Bride of the High Country Read online

  Praise for the Blood Rose Trilogy

  CHASING THE SUN

  “Warner brings her Blood Rose Trilogy to a satisfying conclusion with this sweet nineteenth-century Western.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A delicious end to the trilogy! Probably the best part of this book is the incredibly descriptive way that Kaki Warner has of taking us into that New Mexico Territory with all its splendor and harsh living. She is a beautiful writer, as proven by this latest, very excellent historical Western. I said it in past reviews, and I’ll say it again: This is an author to watch.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  OPEN COUNTRY

  “Warner earned readers’ respect as a strong Western writer with her debut, the first book in the Blood Rose Trilogy. With the second, she cements that reputation . . . [A] compelling, emotionally intense read.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “A wonderful historical tale starring a strong ensemble cast . . . [A] superb Reconstruction-era romance.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  PIECES OF SKY

  “Readers may need a big box of Kleenex while reading this emotionally compelling, subtly nuanced tale of revenge, redemption, and romance, but this flawlessly written book is worth every tear.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “In her auspicious debut, Warner kicks off the Blood Rose Trilogy . . . Warner develops [the] romance with well-paced finesse and great character work . . . Warner makes great use of the vivid Old West setting.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A sharp, sweet love story of two opposites . . . [A] romance you won’t soon forget.”

  —Sara Donati, author of The Endless Forest

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise

  Also by Kaki Warner

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Epilogue

  Special Excerpt

  Berkley Sensation titles by Kaki Warner

  Runaway Brides Novels

  HEARTBREAK CREEK

  COLORADO DAWN

  BRIDE OF THE HIGH COUNTRY

  Blood Rose Trilogy

  PIECES OF SKY

  OPEN COUNTRY

  CHASING THE SUN

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2012 by Kathleen Warner.

  Excerpt from Heartbreak Creek by Kaki Warner copyright © 2011 by Kathleen Warner.

  Cover illustration by Alan Ayers.

  Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Warner, Kaki.

  Bride of the high country / Kaki Warner.—Berkley Sensation trade paperback ed.

  p. cm.—(Runaway brides bk. 3)

  ISBN 978-1-101-58861-1

  1. Colorado—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.A8633B75 2012

  813'.6—dc23 2012005041

  For Joe:

  Now and always,

  I love you.

  —K

  Prologue

  New York City, 1855

  The first fire wagon raced past Father O’Rourke as he turned onto Mulberry Bend in the wretched Irish district of Five Points. Within minutes, two more rattled by, the horses blowing steam into the chill evening air, the men on the sirens and bells pumping furiously. Quickening his pace, the priest continued toward the reddish glow ahead that was partially obscured by swirls of dark, oily smoke.

  The street became more crowded as ragged people came out of the dilapidated tenements, their faces drawn with worry. Father O’Rourke understood the hopeless, helpless fear in their eyes. He had felt it, himself, and had seen it too often over the years in the faces of his fellow countrymen as they had filed off the disease-ridden ships by the tens of thousands only to find the conditions awaiting them in these tenements were as bad as those they had left behind in famine-stricken Ireland.

  As he drew closer to the burning structure, Father O’Rourke recognized it as Mrs. Beale’s, the building he sought and a well-known brothel that catered to the basest tastes of a dissolute clientele. For the last month, ever since he had heard of the auction of prostitutes, some of whom were still children, he had been on a one-man crusade to have it shut down. Having failed in that, he had come tonight in hopes of appealing to the buyers. Apparently, that wouldn’t be necessary now.

  Angling through gawking onlookers, he worked his way toward a fireman shouting orders through a long brass speaking trumpet. Raising his voice over the roar of the fire and the clang of fire bells, he shouted, “Can I help? Is anyone hurt? Did everyone get out?”

  “Not sure,” the man shouted back. “All we know for certain is it started on one of the upper floors.”

  In a sudden blast of heat and exploding windows, the roof caved in. Pandemonium broke out as shrieking people fled the shower of shattered glass and flaming timbers, taking Father O’Rourke along with them. It was several doors down before he could escape the sho
ving throng by ducking into a side alley where a girl stood staring intently at the flaming building.

  She was a wee, fragile thing and couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve years old. Smudged and dirty, her blond hair falling loose down her thin back, her skimpy dress so sheer her thin legs and naked buttocks showed clearly through the pale muslin. She was shivering so hard he could hear the chatter of her teeth from several feet away.

