Our Harlequin Historical guest today is another pond fave, Kate Bridges. It is hard not to adore a writer who shows us how the west was won, in the Yukon. If you are looking for adventures with Mounties or stories of the Klondike Gold Rush – Kate is the author to look for. Next she will be taking on the Alaskan side of the Gold Rush. The working title of her 2009 Harlequin Historical is Alaskan Masquerade. Until we can get her to give up the goods on that take a look at her 2008 books you want to make sure not to miss…
Klondike Fever by Kate Bridges
April 2008
It’s a reversal of fortune when Klondike Lily, the richest woman to strike gold in the Yukon, is robbed on a coach headed to Alaska and shackled to fellow passenger, Dylan Wayburn, a man she used to work for as a servant.
Yukon wilderness, August 1898
Dylan Wayburn recognized her before she recognized him.
She dressed differently, he thought. An odd mix of blatant beauty and hidden treasure. And after five years, instead of recognition in her eyes, there was dismissal. Dylan lowered the brim of his Stetson and hoped it would stay that way.
He studied her through half-closed eyes.
Miss Lilybeth Cromwell had always been self-conscious of a man’s attention. Yet the top button of her square neckline, scooped low like many high-society dresses, was half undone. It riveted the faces of all four men in the stagecoach. They waited for the button to slip completely and grace them with more of her bosom. Even the old lady seated beside Dylan was sniffing into a handkerchief and staring. Funny thing was, Lilybeth wore a black silk shawl around her shoulders, covering up the brilliant blue dress beneath.
Dylan never could understand that about women. She put that revealing dress on this morning and now she was trying to hide it.
Lilybeth was as far from demure as her flowing red hair and full lips would allow. But then again, Miss Lilybeth Cromwell was not the shy, nameless adolescent he’d once known. She was Klondike Lily, the wealthiest woman in the Yukon.
Rumor had it the gold nuggets on her claim were the size of grizzly claws.
Dylan tried to ignore her. He shoved a shoulder against the hard boards and peered out the window.
No sound of anything unusual. Still nothing to look at for the hundreds of miles between Dawson City and the tent town of Whitehorse except acres of spruce, aspen and the occasional cottonwood. A ridge of mountains engulfed the river valley. Turquoise waters of the Yukon River gushed on the other side of their coach.
They hit another rut. The six passengers swayed in unison and Dylan’s face bobbed back to Lily.
Her button inched closer to release. He swallowed mighty hard, turned away again and stared at the outside shadows—two men driving a team of twelve horses. A strongbox locked in between them. A stack of luggage.
No one else had voiced it, but Dylan was well aware they were carrying a cache of gold. He knew it the instant he’d seen the number of horses on the team this morning. He’d been following the gold but he hadn’t been looking forward to meeting up with Lily again. Sooner or later, he knew they would, seeing how much gold she owned and how attractive that made her to thieves. And that, of course, was the reason he was here.
Beneath his boots, he felt the weight of the gold shift, tucked somewhere into a secret iron trap beneath the floorplanks. The stash was fairly well balanced, but on the odd turn, it slid an inch or two to the right, making the iron wheels on his side of the coach creak.
Mud wagon was a more appropriate term for the contraption they were riding in. A far cry from a civilized stagecoach in a civilized part of the world.
Twenty-eight days and nights he’d been traveling alone. Hiding behind scrub bush, eating berries when he couldn’t light a fire to attract attention, letting the scratch grow on his jaw, ensuring his holster and Colt revolvers were visible to all.
He’d be damned if he’d allow one inconsequential woman to blow his cover. If necessary, he could take down the two men sitting on either side of her.
Still, Dylan bristled with caution. He hoped she wouldn’t do anything reckless that might jeopardize the coming ambush and what he had to do to protect everyone inside the coach.
* * *
Lily adjusted her skirts and turned away from the bodyguard sitting on her right. His breath smelled of breakfast sausages. Heat glued their shoulders together. She usually preferred a window seat when she traveled, whether by train or wagon or ship, but her two secret bodyguards, provided by the stage depot three hours ago, insisted on flanking her.
She wiggled, panting for a pocket of air that wasn’t scented with either man’s breath. Envy gripped her as she stared at the formidable stranger slumped across from them. He sat beside the curtain and its rustling breeze. Why, with his dark Stetson perched low over his face, the mysterious man who seemed impressed with his own sense of danger hardly needed all the fresh air blowing his way. He was sleeping, for Lord’s sake, not even able to fully appreciate the gust.
And here she was, gasping.
There were some things money still couldn’t buy.
In fact, a lot of things.
