When rancher and
single father Cam McBride finds a letter tucked in a strip of cloth tied to a
tumbleweed, he is captivated by the mysterious author. Finding a second
tumbleweed letter further pulls him under the lonely writer's spell. He needs a
mother for his little boy and a wife to warm his bed. Could this mysterious
woman fill his needs?
Sophie Flannigan is
alone, scared, and on the run from a rogue Pinkerton agent. She spends her days
as a scrub lady at Madame Dora's brothel and her nights writing notes to the
four winds. Her life holds little hope until a small boy lays claim to her and
his handsome father proposes an advantageous arrangement.
Can these three
benefit from a marriage of convenience, or will a determined Pinkerton agent
destroy their fragile, newly formed bond?
Fingers
touched her arm. “My name is Cam McBride, ma’am. I’ll gladly buy you a new
dress or pay for a bolt of calico. Blue like what you're wearing now.” His deep voice raised gooseflesh on her
arms.
Fingers
touched her arm. “My name is Cam McBride, ma’am. I’ll gladly buy you a new
dress or pay for a bolt of calico. Blue like what you're wearing now.” His deep voice raised gooseflesh on her
arms.
She
could not, would not look at him. He was so tall and broad shouldered, he
was downright intimidating. “That really
won’t be necessary, Mr. McBride. Good day.”
“Will
you at least accept my apology?”
Sophie
nodded and made a beeline for the door. For some reason, she wanted to get away
from this man.
“Ma’am?”
Footsteps echoed behind her. “Your name?” His hand wrapped around her wrist,
feather light, yet firm.
Her
stomach fluttered and her mouth went dry.
The
child leaned forward in his father’s arms and grabbed her collar. “Mine.”
Saints preserve me, this child will tear
apart my clothes yet.
“Sophie…Sophie Flannigan.”
“Won’t
you look at me when you talk?”
She
shook her head and tried to move away.
“Where
do you live?” His grasp on her tightened.
Goodness,
but his voice was spellbinding. Something about it made her body react in
strange ways that disturbed her. “I live where I work. Madam Dora’s brothel.”
His
hand fell away, and she hurried out.
Behind
her, a child wailed, “Mine. Mine, Daddy…mine.”
Jethro
Rhinehardt leaned against the pillar when she stepped out onto the porch.
Although she couldn’t see the man’s face, she recognized his build and
mud-splattered canvas duster. If she hurried, she might sneak past without his
noticing her. She’d have made it, too, if a nail poking out of the porch hadn’t
snagged the twine on the bottom of one of her shoes and ripped it, causing her
to stumble.
“Well,
well, little Miss Scrub Lady.” He turned and side-stepped, blocking her path.
For a heavy man, he slithered quickly, just like the snake he was.
Sophie
tried going around him, and he stepped to the left, stopping her again. “Can’t
you say good morning? Or are you too high and mighty?” He spit tobacco juice on
the porch, and it splattered against her skirt.
“Good
morning, Jethro. Now please let me by. I have errands to run for Dora. I can’t
afford to lose my job.” She stepped to her right this time.
Once
more he slid in front of her. To her surprise, he grabbed her around the waist
and lifted her so they were eyeball to eyeball. Tobacco juice stained his
scruffy beard that reeked of something foul. Her stomach lurched and she fought
to swallow the bile. She still clutched the folds of material over her
petticoat, determined this man would not see her undergarments.
“How’s
about a kiss for ol’ Jethro? Or do I have to pay first?”
Her
slap cracked in the morning air. “I’ll not be spoken to like that.”
Jethro’s
eyes darkened and his jaw clenched. First the bear of a man shook her and then
he had the audacity to slide his paw over her rump.
In
response, she fought like a barn cat—hissing, kicking and scratching. She
scratched his eye and tore a pocket off his shirt. “Get your filthy hands off
me, you heathen.”
Men—miscreants,
really—circled them. A few called out obscene suggestions for Jethro. There
were hoots and hollers. A few men laughed and pounded Jethro on the back.
She
fisted her hand and punched him in the nose. Blood splattered onto her bodice.
“How
about you unhand the lady and put her down before she kills you?”
Jethro
shook her again.
“Maybe
you didn’t hear me. I said put the lady down.”
Sophie’s
head whipped around to locate the man who’d spoken in her defense. Cam’s face
was a dark mask of fury. He slowly set his son on the porch and laid his
purchases at the child’s feet, his gaze never once leaving Jethro’s face. When
he straightened and stepped toward the dirty man, her captor set her down.
BUY LINKS:
THE WILD ROSE PRESS -- http://bit.ly/TumbleweedLetters
AMAZON -- http://bit.ly/TumbleweedLettersDavis