  But even more bizarre was her face. A child’s face, but marked with kohl and rouge and lip paint until she looked like a player on a stage—or a depraved man’s plaything.

  “Child.” When the girl didn’t respond, O’Rourke reached out and touched her thin shoulder.

  With a cry of terror, the girl whirled away. She would have escaped if O’Rourke hadn’t been expecting it. Scooping her up, he pinned her flailing body against his chest. She was all bones and flying hair, and she smelled of overly sweet perfume and smoke and kerosene.

  “’Tis all right, lass,” he murmured over and over into her ear. “You’re safe with me. Sure, and I’m a priest and I’ve come to help you, so I have.”

  It was several moments before the girl stopped fighting him, more out of exhaustion and defeat than trust. “Can I put you down now, lass? You’ll not run away from me?”

  The girl didn’t answer. But she didn’t tense up for another fight, so O’Rourke gently set her back down on her bare feet. Taking off his coat, he draped it over her, then keeping his hands on her shoulders, knelt and looked into her painted face.

  No tears. No fear. Nothing. As empty as a battered china doll with a blank, glassy stare.

  “I’m Father O’Rourke. Who might you be?”

  She didn’t answer and continued to stare fixedly past him. He didn’t need to turn to see what had captured her attention. The flames were reflected in her sad green eyes, and the distant roar of the flames continued.

  “Were you at Mrs. Beale’s?”

  No response.

  “What is your name, child?”

  No response.

  “Are you hurt, lassie?”

  She didn’t answer, but he saw her hands flatten against her thin gown. Red hands, with blisters showing on the small fingers. The smell of kerosene wafted up to him again, and a terrible thought arose—one he didn’t want to pursue. All that was important right now was getting her away from this place. Finding a safe haven for her. Someplace where she could be a child again.

  “Can I wipe that paint off your face?”

  No response.

  He took out his handkerchief and moistening one corner with spit, began wiping her face. Mostly it smeared, but at least now she just looked dirty rather than whorish. After cleaning her as best he could, he put the kerchief away.

  She still hadn’t moved or spoken.

  “Do you have parents nearby?”

  Silence.

  “You’re an orphan?” There were thousands of them. The conditions here in Five Points were so deplorable most adults didn’t last six years. For children it was even worse. Without God’s intervention, this one wouldn’t have lasted another month.

  “Cathleen.” It was the merest whisper, barely heard over the shouts of firefighters down the street. Spoken less to him, he suspected, than to herself.

  “Your name is Cathleen? Cathleen Donovan?” He had heard of the girl—the wee blond star of tonight’s auction. Her body, her sanity, probably even her soul were up for sale to the highest bidder. He closed his eyes against sudden nausea and gave silent thanks to God for sparing this poor, lost child.

  He wasn’t sure what to do with her. The shelter where he ministered to the starving and sick would be the first place Mrs. Beale’s British henchman, Smythe, would look—assuming he had escaped the fire. The orphanages were little more than workhouses. Then he remembered a man who owed him a debt from years ago, when Father O’Rourke had pulled him from the gutter where footpads had left him to die. The man—a judge—was dead now, but perhaps his widow would find a place in her home for this lost child. He had no other option.

  He rose, and letting go of her shoulders, he held out his hand. “Come, Cathleen. Let’s leave this place.”

  The girl finally looked away from the burning building and up at him. Her smudged eyes carried more pain than any child’s should. “Am I going to hell, then, Father?”

  O’Rourke forced a smile. “No, child. You’re leaving it.”

  One

  MARCH 1870, NEW YORK CITY

  It had been written and talked about for weeks.

  “A fairy-tale romance,” the gossip columns called it. “Doyle Kerrigan, dashing railroad mogul, brought to bended knee by Margaret Hamilton, ward of Ida Throckmorton, widow of the late Judge Harold Throckmorton.”

  Margaret supposed there was a certain make-believe quality to their whirlwind courtship—the penniless nobody plucked from obscurity and thrust into the world of opulence. Who would have guessed that an Irish orphan from Five Points would someday be mistress of a home as grand as Doyle’s new townhouse in the most fashionable area of New York?