Oh, here it came…a pinch of pine. Summer cedar.
She inhaled. Perhaps she’d get to the town of Whitehorse in one sane piece, after all. Then on to Skagway, Alaska, where her sister had last been sighted.
She detected the scent of whisky again, hailing from the sleeping stranger. How could a person take to drink so early in the morning?
Lily slid her hanky beneath her heavy wall of hair. She dabbed the moisture. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave, she would have pinned her hair into a bun. Despite the heat, it wasn’t proper to go anywhere without a shawl.
Look how the stranger slid forward, silently demanding more space around him than any other passenger.
Weathered blue jeans covered his long legs. Expensive guns rested on lean hips. His crisp white shirt and suede vest made him look like an outlaw who was trying to behave. She glared at the broad shoulders and how many extra inches they occupied, inches that rightfully belonged to the older woman beside him and her elderly husband squeezed next to her, the Sawyers.
And why hadn’t the selfish man bothered to shave? Was it too much to ask for a man to look decent?
His shaggy brown hair could use a cut. He was traveling alone, but surely he hadn’t thought the coach would be empty from Dawson City to Whitehorse. They were in the middle of a gold rush!
Klondike fever, she called it. A burning inside the bellies of some men and women. A yearning to attain something grand, something they’d never seen or touched before.
They could have all the gold they could carry out of Dawson, if they struck it rich. The newly opened dirt path along the rivers between the Yukon and Alaska was no more than a hacked rut, but it was the only land route between Canada and the United States. Most folks still traveled by the waterways.
Heavens to God, look at him. Even his cowboy boots were obnoxiously large. She had half a mind to shake the living—
A dark eye peered at her from beneath his cowboy hat.
Heat rose to her cheeks.
Go ahead, tell him how much space he takes up! How his knees are just an inch away from her bodyguard’s. A bodyguard whose seat she had paid for. Why, she had literally paid for three seats in this coach, while he had only paid for one.
Air…she needed air…
The sound of gunshots lurched her forward, and suddenly she forgot all about the seating arrangements.
* * *
Her button finally came undone, but Dylan had no time to savor Lily. His pulse leaped at the blast of gunfire. He lunged for his Colts.
The old woman beside him shrieked, “No!”
“Hit the floor,” Dylan shouted and the Sawyers slid to their knees.
One of the drivers toppled from above the stagecoach, blood trickling off his left boot. He fell to the moving dirt.
Lily swung to her bodyguards. “Do something!”
Their guns were already halfway up, but Dylan was faster at pointing his six-shooters. “Toss your weapons.”
Fury etched their faces. They dropped their guns.
Lily trembled. “Blazes,” she whispered at Dylan, her skin pale against her wild auburn hair.
He knelt on the seat and peered out the window. The stagecoach careened down the trail, rocking everyone back and forth. They clutched their seats to hang on.
Hooves thundered in the grass. Five masked men galloped within yards of the coach, gaining fast. With steady aim, Dylan hit one chest, then another. Gravely wounded, the men toppled over their horses.
Dylan was well aware what was happening inside the coach, too. One of the bodyguards whipped out a hidden pistol.
Dylan twisted around, shot the man’s wrist, and as the other bodyguard rushed him, Dylan shoved his boots into the man’s gut and heaved as hard as he could. The man crashed through the door and out to the rolling ground. The door slapped open and closed.
More gunshots outside. The coach slowed.
“Damn,” said Dylan. The slowing meant his side was losing. Hidden gold beneath his boots shifted and the right wheels creaked.
Lily’s blue eyes widened. “What do you want?”
Dylan kept his gun pointed at the injured man beside her, who was clutching a bloody wrist. “Your hired men are part of the gang trying to rob you.”
“Go to hell!” the bodyguard hollered.
Lily recoiled, unsure of who to look at, unsure of who to trust.
Dylan nudged the old man on the floor. “You all right?”
The gent moaned and helped his wife to her seat.
Lily kept her startled sights on Dylan. Her eyes flickered with recognition. Her mouth slackened, about to speak.
“Don’t say it,” he whispered.
“But you’re—”
“Don’t say it.”
She blinked rapidly and clutched her beaded handbag. Her lips went white. Her chin quivered. Her posture lost its strength.
Her remaining bodyguard lunged at Dylan with a knife. Dylan kicked the blade out of the ravaged hands and kicked the son of a bitch straight through the flapping door. He hurled to the grass.
The old couple gasped.
Color rushed back to Lily’s cheeks. She took in everything around her as the coach came to a shuddering stop.
“Pretend you’re with me,” Dylan said.
“But—”
“You either trust me or you don’t.” He locked on to her frantic expression. And waited. . . .
