was an assignment he almost relished, one that must be uppermost in his mind over the next months. Taking his place on this wagon train as a guide, using his skills to find the man who was a cheat—a murderer who had stolen the deed to a homestead. One hundred sixty acres of land that lay in the shadow of Pike’s Peak—a speck of wilderness that held a fortune in gold in its depths, if the assayer’s office could be relied upon.
Lyle Beaumont. The man was here, his presence a canker, his very existence a stain on the essence of decency Finn had been raised to believe in. Lyle Beaumont—the man who had cheated Finn’s brother, Aaron Carson, of his rightful claim to land and then killed him to conceal the theft.
Lyle Beaumont—who even now possessed the deed to those 160 acres in Colorado.
It was toward that man his mind must focus, that man Finn must identify and pursue, even as he hid his own identity on this train. With regret, he set aside the moment of yearning he’d suffered, acknowledging his purpose would not—could not—include a dalliance of any sort on the journey. Certainly not with a woman who so obviously was already possessed of a husband.
There were only a dozen or so females counted among the group. Most of the men were miners who traveled toward the promised land of gold and silver that courted their interest. More of an obsession, actually, Finn decided with a shake of his head. Men who lusted after gold were a breed apart. Willing to sacrifice everything they possessed on the altar of greed.
Even a woman—a woman obliged to follow the path her husband took. A woman who was off-limits to other men, he reminded himself. A woman bound to the man who had placed a ring on her finger and fear in her heart.
Chapter One
June 1862
It was a scar on the landscape—a raw wound against the backdrop of prairie flowers and lush grasses. The earth was mounded over the narrow plot of ground, and beside it Jessica stood in silence. The man she’d lived with for most of her adult life lay beneath several feet of hardscrabble soil.
Her last memory of him was the look of surprise he’d worn as a bullet tore through his chest only hours before, a recollection she suspected she’d live through again, more than once, during the long nights to come.
“Mrs. Beaumont?” The wagon master stood at her side, his palm cupped beneath her elbow, and she glanced up as he spoke her name.
“We’ve got to get rolling, ma’am,” Jonas McMasters said, his words spoken firmly as he nudged her from the graveside. Beside him, the kindly minister who was heading for Santa Fe with his family closed his Bible and offered her a final nod. At least Lyle had had a real funeral, Jessica thought, even though he’d said more than once that he had no belief in anything he couldn’t lay hands on.
And that included the God she worshiped.
Now Jessica nodded at Jonas, aware as they turned from the grave that a huddled group of men waited next to Lyle’s wagon. Her wagon, she amended silently. The bullet that had shattered Lyle’s heart had effectively robbed her of her position as his wife, as a woman under a man’s protection. Now she was on her own, yet not alone, she thought, as the child within her reminded her of its presence with a rolling motion.
“I’m ready,” she told Jonas quietly, aware that she did not present the appearance of a grieving widow, that her tearless eyes made her seem uncaring. And yet, she could not mourn Lyle. At least not as she might have if he’d endeared himself to her in any way over the past years.
He was dead, and she faced an uncertain future. But for today she had only to sort out what she would do for the next few hours. Tomorrow morning would bring problems enough to worry about for one day. There was no point in thinking too far ahead.
“Mrs. Beaumont.” Another voice broke her reverie as she made her way toward the wagon. Finley Carson stood before her and she looked up at him, met his gaze and felt a shiver of awareness. “I’ll walk with your oxen this afternoon,” he said. “Why don’t you ride in the wagon and get some rest. You’re looking a little peaked.”
And then his mouth twisted in a grimace. “And wasn’t that a kind remark to make,” he said with a shake of his head. “I only meant that you’ve had a shock, and in your condition…” His voice trailed off, as if he were aware that her obvious pregnancy was a topic not fit for discussion between strangers, especially when one of them was an unattached male and the other a woman who had been, only hours before, cast into the role of widowhood.
“I’ll leave you to tend to her, Finn,” the wagon master said with a quick nod of his head in the other man’s direction. “We need to make another three miles or so before sunset.”
Finn Carson’s hand touched Jessica’s back, his wide palm warm against flesh that felt chilled from within, and she shivered. He bent to peer beneath the brim of her sunbonnet. “Can I help you up onto the wagon seat?”
“If you don’t mind,” she said, aware that the step was too high for her to reach. Lyle had made it plain he had no patience with her, just providing a box for her to climb up on in order to get into the back of the wagon and then find her way to the front. It seemed that Mr. Carson had more finely honed manners than Lyle, she thought as the man supported her, lifting her, his hands firm around her middle, then easing her onto the wagon seat.
“Thank you,” she whispered, breathless as she arranged her skirts and settled herself. He was strong, there was no doubt about that, and mannerly to boot, his index finger lifting to touch his hat brim in a small salute.
She sat stiffly, barely able to focus her thoughts, yet aware of the men who sorted out their families, the miners who lined up the wagons, and the womenfolk who cast her looks of sympathy as they gathered their children up and hastened to ready themselves for departure.
The shot had come out of nowhere, it seemed, felling Lyle as if lightning had struck and taken his life in a single instant. He’d turned halfway toward her from his position near the oxen, and the light in his eyes had gone out as though a puff of air had extinguished a candle. He’d fallen and, in moments, had been lying in a pool of blood that spread beneath him like a scarlet cape.
Three men had ridden out, intent on seeking the gunman, and had come back empty-handed an hour later, shrugging helplessly as they stood before her, hats in hand, sweaty and weary from their efforts.
Now she watched dully as the oxen leaned forward and the wagon was set into motion, Finn Carson walking to the right of her team. He glanced back at her, his blue eyes darkening with concern as she lifted her hand in acknowledgment of his unspoken message. And then she relaxed on the seat, knowing that the jouncing of the wagon was easier to survive if she rolled with the rocking motion.
Finn walked at a steady pace, conscious of the woman atop the wagon seat behind him. As he’d been aware of her daily ever since the wagon train had left Independence long weeks ago. He’d dreamed of her, had imagined touching her dark hair, had envisioned holding her in his arms. Since the day in Saint Louis when he’d first seen her, she’d stuck in his mind like a burr beneath his saddle. And though his good sense had bade him forget the woman existed, he’d hoarded the vision of her wide-set eyes, her gleaming hair, and the memory of her gentle profile as she walked the trail.
She was married. He’d repeated the words over and over, even as he’d chafed when Lyle Beaumont treated her uncaringly, when the man had ignored her needs and been unkind in a hundred ways. Finn’s stride was long, his mind working in time with the pace set by