  Hopefully, no one. The only way to protect herself was to ensure that no one ever found out about her Irish immigrant roots. Especially her fiancé. It was a betrayal on every level—not just of Doyle Kerrigan, but of her homeland, her parents, and especially little Cathleen Donovan. But she would do it. She would do anything to stay alive. She had already proven that.

  Margaret studied her reflection in the cheval mirror in her third-floor bedroom at Mrs. Throckmorton’s Sixty-ninth Street brownstone.

  The lilac silk gown Doyle had chosen brought out the green of her eyes. The diamond and amethyst necklace he had given her shimmered against her skin. More gems glittered in the pins securing her blond upsweep. Everything was the finest. Proof of Doyle’s success. At the engagement ball tonight in his lavish new home, when he introduced his unknown but well-connected fiancée to Manhattan’s elite, he would be proclaiming to the world that he had reached the highest level of society that money could buy. And she would finally be safe.

  A triumph for the Irish in both of them.

  Then why did she feel such a sense of loss?

  Irritated that she had let her happy mood slip away, and having almost forty minutes to spare before Doyle came to pick her up, Margaret moved restlessly about the room, finally coming to a stop at the tall window that overlooked the street three floors below.

  The day was fading. Smoke from thousands of coal stoves hung in sluggish layers in the still air, adding bands of deeper gray to the overcast sky. The distant oasis of the still-unfinished Central Park project seemed less green, as if painted with a muddied brush, and even the sheep dotting the Sheep Meadow looked dingy. She scarcely remembered what stars looked like.

  “So you’re going through with it,” a querulous voice said from the doorway.

  Bracing herself for another argument, Margaret turned with a smile. “Yes, ma’am, I am. And you shouldn’t be climbing those stairs on your own. I was just about to come down to you.”

  With the hand not gripping the ivory handle of her cane, Mrs. Throckmorton impatiently waved aside the notion that she would need help. “He’s a ruffian and a thug. Do you know the kind of people who will be there tonight?”

  Margaret waited, knowing the question didn’t require an answer.

  “Jay Gould, that’s who. And Jim Fisk, and even that Tweed fellow from Tammany Hall. Crooks, all. The judge would never have countenanced an association with such disreputable types. My word, they’re Democrats!”

  Margaret knew that despite the criticisms, her guardian had only her best interests at heart. But Mrs. Throckmorton would never understand Margaret’s driving need for the security this marriage would provide. How could she?

  Having been insulated by wealth all of her life, M
rs. Throckmorton had little knowledge of the squalor that prevailed in the Irish tenements of the sixth ward. She could never have imagined the kind of depravity that went on behind the closed doors of the house on Mulberry Bend. Yet when Father O’Rourke had appeared on her doorstep fifteen years ago with a frightened, twelve-year-old Irish orphan, Ida Throckmorton had honored her late husband’s debt and taken her in.

  But the benign tyrant of this staid brownstone on Sixty-ninth Street had her rules, so she did—the foremost being no Irish tolerated.

  From that moment on, Cathleen Donovan had ceased to exist. Margaret Hamilton had taken her place—a distant relative of some twice-removed cousin of the late judge. She had been fed, clothed, and patiently tutored in academics and deportment and elocution until all her rough edges had been buffed away and she was able to pass for one of her guardian’s own class.

  It hadn’t been that difficult. Most of Margaret’s Irishness had been beaten out of her by Smythe during the two years she had spent at Mrs. Beale’s. And with her blond hair and rosy cheeks, she looked more English than Irish.

  But sometimes, in that dark hush just before dawn, when the silence was so heavy it pressed like a weight on Margaret’s chest, the ghost of Cathleen Donovan would come calling, bringing with her a confusing mix of good memories and choking terrors that would send Margaret bolting upright in her bed, gasping and clawing at her throat as if Smythe’s hand were still there.

  Those were bad nights. Hopefully they would plague her less frequently after her marriage.

  The thump of the cane heralded Mrs. Throckmorton’s progress across the room. “I want you to be taken care of when I’m gone. But not like this. Not in marriage to this upstart Irishman. Perhaps I can break the trust or arrange for—”

  “You mustn’t,” Margaret cut in. “The judge wanted his estate to benefit his charities, and so it shall. Please don’t fret. Doyle and I will do well together.”

  “Unless he finds out you’re not the blue blood he thinks you are.”

  “He won’t. You did your work too well. He’ll never guess I’m as Irish as he is.”