(continued. . . .)
WESTERN WEDDINGS anthology, “Shotgun Vows” by Kate Bridges
It’s humiliation no bride should have to bear. Yet, Milly Thornbottom is forced to take a groom when her parents, Dawson City’s biggest gossips, are aghast to find her in a compromising situation with a young Mountie recruit. Corporal Weston Williams can’t believe his misfortune. All he did was ask for a simple dance….
Chapter One
Dawson City, Yukon, May 1899
“I think he’s going to ask you to dance.”
“Hush,” said Milly Thornbottom to her good friend, Cora Vandenberg. Heat of embarrassment rushed up Milly’s neck. She smoothed the pleats of her ball gown in the bright evening sun that blasted through the community lodge for the annual Spring Fever Ball. “I dearly hope not.”
Her other friend, Rose Addison, whispered. “He’s attracted by your wicked hat, no doubt.”
Milly glanced across the crowded dance floor to the tall man in the red uniform who wouldn’t let go of her gaze. A cool evening breeze ruffled the tiny hairs at the back of her knotted bun, dark brunette hair she’d carefully pinned up for the biggest event of the year. She fiddled with a lose strand.
The lace trim on her sleeves swirled through the air. Beside her, Cora leaned against Rose. The two friends were such a contrast—Cora with her ruddy complexion and short golden curls, Rose with long black tresses.
“Can’t you two behave?” In order to break away from the Mountie’s gaze, Milly adjusted the brim of her hat, a wine-colored burgundy that matched her dress.
She’d stitched the organza to the brim only last night at eleven o’clock because it had been so sinfully busy at the hat and tailor shop where she worked. She’d volunteered to stay extra late to help her dear older neighbor, whose vision was going. The grandmother had needed help to hem a dress she’d attempted to fix on her own. Milly had restrung the loose beads across the waist while she was it.
The customers had all dropped in at the last minute it seemed, women boisterously preparing for the coming week of celebrations.
The Yukon was celebrating its spring, the thawing of its rivers for passage, and the endless sunshine that would soon bake the north. Milly couldn’t wait.
Across the room, the door opened again and caused another breeze. More folks entered the lodge. The fluttering white sash on Milly’s hat tickled her back, where her neckline plunged in a fashionable swoop.
She wondered if the man in uniform was truly coming for her, and dared another glance his way.
They hadn’t spoken the entire winter.
Weston Williams. Recent recruit for the North-West Mounted Police. He maneuvered his muscled frame through the crowd, aiming his blue-eyed gaze on Milly. To her annoyance, he still made her pulse rush. Dark blond hair brushed his shoulders, a bit longer than the other Mounties’. Although she and Weston had been quarantined for measles together last summer for two whole weeks in a group of strangers, they’d rarely shared an entire conversation. No matter how hard she’d tried.
He’d treated her as though she was far beneath him, a young child compared to his maturity. Ha. He wasn’t that much older.
The flecks of black in his blue eyes added to their depth and mystery. His lips seemed always on the verge of expression, yet never seemed to give away what he was thinking.
His red wool jacket tugged at the corners of his broad shoulders. Dark breeches spanned long legs, and tall leather boots added height to his already huge physique.
Did the Mounties dress to intimidate? She supposed the uniform and boots did that. Or perhaps the shoulder harness and gun.
Judging from the other men nodding at her, it seemed Weston was not the only one who’d noticed how much she’d changed from last year to this. Changed on the outside, she thought, but not on the inside. She was the same she’d always been, only he’d been too haughty to notice when it had really mattered to her.
Tonight, she appreciated the others in the room who had more manners and kinder things to say to her as a woman, not a child.
“Pardon me,” said a male voice behind her.
Milly twirled around. Her long skirts flashed across the plank floors, exposing the pointed black tips of her new boots. When the mercantile’s handsome son, James Yakov, nodded his dark head at her, she beamed. “James.”
“Your father said I might have this dance.”
“Absolutely,” she gushed. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
She’d stitched this dress for James. He’d once complimented her on a burgundy-colored blouse, and so she’d chosen burgundy linen for the gown tonight.
“You look pretty,” he told her, causing her pleasure to deepen.
“Thank you. I’ve-I’ve never seen you in a suit before. It makes you look quite dashing.”
He boldly took her hand and whirled her around the floor to a waltz, awkward at first, then synchronizing steps.
She glanced in her parents’ direction. Theodore and Abigail Thornbottom, owners of the rope and broom shop in Dawson City, were watching her carefully, even while shaking the hands of Reverend Murphy. Her thin father, in his tight plaid suit and white ponytail, squeezed the plump shoulder of her mother, whose own golden ball gown Milly had worked on in secret for a solid month, and then surprised her. It had been well worth her mother’s delight.
