Slow Fever

Kylie’s smirk died. “You know good and well that the traditions of Freedom Valley are that if a couple spends the night together, the man is expected to go before the council and present himself as a proper bridegroom candidate. It isn’t necessary, but it’s a custom that every woman really wants, no matter how modern she is. Our mothers and grandmothers had wanted the same, and were courted according to the custom. I can’t see you doing that. You’ve been a Cull too long. You have all those women. You’re a legend in your own time, a heartthrob of every girl when we were younger. You wouldn’t do that just to embarrass me, like that kiss on the dance floor, would you?”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“…Ms. London creates complex, humanly flawed characters who overcome great emotional turmoil to reach a wonderful happy ending.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

www.millsandboon.co.uk

lives in the Missouri Ozarks but loves to travel the Northwest’s gold rush/cattle drive trails every summer. She enjoys research trips, meeting people and going to Native American dances. Ms. London is an avid reader who loves to paint, play with computers and grow herbs (particularly scented geraniums right now). She’s a national bestselling and award-winning author, and she has also written historical romances under another pseudonym. Three is her lucky number; she has three daughters, and the events in her life have always been in threes. “I love writing for Silhouette,” Cait says. “One of the best perks about all this hard work is the thrilling reader response and the warm, snug sense that I have given readers an enjoyable, entertaining gift.”

To Mary Jo

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Town of Freedom 1882

From the journal of Magda Claas—

I have sisters, not of my blood, but of my heart. Women alone in a rough new land without protection, we formed a family. We settled in this valley bordered by high soaring mountains and traveled by men seeking wives. In this rough land, called Montana by the Indians, we’d come from all parts of the world. Some of us had thrown away hope, our lives ruled by men, yet it glimmered boldly when we decided to take this valley for our own and to call it “Freedom.”

That is how I feel. These women, and more coming to the town we have created, are my sisters. We want to command our lives, to work hard and to be respected. We want love and husbands, too. We know now, after surviving a year in this beautiful valley, that we are strong and we have pride in what we have built. Not one of us will easily toss that away.

So we cherish each other as would a family, and we set our conditions for the men who want us.

Love? Will it come to each of us? Is it too much to ask of a woman’s life? There are bargains to be made, but it is the hope of every woman to find peace and love. Peace? I am told that there is no peace around me, for I am too busy with life.

With dreams and conditions, we, the women of Freedom Valley, build our town. Let it be known through this rough land that we protect our sisters, and that any man wishing a bride must first come to us, her family. He must present himself as a prospective candidate, the same as he would come asking a father for a daughter’s hand in marriage.

He must abide by our Rules of Bride Courting and meet the terms of the Women’s Council. We will have our due as brides and wives and we will come together as sisters, though marriage bonds have tied us to husbands.

Magda Claas

Town of Freedom, Freedom Valley

Montana Territory, July 1882

My daughter, Kylie, is fourteen and has just threatened to kill young Michael Cusack, or at best, make his life unbearable. In a mood, she can make grown men shiver, but not Michael. Two years older and toughened by life, Michael is seeking curvier, more womanly fare. His father was heavy-handed and drunken, and Michael is not a boy, rather a scarred soul in a boy’s body. I’ve fed him and done for him what his pride would allow. But Michael isn’t the loving sort, trusting his heart to others, and he’s having none of either of my girls. Because he respects me, he will not toy with my daughters, much to their annoyance. Miranda is merely nettled, but Kylie will never forgive that trespass.

—From the journal of Anna Bennett, descendant of Magda Claas and the mother of Kylie Bennett Patton.

“Mom?” Unanswered, Kylie’s call echoed through the white two-story house. The mid-September night wind slashed autumn leaves against the windows, and memories whispered around Kylie.

“Mom?” she called again, her heart tearing, for Anna Bennett would not be answering her children’s calls. She lay by her husband’s side in Freedom Valley’s small cemetery; a semitruck at a foggy intersection had cut her life short just eleven months ago. “You’re here, I know you are, Mom,” Kylie murmured.