The Colorado Bride

  The Son He Never Knew…

  When Cole McGuire learns that he had fathered a son, he returns to White Stone, Colorado, to claim what’s rightfully his. But it’s clear the town is hiding something, and he’s got a feeling he knows exactly who’s behind it all.

  The Widow’s Secret…

  Rebecca’s heart stops when Cole McGuire walks back into town, his green eyes blazing with passion. And the longer he stays, the more she wishes for the love she never had. But will Cole ever forgive her for hiding the truth—that the son she claimed as her own is the child he’s been searching for?

  “You’re not looking for your son. You’re looking for a fresh start,” Rebecca said.

  Cole released her and stepped back as if honesty had hit a nerve. “Don’t pretend to know me.” He loomed over her. “I traveled over a thousand miles to find my son.”

  His hot breath warmed her cheek. His face was so close, the heat of his body beckoned her.

  For her—his—son’s sake, she wished she could believe Cole, but she knew if she allowed him to work his way into their lives, then left, it could be devastating. “A thousand miles is nothing compared to a lifetime of responsibility.”

  “I’m not leaving.” Cole cupped her face in his rough hands and stared into her eyes. The contact was jolting. Time slowed to a maddening crawl and the world drifted away. There were only the two of them.

  She should hate him, but she didn’t. All she felt was worry, guilt…and longing. The icy loneliness that had encased her heart for so long began to melt. And then suddenly she knew. She wasn’t just protecting her son’s heart, but her own as well.

  Praise for Mary Burton’s first book A BRIDE FOR MCCAIN

  “This is a delightful Western romp…

  A great first book for this new author!”

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  “Warm-hearted, charming, and sweet, this is a delightful tale.”

  —Romantic Times Magazine

  “It will leave you yearning for more from this talented author.”

  —Rendezvous

  “Newcomer Mary Burton is a delightful surprise for Western romance fans as her genial tale…will fully beguile readers.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  The Colorado Bride

  Harlequin Historical #570

  #567 THE PROPER WIFE

  Julia Justiss

  #568 MAGIC AND MIST

  Theresa Michaels

  #569 MY LORD SAVAGE

  Elizabeth Lane

  MARY BURTON

  THE COLORADO BRIDE

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and MARY BURTON

  A Bride for McCain #502

  The Colorado Bride #570

  Dedication

  For Alex and Julia

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  1882

  Strangers stuck out in White Stone, Colorado like snow in July.

  Cole McGuire reined in his horse at the outskirts of the dusty, near dried-up town. He was conscious that farmers had stopped unloading their goods from their wagons; women were staring and yanking their children close to their skirts; and the handful of cattlemen had moved to the edge of the sun-bleached boardwalk to get a better look at him.

  Cole tugged his wide-brimmed hat down, shielding his eyes against the biting sun and the blatant curiosity. Foolish to think he could have slipped into town unnoticed.

  His body was long and lean, honed by years of soldiering. His gray duster hung open, revealing a black shirt, army issue pants and worn leather chaps that brushed the tops of scuffed boots. Thick stubble blanketed his square jaw and his black hair draped over his coat collar. A well-oiled rifle lay across his saddle.

  Cole assessed the odd collection of weathered buildings, which were as colorless as the people. The Methodist church had never gotten its steeple; Gene Applegate’s mercantile displayed the same hair tonic advertisement it had three years ago; and a half-dozen businesses that had once prospered were now boarded up.

  What the hell had happened?

  Three years ago, Robert Sinclair’s Lucky Star Mine had been giving up five thousand dollars worth of gold a day and White Stone had been teaming with people and new construction. The town’s population had swelled past ten thousand and there had been talk that Sinclair planned to build a fancy courthouse with big white columns.

  But none of that had happened. Fact was, the town looked like it was barely hanging on.

  The town’s fading prosperity didn’t soothe Cole’s unease. He looked over his shoulder toward the parched grasslands and longed to ride back across them away from old memories and a town that had never wanted him.

  Instead, he coaxed his horse forward. This homecoming wasn’t about him.

  As he rode down Main Street, a portly woman wearing a black dress and a hat sporting a peacock feather stared boldly at him. Her thick lips curled into a frown. He remembered her—Gladys Applegate. Her husband owned the mercantile and she was the town’s self-appointed guardian of right and wrong.

  Cole touched the brim of his hat, keeping his head low and his gaze averted as he coaxed his horse on. He wasn’t up to answering any nosy questions.

  He dismounted in front of the Rosebud Saloon and tied the reins to the post. As he strode toward the boardwalk, his spurs jangled softly mingling with piano music that drifted through the saloon’s swinging doors. The Rosebud had a freshly whitewashed exterior and a new sign complete with gilded letters and a painted red rose. The corner of Cole’s mouth kicked up. No matter how bad the times, Seth Osborne, the saloon owner, always managed to turn a profit.

  A burly man strode out of the saloon’s red swinging doors, and bumped into Cole. Clad in denims and a white shirt, Stan Farthing was fatter than Cole remembered, but he still wore a droopy mustache and likely still owned the livery.

  “Pardon,” Stan said before he glanced at Cole. Recognition then anger flashed in his weary eyes.

