The Virgin Bride Arrived With Fear in Her Eyes Mountain Men Said “Darlin, I Don’t Bite Unless”

Chapter 1

The stagecoach door swung open, and Evelyn Hartwell did not move.

Dust rolled across the main street of Millbrook in thick, dirty waves, pushed by a mountain wind that carried the promise of snow. The town sat at the base of the Colorado Rockies, a collection of sagging wooden buildings that looked like they had been forgotten by the world. A general store with a warped porch. A saloon with half its letters missing. A livery stable where horses stood with their breath fogging the cold afternoon air.

It was the smallest place Evelyn had ever seen. And it was the farthest she had ever been from home.

She gripped the edge of the wooden seat until her knuckles turned white. Three weeks of travel. Three weeks of trains and stagecoaches and sleepless nights in boarding houses where every creak of the floorboards made her heart stop. Three weeks of looking over her shoulder, certain that at any moment a hand would grab her arm and drag her back to the life she had fled.

But no one had come. Not yet.

The driver cleared his throat. “Miss, this is Millbrook. End of the line.”

Evelyn swallowed hard. Her heartbeat pounded so loudly she could feel it in her temples, right next to the bruise that had not yet faded. She had covered it with powder as best she could, but the yellow and purple shadow was still visible in certain light. A reminder of her father’s rage. A warning of what waited for her if she ever returned.

She picked up her carpet bag — the only thing she had brought from Boston — and forced herself to stand.

The moment her boots touched the frozen ground, the cold struck her like a physical blow. The air was thin here, sharp in her lungs, carrying the scent of pine and wood smoke. She had never been to the mountains before. She had never been anywhere before. Twenty-one years of life, and she had spent all of them within the confines of Boston society, learning to play the piano and embroider handkerchiefs and smile at men she found repulsive.

None of that had prepared her for this.

The town was nearly empty. A few men lingered near the saloon porch, watching her with open curiosity. A woman in a worn dress paused outside the general store, a basket in her arms. Everyone was looking at the stranger who had arrived on the afternoon stage.

Evelyn clutched her bag tighter and scanned the street, searching for the man who was supposed to meet her. She did not know what he looked like. The advertisement in the newspaper had not included a photograph — only a few sparse lines of text.

Man seeks wife. Mountain homestead. Must be willing to work hard. No experience necessary. Write to E. Blackthorn, care of Millbrook Post Office, Colorado.

She had answered that advertisement in desperation, writing by candlelight the same night she had overheard her father selling her to a monster. The letter had been brief and honest. She was twenty-one. She was educated. She was willing to travel anywhere, as long as it was far from Boston.

She had not mentioned why she needed to leave so urgently. She had not mentioned her father’s gambling debts or the man who had paid fifty thousand dollars for the right to call her wife.

The response had come two weeks later, delivered to the boarding house where she was hiding. Three sentences in handwriting that was firm and precise.

Come to Millbrook. I will meet you there. E.B.

And so she had come. Because anywhere was better than what waited for her in Boston. Because a stranger in the mountains could not possibly be worse than Julian Croft and his cold, calculating smile.

Could he?

A door opened across the street, and an older woman stepped out onto the wooden sidewalk. She was perhaps sixty, with silver hair pulled back in a practical bun and a face weathered by years of mountain sun. Her eyes found Evelyn immediately, and something shifted in her expression.

Recognition.

The woman crossed the street with purpose, her boots crunching on the frozen ground. When she reached Evelyn, she stopped and studied her for a long moment.

“You look just like your mother.”

Evelyn blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

The woman smiled, though there was sadness in it. “I am Beatrice Harlow. Your mother and I were cousins. She wrote to me sometimes, before she passed. She sent a photograph once, years ago. You have her eyes.”

Evelyn felt her throat tighten. Her mother had been dead for six years now — taken by fever when Evelyn was fifteen. Since then, she had been alone in that house with her father, watching him descend deeper into drink and gambling and rage.

“I did not know she had family here,” Evelyn said.

“She did not talk about it much.” Beatrice glanced around the street, then lowered her voice. “Come inside. You look half-frozen, and there are things you need to know before he arrives.”

“Before who arrives?”

Beatrice took her arm gently but firmly. “Your husband.”

The word sent a chill through Evelyn that had nothing to do with the mountain air.