Tonight, her mother’s skin was flushed with pride, her eyes sparkling as she said goodbye to the minister. The man was leaving on a journey in the morning to visit the camps that dotted the riverbanks, for those in need of religious services that had been stymied by the impassable winter weather.
Milly reveled in the feel of James’s loose hold on her waist. She wished he’d press tighter so she could really feel his grip. She also wished her folks would let her make her own decisions regarding dance partners, but she was working on them.
Thank goodness they’d said yes to James.
It was spring and Milly, Cora and Rose would blissfully take their time deciding on men. Potential husbands, even. The thought made Milly’s stomach flutter. Like Cora and Rose, Milly was ready for courtship—for the year ahead, meeting all types of gentlemen she could thankfully choose from. Perhaps she didn’t have to look far. James was here.
He squeezed her waist. She lowered her lashes and held back a smile, not wanting to be too obvious. Then to her utter shock, he twirled her around right at the base of Weston William’s feet. She held her breath and didn’t dare look up.
Weston had been snubbed by James already, if he’d intended to ask for the dance first. However, it was Weston’s loss. He’d waited too long. Ever since last summer, to be frank.
When the waltz ended, she was panting with enthusiasm. “Thank you so much, James, I—”
“Her Pa said I was next.” A heavy-set older man interrupted them. Mr. Dirk Slayton. He’d apparently missed a patch of dark stubble on one cheek when he’d shaved this evening.
Queasiness rolled up her spine. Must her father direct every moment? In his late forties, Mr. Slayton was nearly as old as her folks. And as big as a giant.
She nodded goodbye to James—for the moment—and slipped her hand into the palm of this rich gold miner, one of the Klondike’s newest millionaires.
He waltzed her into the crowd. She held her face away from his sweaty neck.
It was said Mr. Slayton had more gold than he could carry. More than he could spend in a lifetime. But his problem was the same as everyone else’s who’d struck it rich, here in the middle of nowhere at the end of civilization.
Nothing to buy. No place to spend his massive fortune. The shops and tented stores couldn’t keep up with the demand for clothing, utensils, furniture, and everything else that most folks back home in Montana took for granted.
“Been a long cold winter,” said Mr. Slayton.
She nodded. Her hair tugged from its bun as he spun her around a little too freely. “Yes, sir.”
“Fella gets awful lonely.”
“Yes, sir.”
“A wife is what I need.”
“Yes…no…I see.”
Her temple throbbed. Her fingers, moist with perspiration, slipped against his grip. She dreaded what he might say next.
“And in case you’re wonderin’, my nuggets are the size of eggs.”
Good grief. How crass.
Milly’s gaze darted about for a means of escape. Cora and Rose were also on the dance floor, being whirled about by a shopkeeper, and another gold miner even older than Milly’s.
To her rescue, one of the youthful Baldwin brothers appeared. “Your parents suggested I come say hello.”
With great relief and giving the pleasant bartender her best show of welcome, she moved forward, intending to place her hand in his.
Instead, a familiar figure slid in. Weston snatched her hand and placed his other firmly against her waist.
Firmly.
Her pulse leaped.
“She’s mine this time, Baldwin.”
Had Weston asked permission from her father?
She stared open-mouthed across the floor, searching for her parents, but Weston yanked her back to look at him.
She stared up at the cut of his dark blond eyebrows, the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbone. With a tingle racing through her stomach, Milly didn’t know how to stop him from entwining his fingers into hers.
“Have you asked permission?” she said.
“The only permission I need is yours.”
He paused for a moment to let her respond while her heart pounded against her ribs.
Piano music filled the hall. Guitars strummed. Banjo pickers added flavor to the waltz.
She should object. She should say no. He gave her precisely two seconds, then taking her silence for a yes, he pressed his warm palm against the plunging back of her dress and led her firmly across the floor.
Firmly.
(continued. . . .)
Enjoyed the excerpts, Kate. I’m looking forward to reading these!
Thank you very much, Kathryn! I appreciate that. I had a lot of fun writing these two stories and I hope it shows. Regarding “Shotgun Vows,” I’ve been writing about the Thornbottoms in the previous novels when Milly was quite a bit younger, so it was fun to write her as a grown-up woman for the novella.
And in KLONDIKE FEVER, I enjoyed writing the change in status for the heroine, and how the two of them deal with it. She used to be his servant, but now she’s the richest woman in the Klondike and will no longer take his orders. 🙂
Kate