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Prologue
My dearest Miss Carmichael,
You have my deepest gratitude for agreeing to be my wife and the mother to my six-year-old daughter, Anna. As your husband, I pledge my protection and unbridled respect. Life in Wyoming Territory offers little in the way of amusements for a woman of your status but makes up for it in beauty. Anna and I look forward to meeting you and welcoming you into our lives.
Sincerely,
Dr. Colton Lee
Chapter One
Wyoming Territory
Spring 1885
Regan Carmichael was tired of riding in the stagecoach. The beauty of the Wyoming countryside with its trees and snow-topped mountains had been thrilling to view at first, but after traveling for three long days in a cramped coach that seemingly had no springs, she longed for the journey to Paradise, Wyoming, to end. Even her excitement at meeting the man she’d come to marry had been dulled by the lengthy trek, and she was certain her bottom would bear bruises for the rest of her days. Her mood was further challenged by having ridden the past day and a half alone. She did enjoy no longer being squashed between the other passengers who’d since departed, but missed the conversations they’d shared. Up top, sat the driver, Mr. Denby, and the guard, Mr. Casey, who due to their duties had no time to lighten her boredom with conversation. The wheels hit another rut on the uneven road causing her to bounce, land hard on the thin leather seat, and her poor sore bottom wailed again.
That it might be months before she saw her family again temporarily took her mind off the uncomfortable ride. She began missing them the moment she boarded the train in Tucson. Her Aunt Eddy and Uncle Rhine. Her dear sister, Portia. The last time she’d been away from home for more than an extended period had been during her studies at Oberlin College, but unlike then Regan wouldn’t be returning home. This would be the start of a new life in a place she knew little about other than it was mostly wild and untamed, the two largest cities were Laramie and Cheyenne, cattle raising reigned supreme, and women were given the right to vote in 1869; a national first.
Suddenly, the coach picked up speed. Mr. Denby could be heard hoarsely urging the horses to run faster. Concerned, she quickly pushed aside the leather window shade and looked out. Three men wearing bandanas over their faces were riding hard in their wake. Mr. Casey began firing his shotgun, and the riders, swiftly closing in on the coach, returned fire. Regan snatched up her own Winchester, tore down the shade, and added her weapon to the fray. Seconds later, she no longer heard the shotgun from above.
“Mr. Denby! Are you two okay?” she shouted.
“No! Keep shooting, miss!”
He didn’t have to tell her twice.
The outlaws were nearly on them. Even though the careening pitch of the coach played havoc with her aim, she managed to hit the nearest rider, which made him drop the reins, grab his arm, and slump forward in pain. His partner rode past him and positioned himself adjacent to the coach. He took aim at the uncovered window but Regan was already squeezing the trigger on the rapid-fire rifle. The cartridges exploded in his chest and he tumbled backwards off his mount.
The coach thundered on.
The third hombre must have realized the odds weren’t in his favor. A grim Regan watched him grab the reins of the riderless horse. He and the slumped man she’d shot in the arm rode back the way they’d come. Whether the one they left behind was dead, she didn’t know.
Breathing harshly and shaking, she fell back against the seat. Only then did she acknowledge how terrified she’d been. Her roiling stomach made her think she might be sick, but she thanked her recently deceased neighbor, Mr. Blanchard, for his rifle lessons. Shoot first, puke later! he’d told the then eleven-year-old Regan and her older sister, Portia. The memory made her smile and she drew in a deep breath that calmed her frayed nerves.
The coach slowed, then stopped. When the door opened, an alarmed Regan grabbed the Winchester. It was the driver, Mr. Denby. For a moment, he stared at her in awe.
“That was some mighty good shooting, miss. Wasn’t expecting that—not with you all fancy dressed the way you are.”
Regan silently acknowledged the compliment. “Are you and Mr. Casey all right?”
“No. Casey’s heart gave out. He’s dead.”
“Oh no! I’m so sorry.”
“I’d be dead, too, if it hadn’t been for you. Do you mind riding up top with me so I can put his body in the coach?”
“Of course not.”
With her help, Casey’s body was placed on the seat. After handing Denby her rifle, she hiked up the skirt of her fancy blue traveling ensemble and climbed the large front wheel to the seat.
“You do that like you’ve been climbing wagons all your life.”
“I have. I drove the mail back home in Arizona Territory.”
He chuckled. “Really?”
She nodded.
