Montana Man. Jillian Hart

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СКАЧАТЬ what will keep you safe, Miranda?” Trey asked, his words resonating with a blend of concern and knowledge that slashed through her defenses and her arguments.

      It had been a long time since she’d felt anyone’s concern. “I’m not a little girl. I’m old enough to make my own luck.” She stubbornly took a step back, watching tears spill down Josie’s face, torn. She hated that she had to go. She wished she could do more to stop this child’s pain.

      “I admire that.” Trey lowered his hand and squared his shoulders.

      Of all the men she’d come across in her life, she’d never seen a man more mesmerizing and captivating. Trey was sure of his strength, and he created a presence so strong that the light and noise in the car faded until all she could see was him. His gaze latched onto hers.

      “I’m armed.” He laid his well-formed hand over the gleaming wooden grip of the Colt. “Are you?”

      She shook her head. She could not tear her eyes away from the breadth of his thigh, where the holster hugged what looked like rock-hard muscle.

      This was a man who didn’t spend his life indoors away from the sun and wind, his body growing soft with leisure and time. No, Josie’s Uncle Trey looked like a man who rode the range for a living, from the hard ridge of his shoulders down to the tips of his well-worn but polished riding boots. Every inch looked as tough as nails, like the lawman she’d first figured he might be.

      “Then stay with me. You’ll be safer.” He laid one hand on her shoulder. “I doubt those men would be foolish enough to brave this storm, but if they do, they could catch up with us in no time. I don’t know what you’re running from, Miranda, and it’s none of my business.”

      “Then why—”

      “Because where I come from, a man worth his grit protects a woman. He doesn’t fire a gun at her on a crowded platform with a train full of people behind her.” His grip tightened.

      Miranda instinctively tried to brush him away, but stopped when she realized his hold on her wasn’t bruising or possessive, like Lewis’s had been. Nor was it controlling like Father’s. Trey’s touch was firm and binding, but as respectful as a promise made and kept.

      “I could put you and Josie in jeopardy—”

      “Don’t you worry about that. We’re tough, aren’t we, Red?” He gave the little girl wrapped in one arm a slight squeeze.

      “That’s right. We’re real tough.” Josie bobbed her small chin once despite the heartbreak in her eyes.

      “So am I.” Could she stay? Should she?

      For the first time in months, Miranda felt the mantle of fear slide off her shoulders, leaving her weak and tired and strangely at ease. The longing in her heart spurred her. She stepped forward, twisting away from the burn of Trey’s fingers curling into the rise of her shoulder.

      She was lonely, after all. Miranda eased along the seats flanking a window made dark by the brutal storm. “I usually travel alone, but just this once, just for you, Josie, I’ll make an exception.”

      She avoided Trey’s gaze, but felt it heavy on her back as she grabbed her skirts and slid across the plush velvet.

      “Wait.” Again, his touch stopped her, leaving a hot, aching feeling where the weight of his hand settled on her forearm. “I’ll take the window. It’s colder.”

      “I’m no delicate female.” She turned her shoulder and settled into the seat, brushing off his concern as if she didn’t need it.

      But in truth, it had been so long since anyone had known or cared if she were warm or cold, safe or in danger. Her chest squeezed tight. She felt grateful as this man settled beside her. She tingled deep inside when his broad shoulder brushed hers.

      Surely, she wasn’t making a mistake in staying. In trusting that the bounty hunters, or their hired men, couldn’t follow in this storm. But as Trey dug Josie’s doll from his bag, Miranda didn’t relax, or stop fearing the ruthless men on her trail.

      The lamplight, meager in the first-class cabin, played across Miranda’s face, highlighting the soft slope of her nose and the rosebud softness of her lips. She turned from the window to answer something Josie had asked.

      Miranda’s voice was like music, like melody and harmony, and flowed as sweet and quiet as a Brahms lullaby. Low and spellbinding, the sound moved through him. The clack of the wheels on the track and the scouring blast of the blizzard faded into the background until all he could hear was Miranda’s alto sweetness as she agreed to braid her doll Baby Beth’s hair.

      The door swung open in front of them and, propelled by the severe wind, crashed against the wall with force enough to shake the car. Miranda jumped with a look of panic, and her pupils became big black disks. Her slim body tensed, ready to run or fight, he didn’t know which. When the conductor stepped into the car and pulled the door back into place, Trey watched the relief soften Miranda’s face, but the tension squeezed tight in her shoulders and spine did not ease.

      “Don’t worry.” Trey laid his hand over hers, felt the cold, silken texture of her skin and the bone-hard tension of muscles bunched, ready to fight. “He isn’t armed.”

      “Oh, really?” She lifted one brow, the sardonic twist of her mouth somehow endearing. She was afraid, but she wasn’t cowering. Or, he guessed, willing to admit it.

      “This is one threat I can handle.” He winked at her, pulling out the ticket cards from his breast pocket.

      “I’m not here because I need protection.”

      “Of course not. A woman traveling alone is an even match against six armed ruffians.”

      “I’m not helpless.” Her chin shot up. “And those brutes may be armed, but so far I’ve been able to outwit them.”

      “Until you stopped to help us.”

      “It was torture, but someone had to do it.” She flashed him a quick smile, wavery but true.

      He was dying to ask what she was running from, who the men were on her trail—bounty hunters, by his practiced eye—and why they wanted a woman with eyes as gentle as dawn. She was from money—he’d learned to read a person at a single glance in his line of work—her hands were as smooth as watered silk and her face appeared as soft as morning. The cut of her gray cloak was simple, but the worsted wool was of a high quality. Every stitch, every garnish, every button, no matter how sedate, spoke of her station in life, one high above his.

      Women well born and gently raised were never found alone on a Montana mountainside. Curiosity burned, but he’d learned patience in his profession, too.

      He explained Miranda’s absence of a first-class ticket to the conductor and offered quietly to pay the difference. But the kind-eyed man only waved his hand, his gaze falling on Josie’s brand-new leg brace and moved on, the understanding quiet but unmistakable.

      The train inched along through the towering peaks of the Rockies, invisible from the window where the gray and white of the unrelenting blizzard blocked everything from their view.

      “We’re going so slow, will we be able to climb through the mountains?” Miranda pocketed СКАЧАТЬ