  Ten years ago, Stan had wrongly accused Cole of stealing. The two had fought and Cole had beaten the devil out of him. “Stan.”

  “I’d hoped we’d never see you again,” he snarled.

  Cole’s hand slid to his pistol. He’d ridden hard these last few days and his patience was paper thin. “I don’t appreciate your tone.”

  Stan assessed Cole’s six-foot, two-inch frame, then as if realizing he’d bitten off more than he could chew, softened his scowl. “Do us all a favor and don’t stay in White Stone long.”

  Stan hurried down the street past several more people who had listened to the exchange. Cole glared back at them, waiting until their gazes dropped before he reached for the swinging doors.

  A barefoot boy, no more than ten, with ragged clothes and a dirty face sauntered up to him. “I’ll water your horse for a penny, mister.” The boy had hollowed features and blue eyes wise beyond their years.

  Cole paused. He had never paid much attention to children—until recently. Now, he noticed them in every town he passed through. He wondered when this kid had eaten last.

  Cole reached in his pocket, dug out a nickel and pressed it into the boy’s grimy palm. “Just guard him for me.”

  The boy
inspected the coin then tucked it in his pants pocket. “Hey, you need anything else, come to me. I know how to find anything in this town. Just ask for Dusty.”

  Cole nodded. “I’m not planning on staying that long.”

  Dusty positioned himself in front of Cole’s black horse. “Just the same, I’m here if you need me.”

  “Thanks, kid.”

  Cole pushed open the saloon doors. The smell of stale whiskey welcomed him, as did cigar smoke, so thick it choked out the afternoon sun.

  The odors triggered memories of years spent watching his ma sling drinks and saunter off into the back room with any cowboy who had two bits. He had hated the Rosebud from the instant he’d first laid eyes on it.

  He was eighteen when his ma had passed on and he’d packed up what little he had and joined the army. There he’d found a code of honor and learned he had a nose for tracking and a talent for leading men. Three months ago, he’d retired with distinction, the rank of captain.

  Yet, as he stood in this room, he felt fourteen again. Forgotten, alone and angry.

  Cole chose a table in a dark corner and tossed his hat on the sticky wooden surface. He sat straight in the chair, his back to the wall and slid damp palms over muscular thighs. He itched to be done with his business.

  A red-haired barmaid with tired eyes sauntered over, and set a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler down in front of him. “You look thirsty.”

  Cole poured his whiskey with deliberate slowness. “Is Seth here?”

  The beauty mark painted on the corner of her mouth twitched. “Who’s asking?”

  Cole pulled out a half dollar from his vest pocket and put it on the table. He edged it toward her, keeping his fingers over the tarnished coin. “Tell him Cole’s back.”

  Her finger skimmed over the top of her low-cut bodice. “Anything you say, sugar.”

  Cole flipped the coin in the air and the barmaid snatched it with practiced ease. She tucked the coin in her ample cleavage and strolled toward Seth’s office.

  He stared into the whiskey’s amber depths, not quite able to stomach the brew or the memories. He couldn’t get out of this town fast enough.

  “I’d have bet fifty dollars that I’d never see your sorry face around here again,” a familiar voice cackled.

  Seth Osborne limped toward his table. Ever since Cole could remember, Seth had been old. His wrinkled features, long gray hair and hunched shoulders had been a fixture in the saloon since White Stone was little more than a mud hole.

  Cole rose and extended his hand. Age and experience had taught him that even though the old man had been hard on him at times, he had always been fair to him. “Seth.”

  Seth squinted as he studied Cole closer. “You look harder every time I see you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Staying long?”

  “Long enough to talk to Lily.”

  Shock then sadness doused the sparkle in Seth’s eyes. “You never heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “Cole, she died over two years ago.”

  Seth’s words slammed into Cole’s stomach like a fist. Automatically, his hand slid into his pocket holding the rumpled, beautifully scripted letter Lily had paid another woman to write. He’d read its words a thousand times, memorizing every detail. It had been dated December 12, 1879, but he’d only received it two months ago. In it, Lily had told him she’d conceived their child during his last stay in town.

  Her news had rocked him. At first he’d refused to believe it. But as the shock had worn off, he couldn’t deny the possibility that the child was his. Determined that his child would not grow up in the back room of a saloon as he had, he’d delayed his dreams of mining in California and come to White Stone.

  His fingers tightened into fists. “When did she die?”

  “January of ’80.”

  Cole eased down into his seat.

  “I know you two was close,” Seth offered.

  “Yea.” They’d been friends and lovers since she’d come to work in the Rosebud fifteen years ago. He reached for the glass of whiskey.

  “She talked about you from time to time.”

  Cole drained the tumbler, focusing on the way it burned his throat. “How’d she die?”

  Seth’s glance slipped away. “It don’t really matter, does it? It’s been over two years.”

  His fingers tightened around the glass. “It matters.”

  The old-timer sighed. “She died in childbirth.”

  Seth mumbled a few words of sympathy, but they didn’t register in Cole’s mind. All he could think about was that Lily was gone. Unable to concentrate, he refilled the glass and gulped it down.

