain. Nor did I accept my godfather’s willingness to come to my aid.”
She paused to give John Phillips a moment to praise her fortitude, integrity, and good cheer.
He continued to glare.
Marriage to one of the sweetest girls in Denver had done nothing to improve his demeanor.
Leaving him to his sullenness, Colette turned to study the unmarked carriage parked in the alley. How strange. The gray-haired driver stayed on the driver’s bench, his gaze forward as if he had no intention of jumping down to open the door for her. She understood not sending the mahogany carriage with the Vanderpool-Vane crest; no reason to risk ruining the family coach with her stench. Why not send their usual coachman? Why send someone she’d never met?
Understanding increased the hammering in her chest.
Uncle Schelley had warned her of this. Oh, she’d entertained—feared—the possibility that her parents wouldn’t escort her home in light of no communication from them these last ten days, but reason and logic enabled her to discount the likelihood for the sole fact her parents loved her. Other than an occasional admonishment, she’d never experienced any great punishment from them like what her older siblings oft claimed they’d endured.
Colette stared at the door lever. Her feet were frozen, unable to move the final five steps toward what would confirm her heartbreak. “Give Millie my love,” she said to John Phillips in a weak voice. Not weak. Tired. And grimy.
“I will.” He sighed loudly. “Colette, I didn’t think you had it in you to last a day in jail.”
Colette winced. “You really didn’t think I could last a day in jail?”
“Millie championed you. She insisted you would stick through it until the end because you are determined, brave, and resourceful.”
Of course Millie would be supportive. She was a good and faithful friend…who, despite being married to a police officer, hadn’t been allowed to give Colette food without paying a “minor fee,” which Colette had insisted Millie not pay.
“I can’t figure out why my wife adores you.” John Phillips huffed a breath. “All I see is a girl who lives like not all rules apply to her.”
“If a rule is foolish, why should anyone follow it?”
“I can think of myriad reasons. The biggest problem is when your disregard for the rules causes harms to others.”
Colette winced. “I wasn’t trying to cause anyone harm.”
“You never try to. You do it because you don’t think about the consequences first before you act.” John Phillips sighed again. “I know you’re . . .
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