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Austin’s thumb brushed the underside of Willa’s chin, tilting her face gently up to bring her gaze to his.
“Are you all right?”
She stared into his blue eyes. They were kind and filled only with concern.
Her hand seemed to lift of its own accord and land on the center of his chest. Not to push him away or to act as a barrier between them, but simply to touch him.
“I’d like to stay.”
“You sure?”
She nodded. It was hard not to be tempted by the kindness on his face and in his voice—tempted to believe in fairytales. If she were a different woman she might think she was starting to fall in love.
Willa kept her hand on his chest. His heart thudded reliably. It was an intimate thing, to feel it beat, and it made the moment between them real and changing. Austin was no longer a stranger, but a man she wanted to know.
AUTHOR NOTE
Writing stories set in Montana Territory is one of my favourite things. It’s fun to put aside my daily troubles—the laundry needing to be done, the chequebook I keep meaning to balance, the errands I’ve been putting off—and sit down with my laptop. I sink into a different time and place, where life is slower paced, where there is no traffic noise—just the tweet of birds and the wind whispering through an old-growth forest—and where the things that really matter in life are the same. Love and belonging, duty and family. These are the themes I found myself exploring when I wrote the first few sentences of MONTANA BRIDE.
I was touched by Willa’s tragedy—both her abusive marriage and her being a pregnant and penniless widow—and by her strength in facing marriage to a stranger again, knowing what kind of man she could end up with. A young woman who has never known love, she worries about what kind of mother she’ll make, but she clearly wants to do her best.
Austin Dermot is a character from my earlier Moose, Montana Territory, stories who was passed over every time a new lady came to town. I started wondering about him and felt sorry for the poor man—surely a nice guy like that deserved to catch a nice woman of his own? He is a man who wants to love and be loved—but unfortunately for him he has chosen a mail-order bride who doesn’t believe her scarred heart can ever love.
I hope you enjoy this story about Willa finding her heart and discovering the wonder and renewal that love can be.
Thank you so much for choosing Willa and Austin’s story.
Jillian Hart
About the Author
JILLIAN HART grew up on her family’s homestead, where she raised cattle, rode horses and scribbled stories in her spare time. After earning an English degree from Whitman College she worked in advertising, before selling her first novel to Mills & Boon® Historical Romance. When she’s not hard at work on her next story Jillian can be found chatting over lunch with a friend, stopping for a café mocha with a book in hand, and spending quiet evenings at home with her family. Visit her website at www.jillianhart.net
Previous books by the same author:
LAST CHANCE BRIDE
COOPER’S WIFE
MALCOLM’S HONOUR
MONTANA MAN
BLUEBONNET BRIDE
MONTANA LEGEND
HIGH PLAINS WIFE
THE HORSEMAN
ROCKY MOUNTAIN CHRISTMAS
(short story in A Season of the Heart) MONTANA WIFE ROCKY MOUNTAIN MAN ROCKY MOUNTAIN BRIDE ROCKY MOUNTAIN WIDOW (part of Western Weddings anthology) ROCKY MOUNTAIN COURTSHIP (part of Stetsons, Spring and Wedding Rings anthology) ROCKY MOUNTAIN WEDDING (part of Mail-Order Marriages anthology)
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Montana Bride
Jillian Hart
MILLS & BOON
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Chapter One
Montana Territory, April 1884
“The town of Moose, next stop!” The blue-uniformed train conductor strolled through the rocking passenger car with the ease of a man used to riding the rails. Sparse gray hair poked from beneath his cap as he grabbed the bar overhead, stopped in the aisle near her seat and offered her a fatherly smile. “Would you like help with your satchel, miss?”
Willa Conner straightened her spine, clasped her hands together in her lap and shook her head slightly. As nice as it sounded to have the kindly man’s help, she was used to doing things on her own, especially since her husband’s sudden death. If marriage had taught her anything, it was to never rely on someone else.
“Thank you, but no.” She offered what she hoped passed for a polite smile, but the edges of her mouth felt tense and stiff. The train was already slowing, and the great shadowy expanses of forested foothills and mountainsides whipping by the window were not flashing by quite as fast. Moose, Montana Territory. She was almost there. Terror beat in her chest with bone-rattling force, but she set her chin and hoped her fear did not show. “I can manage.”
“All righty then.” He tipped his cap to her and moved on, offering help to the pair of older ladies toward the back of the car.
The whistle blew a long blast, nearly drowning out the ear-splitting squeal of the brakes. Willa perched on her seat, looking beyond the haze twilight made on the window glass to the break in the trees. She caught glimpses of a tiny log shanty, a sod stable and split-rail fencing before the trees closed back in—her first peek at the outskirts of the town she would be calling home.
Maybe I have made a mistake. She laid her hand on her reticule, thinking of the letter within. A written proposal from a stranger, from a man she had found through a newspaper advertisement. He’d sent her a train ticket and so she’d come to marry a man she’d never met. As her ma used to say, beggars can’t be choosers, and her heart skipped a beat as if threatening to fail. She was a widow with no family and nowhere else to go. She had no more choices. Penniless and alone, she only had this door open to her, the only path in a cold and lonely world.
What would he be like? She grabbed the seat-back in front of her as the train jerked to a slow, screeching stop. As she’d wondered and fretted all the way from South Dakota, she tried to imagine what kind of man would propose to a woman sight unseen? A desperate one, that’s what. One who could not convince any woman able to set eyes on him to be his bride.
Fear