  Seth’s eyes clouded with worry. “Careful. That stuff you’re drinking is strong enough to knock a mule on its ass.”

  Cole stared at the peeling label on the bottle. “Lily said I was the father of her baby.”

  Seth straightened. “Lily was known to whore, son.”

  Cole hadn’t loved Lily, but he’d laughed with her, kissed her, been intimate with her and he wasn’t going to let their child be forgotten. “If she said the baby was mine, it was. Where’s the child?”

  “Ain’t no telling who the father was.”

  Cole persisted. “Her letter was signed ‘Mrs. Curtis Taylor for Lily Davis.’”

  Seth frowned. “Leave Lily buried in the past where she belongs.”

  Cole flexed his fingers. “Where can I find Mrs. Curtis Taylor? Maybe she’s got answers for me.”

  Seth cleared his throat. “It won’t do you any good talking to Mrs. Taylor. Do yourself a favor and move on.”

  He pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “I’ll find her myself if you won’t tell me.”

  Seth blocked his path. He knew Cole well enough to know he wasn’t bluffing. “She’ll be by any minute. She delivers pies every day.”

  Right then, the saloon patrons hooted and hollered, distracting Cole from his thoughts.

  Seth looked toward the swinging doors. The hard lines etched in the corners of his eyes softened. “That’ll be her now.”

  Cole shifted for a better view of Mrs. Curtis Taylor. He muttered an oath when he saw her. Damn, it was Sinclair’s daughter Rebecca.

  She was just as petite as he remembered. Delicate. The princess in the ivory tower. When he’d come to town three years ago, she’d just married and was in Denver on her honeymoon.

  Calico, not silk, now hugged her slender waist and accentuated the curve of her breasts. She no longer wore her hair in ringlets but had pinned her blond strands back into a neat topknot. Wisps of hair fell loose and framed her rounded face, full lips and high cheekbones. Her light-blue eyes no longer sparkled with the giddy laughter of a young girl, but reflected the confidence of a woman.

  Lovely, he thought, then dismissed the idea. Men like him only dreamed about women like her. Besides, he didn’t dally with married women.

  Cole took a second glance at her simple attire. Sinclair had spoiled his only child. She had lived in a world of fine parties and fancy boarding schools and spent more money on a single dress than he’d earned in a year. So, why was she delivering pies to a saloon?

  Ignoring the hoots and hollers, Rebecca walked up to Seth. The scent of roses and cinnamon caressed Cole’s senses and he felt the familiar tightening each time he’d seen her in town.

  “Good morning, Seth,” she said, her voice clear and bright.

  He might never have stopped staring at her if he hadn’t seen the rustle of her skirts and caught sight of the young toddler clinging to her side. The boy’s blond hair curled at the ends like Rebecca’s had when she was younger, but his skin was darker and his eyes a rich brown. Her son, he assumed.

  Seth’s smile broadened. “Right on time as usual.”

  “You’re my best customer. I’d never let you down.” Laughter rang in her clear voice.

  Seth winked at the boy. “Hi, Mac.”

  The boy grinned and popped his thumb in his mou
th as he edged closer to his mother.

  Rebecca’s gaze shifted to Cole. She studied him in a measuring way as if she were trying to place him, but could not. Cole wasn’t surprised she didn’t remember him. He’d swept out saloons and worked in her father’s mine.

  Rebecca laid her hand protectively on her son’s shoulder, then glanced down at the wicker basket in her hands. “Three apple pies and two cherry, just like you asked.”

  “Thanks,” Seth said straightening.

  She kept her eyes on Seth, carefully avoiding Cole’s gaze. “I’ll put the pies on the bar and leave. I promised Mac a piece of candy from the mercantile.” She and Mac headed toward the long, mahogany bar.

  “Thanks, Rebecca. See you same time tomorrow.”

  Cole wondered why the old man hadn’t introduced them. Rebecca had already unpacked three pies when he spoke up. “Mrs. Taylor, I want to talk to you.”

  She raised another pie out of the basket. “Do I know you, mister?”

  “The name’s Cole McGuire.”

  She dropped the cherry pie on the floor. The tin pan clanked against the floor splattering bits of cherry everywhere. “Cole McGuire,” she whispered.

  She stared into his eyes as if seeing him for the first time. Her gaze dropped to his jaw covered in a week’s worth of growth to his sweat-stained bandana past his worn chaps and finally to his mudsplattered boots. He’d not bathed in over a week and suspected a good inch of trail dust coated his body. Her pert nose wrinkled and she pulled the boy behind her skirts, now stained with the ruined cherry pie.

  He reckoned she compared him to the miners who had worked in her father’s mines, no better than the pack mules that hauled wagons. He kept all traces of emotion from his face even though an old, raw anger roiled inside him. For one split second he was again the town whore’s son and she the unattainable rich man’s daughter. He swallowed his anger. “You remember me?”

  “Yes.”

  Seth cleared his throat. “Here let me clean that mess up, Rebecca.” He turned to Cole. “There ain’t much she can tell you.”

  Cole ignored Seth, his sights on Rebecca. “You wrote a letter for Lily Davis a couple of years ago.”