âYouâre right not to trust me.â
He paused, as if some terrible struggle were going on in his mind.
She was aware of her beating heart, of the room growing warmer. He grazed her palm with his thumb, tenderly, with affection, and the sensation of it sent a shiver clear up her spine.
Then without warning, as if heâd been dreaming and had all of a sudden come awake, he laughed. His face lit up, his eyes flashed mischief. She tried to draw her hand away as the man withdrew and the rogue appeared.
His fingers tightened over hers. âIâve been known to lead women astray.â To punctuate the point, he arched one dark brow in a scandalously suggestive manner.
Dora pulled herself together. âYes, wellâ¦â She yanked, and her hand was freed. She shook it to revive her circulation. âThis woman is miraculously unaffected!â
Praise for Debra Lee Brownâs previous titles
Gold Rush Bride
âDebra Lee Brownâs traditional romance captures the eraâs excitement and excess in lively characters meant for each other.â
âRomantic Times
Ice Maiden
âIce Maiden is an enticing tale that will warm your heart.â
âRomantic Times
âThis Viking tale of high adventure gallops through time and into the hearts of the reader.â
âRendezvous
The Virgin Spring
âDebra Lee Brown makes her mark with The Virgin Spring, which should be read by all lovers of Scottish romances.â
âAffaire de Coeur
âA remarkable story. The fast pace, filled with treachery, mystery, and passion, left me breathless.â
âRendezvous
Colorado, 1884
âI tâs a saloon?â
âYes, maâam. The pride of Last Call. Draws customers from Fairplay to Garo.â The driver hefted her trunk from the buckboard and set it on the ground under a young oak, in front of the steps leading up to the entrance.
There had to be some mistake. Her father had owned a cattle ranch, not aâ¦a⦠Dora couldnât breathe. She gawked at the gold-leaf-lettered sign above the swinging doors. The Royal Flush. Established 1876. William Fitzpatrick, proprietor.
âThe best damned gambling house in the state, if you ask me.â The driver tipped his hat to her, then climbed atop the buckboard to depart.
âW-wait. Please.â She plucked her fatherâs letter from the small, leather-bound diary she always carried with her, and read the first shakily written paragraph again.
If youâre reading this, Dora, Iâm dead. Seeing as youâre my only living kin, Iâm leaving you the place. Lock, stock and barrel, itâs all yours.
She gazed out across the high-country pasture surrounding the opulent two-story ranch-house-turned-saloon. A few stray cattle grazed in the meadow below the original homestead. Nowhere were the herds sheâd expected, or any evidence that her father had made his fortune in cattle.
Several outbuildings were visible behind the house: a barn, what looked like a bunkhouse, and a few small cabins nestled between naked stands of aspen and oak. It had been a ranch once, by the look of things.
âI guess youâll be running the place now. Good luck to you, maâam.â The driver snapped the reins and the horses sprang to life.
Running the place?
âWait a moment. Please!â Dora ran after the buckboard. âYouâre not just going to leave me here?â
âYou want to go back to town?â The driver pulled the horses up short. âBefore you even get a peek at the place?â
The sun had already dipped well below the snow-capped peaks in the distance. Spring columbine checkered the rolling grassland as far as the eye could see, but winterâs chill still frosted the air. Dora pulled her cloak tightly about her as she glanced back at the bustling business her father had never once mentioned in his letters to her.
Horses stood in a line, tied up at the long rail outside the saloon. Buggies and buckboards and other conveyances were parked along the side. A corral flanked the building, where other horses were feeding. Presumably they belonged to customers, regulars she believed the term was.
Soft light spilled from the entrance of the saloon and from windows draped in red velvet. Tinny piano music, menâs voices and coquettish laughter drifted out to meet her. Fascinated, Dora took a step toward the entrance, then paused to consider her predicament.
âMaâam?â The driver fished a pocket watch out of his vest. âGot to get these horses back to town. Are you coming or staying?â
Not once in her twenty-five years had she ever been inside a saloon. God would strike her dead, her mother had been fond of saying when she was alive, if Dora so much as set foot in one.
âLast chance, maâam.â
Last chance.
She heard the driverâs words, the snap of the reins, and the buckboard rattling back down the two-mile stretch of road to the mining town of Last Call, where her only hope of securing proper accommodations for the night was to be found.