Pity. Revulsion. Told himself again it didn’t matter.
When her expression reflected nothing more than curiosity, irrational anger flooded him.
“What are you doing in my home?” he snapped. “How do you know Will?”
“I’m Constance Miller. I’m the bride Mr. Canfield sent for.”
“Will’s already got a wife.”
Pink kissed her cheekbones. “Not for him. For you.”
Shock nailed his boots to the floorboards. “Excuse me?”
“You are Mr. Burgess, are you not?”
She looked deliberately to the tintype photograph propped on the mantel. Three young, naive soldiers stood proudly in their freshly issued uniforms. He was in the middle, flanked on either side by men who had become like brothers, Daniel Gardner and Will Canfield. The same men who’d followed him out here as soon as the war ended. Men who’d pestered him to pitch in for the bride train and order one for himself.
His throat closed. They wouldn’t have.
“That’s my name,” he forced past stiff lips.
“I was summoned to Cowboy Creek to be your bride.” She was looking at him with encroaching desperation, silently imploring him to confirm her statement.
He closed his eyes and mentally pummeled his blockheaded friends. They’d stirred up a hornet’s nest with this one. How many times had he told them he wasn’t interested? Why couldn’t they accept he was resigned to a solitary life?
“Your friend didn’t tell you.” The dismay coloring her tone snapped his eyes open. A sharp crease brought her brows together.
“I’m afraid not.” Slipping off his worn Stetson, Noah hooked it on the chair and dipped his head toward the crumpled parchment. “May I?”
Miss Miller didn’t appear inclined to approach him, so he laid his gun on the mantel to unload later and crossed to the square table, keeping it as a barrier between them. He took the envelope she extended across to him and slipped the letter free, aware of an undertone of vanilla. Was it coming from her? He’d expected garish perfume, not sweet subtlety.
The words scrawled in neat, succinct rows were indeed Will’s. The handwriting was unmistakable. Heat climbed up his neck as he read the description of himself. His friend had embellished his finer traits while downplaying the disfigurement he’d earned during the battle of Little Round Top.
Tips of his ears burning, he stuffed it back inside and tossed it on the tabletop. “I’m afraid you’ve come all the way out here from...”
“Chicago.”
“Chicago.” Of course. Lots of wealthy industrialists in that fine city. So why hop a train out here? Was there a shortage of acceptable men her age back in the Midwest? Both sides of the war had lost significant numbers...
With the rush of adrenaline fading, he began to notice details about her. Miss Miller wasn’t a classic beauty. Her features were too interesting. Slightly playful. It was the eyebrows, he decided. Sweeping over large, expressive eyes, the dark slashes formed a natural arch and were set in perpetual inquisitiveness.
No, it wasn’t the brows. It was her unusually shaped mouth. Soft and pink, the top lip curved in a smooth arc above the full lower one. A tiny freckle hovered above it on the right. Definitely intriguing.
He blinked those thoughts away. Intriguing or not, the city girl wasn’t staying.
Folding his arms across his chest, he delivered a glare that made most townsfolk quiver in their boots. “The trip was a waste, Miss Miller. I am not, nor will I ever be, in the market for a bride.”
* * *
He hadn’t been expecting her. Clearly. Grace Longstreet stared at the walnut gun handle angled on the mantel and swallowed tightly. Fear tasted coppery in her mouth. Guilt oozed through her veins like black sludge. If she didn’t pull off this masquerade...
Her fingers curled into balls, causing her many rings to bite into her skin. Failure didn’t bear thinking about. She must convince this intimidating homesteader of two essential facts—that her name was Constance Miller, and that he had a responsibility to marry her. There wasn’t room for her conscience or pride. Her little girls’ well-being hinged on the success of her subterfuge.
Sunlight streaming through the bare window set his fair hair ablaze and made his flinty gaze appear to radiate blue fire. Noah Burgess was a blond, blue-eyed Norse Viking clothed in cowboy gear. He had nothing in common with the men in her social circle, with their expensive suits, slicked-back hair and soft hands. This man lived and breathed the great outdoors. He was one with nature. Strong and virile. He wore a pale blue button-down shirt, tan vest, canvas trousers and brown leather boots caked with trail grit. A red-and-white bandanna was knotted around his neck. A powerful-looking man, his biceps and wide shoulders strained the fabric, folded as they were over a chiseled chest that narrowed to lean hips and thick, muscular legs.
She tried not to stare at the scars. Raised, uneven webs of pink skin fanned over his lower left jaw, extended under his ear and onto his neck, disappearing beneath his shirt collar. Grace wanted to ask what had hurt him. Mr. Canfield hadn’t given her details, saying only that Mr. Burgess had sustained an injury in battle. But she’d sensed his recoil the first time she’d noticed them, and so she refrained.
Whatever the case, it didn’t distract from his rugged presence. He possessed strong features. His mouth, set in a hard, straight line, looked as if it hadn’t curved into a smile for quite some time.
When she’d discovered her cousin had agreed to come West and marry a complete stranger, Grace had seen only an opportunity to escape the city. She hadn’t given a single thought to whom or what she’d find at the other end of the tracks. It wasn’t until she and the girls were safely on the train, Chicago’s skyline gradually fading into the distance, that she’d paused to consider the possible ramifications of her impulsiveness. Fact was, she didn’t know anything about Constance’s intended groom. Her cousin hadn’t been able to tell her much. With no suitable marriage prospects in her impoverished neighborhood, the younger girl had been anticipating a fresh start, despite the inherent risks in such an undertaking. Grace had gifted her with a satisfactory sum for letting her switch places. Right about now, her cousin was undoubtedly searching for another eager groom in a different territory.
During the long, uncomfortable journey, Grace had contemplated the contents of Will Canfield’s letter—Constance had read it to her enough times for her to have it memorized—and had been comforted by his description of Noah Burgess as an honorable man. She’d prayed a lot, too. With her soul conflicted, she’d begged for God’s understanding and forgiveness. What choice had she had, in the end?
Noah shifted, the silver badge over his heart glinting, catching her eye for the first time.
“You’re the sheriff?” she blurted, hard put to hide her distress. There’d been no mention of it in Mr. Canfield’s letter. Then again, that gentleman had apparently left off more than one piece of pertinent information.
Conning an ordinary homesteader was one thing. But a lawman? Her already upset stomach tightened further into hard knots.
“It’s a recent development.”
