Golden Chances (Borrowed Brides 1)

From the rear porch of the railroad car, Reese watched the first pink streaks lighten the sky. He had sat outside in the freezing cold for hours, watching the landscape roll by, hoping the chill wind would cool his burning anger.

God, he dreaded facing her this morning. His head ached, and his throat burned from the biting cold wind, the lack of sleep, too much bourbon, and too many cigars. And damn, he was still angry. Angry at her, but mostly, angry at himself because he had allowed this to happen. He had been taken in by a pair of big innocent gray eyes. She told him she was a widow and he believed her.

Simple as that. Why would she lie to him? Why? For money? She needed money. Badly. Desperately. Why else would a virgin sign a contract like the one he’d offered her? Until tonight, she had been a virgin. A nest-building, ring-wanting, let’s-get-married-in-a-church virgin. He had spent the majority of his adult years avoiding such women, and now, he had allowed himself to be caught. Trapped. Betrayed. Tricked. By a virgin with a pedigree a mile long. Why hadn’t he learned his lesson about ladies with pedigrees? Hadn’t Gwendolyn taught him anything?

Gwendolyn. Reese closed his eyes and pictured her in his mind. Her features had blurred a bit over the years, but he didn’t need to see them to know what they were. Long blond hair, china blue eyes, porcelain complexion, a perfect hourglass figure, and a mouth that could do wonderful things to a man. He should know. She had had many hours to practice on him. And then she had that Boston Brahmin pedigree. He had wanted her. And he had wanted that pedigree and the respect and stability that went with it.

And she had wanted him. Gwendolyn Terrill had been enchanted with the idea of toying with the forbidden. And he, Reese Jordan, had been the forbidden. He could see it so clearly now. But then he had been blinded by pride and lust. Mostly lust, he admitted but he had also wanted to enter the superior bastion of Boston society. The society that had allowed him admittance to Harvard on the strength of his father’s name and money but had denied him the respectability he craved because of his heritage.

Reese had never made a secret of his background. There had never been any reason to hide it. His mother was part Cherokee. All the Alexanders were a mix of Cherokee and Scots blood. Reese’s father was English. Reese was all three. The mixed blood running through his veins had always been a source of pride for Reese. He’d always been accepted by his society.

But he hadn’t been accepted at Harvard. Not until his father bought his admittance. Bloodlines mattered in Boston society where a good pedigree meant the difference between acceptance and rejection, success and failure. Money might buy his way into Harvard, might even open a few doors, but it couldn’t guarantee acceptance in a society dominated by narrow minds. Only an impeccable pedigree, a blue-blooded lineage, or an advantageous marriage could do that.

Reese reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew another thin cheroot. He struck a match and lit it, enjoying the taste of tobacco. He had thought himself in love with Gwendolyn. The moment he saw her, he wanted her. And he was young enough, rich enough, arrogant enough, to think he could have her.

Reese remembered his wedding day as clearly as if it were yesterday. The church was filled to capacity. Boston society had turned out to see one of its own wed an outsider. Reese’s own family had journeyed from the territory. His father, his mother’s father, his mother’s mother, her brothers, and sisters, the family he loved, had traveled to Boston to share his happiness, to welcome his bride into the family. They waited eagerly to meet the woman Reese had chosen. They waited in a hot, stuffy church all afternoon.

Gwendolyn hadn’t walked down the aisle on her father’s arm. She sent a note instead, saying she had never intended for things to go so far. Certainly she’d never intended to marry him.

It was just a game.

Half of the wedding guests laughed at the setdown Gwendolyn Terrill had given Reese Jordan. The rest of the guests shared his pain, his humiliation, his shame, because it had been their shame as well. Boston society had played a cruel joke on Reese Jordan. It would serve as a lesson to other young upstarts.

He had tried to let it go, tried to forget her, but he couldn’t. His love for her hadn’t died that easily. Weeks later, he found himself on her doorstep asking to see her, begging for an audience.

Gwendolyn had kept him waiting on the stoop for nearly an hour before she breezed past him on the arm of her tall, blond, entirely suitable, escort. Reese had turned away. They’d never spoken again.

Why the hell hadn’t he learned from that mistake? He could have prevented this fiasco with more careful planning. Why had he changed his mind about the doctor? He should have had Faith examined. He had planned so carefully, so meticulously, for all possibilities except one. A virgin. A damned virgin. They seemed destined to be his Achilles’ heel. His ultimate downfall.

He ought to put her pretty, little ass on a train back to Richmond. He ought to stop payment on his bank draft and send her packing. He ought to…

Reese sighed. It was too late for all of that. He had paid good money for her services, and he’d be damned if he was going to let her get away with cheating him! Besides, he might have already achieved his goal.

He flipped down the collar of his coat, then made his way back into the railroad car. He needed to wash before breakfast. The train had a scheduled forty-five minute stop at the next station for water, fuel, mail, and passengers.

Reese was familiar with the schedule. He’d made the trip a half dozen times since the joining of the Union Pacific and Central Pacific tracks in Promontory, Utah, back in May.

He would have to face her sometime. He’d already made arrangements for breakfast for the three of them.

Reese stepped out of the washroom just as Faith closed the door to Joy’s room. She was holding the little girl in her arms. A carpetbag and a small trunk sat next to the door. Faith’s eyes were bloodshot and swollen. Her nose was red. She looked as if she had spent the night drinking—or crying. She looked like hell.

“Going somewhere?” He nodded in the direction of the trunk.

“We’re getting off at the next stop.”

Faith looked at Reese. His hair was wet. Drops of water ran down the inky strands, and dotted the white shirt that hung open halfway down his chest. A linen towel was draped over one shoulder. He smelled of soap and spice and had obviously just finished shaving. There was a speck of lather below his ear. He’d never looked more handsome to Faith.

“Yes,” he agreed, “you are getting off at the next stop. For breakfast. And then you’re getting right back on.” He calmly began to button his shirt.

He didn’t sound very angry, but his words still had an edge to them.

Faith pulled herself up to her full height, squared her shoulders, and raised her head to meet his steady scrutiny. “No, Mr. Jordan,” she said firmly. “Joy and I are going back to Richmond.”

His fingers stopped. He’d managed only half his buttons. “You aren’t going anywhere with my child, except to breakfast.”

“Joy is not your child,” Faith reminded him.

“Nor is she yours,” he countered. “What is she? Your kid sister?” It was a guess on his part, but a lucky one. He could tell by the expression in her red-rimmed eyes that he’d hit the mark.