Bridget: The Women of Primrose Creek - Softcover

Miller, Linda Lael

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9781587240836: Bridget: The Women of Primrose Creek

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1587240831 ISBN 13: 9781587240836

Publisher: Wheeler Pub Inc, 2001

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They are the women of Primrose Creek, and their strength and passion is a match for the Nevada frontier they call home. Linda Lael Miller masterfully captures the hardships and dangers of a country swept by the winds of war -- and the daring and determination, the hopes and dreams of four unforgettable women -- in a thrilling new series.

When Bridget McQuarry comes to settle in Primrose Creek, she has nothing to lose; her husband, Mitch, was killed in the Civil War, and she has lost her family farm to ruinous Reconstruction taxes. With her baby son and a sister to care for, Bridget vows to make a new start out West. But when Mitch's best friend reappears in her life, he sparks a forbidden passion she thought was forever buried.

Trace Qualtrough grew up with Bridget and Mitch -- three happy childhood friends. But the attraction that fluttered between him and Bridget was silenced when she married Mitch. Now, Trace has come to fulfill Mitch's final wish -- to watch over the lovely, spirited Bridget. And now, Bridget and Trace must discover if their restless desire is a shattering betrayal -- or something sweeter the second time around.

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About the Author:

Linda Lael Miller is the beloved bestselling author of more than twenty-five novels; there are more than twelve million copies of her books in print. Most recently, she has won critical acclaim for her marvelous tales of life and love in the fictional town of Springwater, Montana: Springwater, A Springwater Christmas, and the New York Times bestselling miniseries Springwater Seasons. Ms. Miller resides in the Scottsdale, Arizona, area.

Chapter One

Trace was on foot when she saw him again, carrying a saddle over one shoulder, a gloved hand grasping the horn. His hat was pushed to the back of his head, and his pale, sun-streaked hair caught the sunlight. His blue-green eyes flashed bright as sun on water, and the cocky grin she knew oh-so-well curved his mouth. Oh, yes. Even from the other side of Primrose Creek, Bridget knew right off who he was -- trouble.

She had half a mind to go straight into the cabin for Granddaddy's shotgun and send him packing. Might have done it, too, if she hadn't known he was just out of range. The scoundrel had probably figured out what she was thinking, for she saw that lethal grin broaden for a moment, before he tried, without success, to look serious again. He knew he was safe, right enough, long as he kept his distance.

She folded her arms. "You just turn yourself right around, Trace Qualtrough, and head back to wherever you came from," she called.

No effect. That was Trace for you, handsome as the devil himself and possessed of a hide like a field ox. Now, he just tipped the brim of that sorry-looking hat and set his saddle down on the stream bank, as easily as if it weighed nothing at all. Bridget, a young widow who'd spent three months on the trail from St. Louis, with no man along to attend to the heavier chores, knew better.

"Now, Bridge," he said, "that's no way to greet an old friend."

Somewhere inside this blatantly masculine man was the boy she had known and loved. The boy who had taught her to swim, climb trees, and ride like an Indian. The boy she'd laughed with and loved with an innocent ferocity that sometimes haunted her still, in the dark of night, after more than a decade.

Bridget stood her ground, though a fickle part of her wanted to splash through the creek and fling her arms around his neck in welcome, and hardened her resolve. This was not the Trace she remembered so fondly. This was the man who'd gotten her husband killed, sure as if he'd shot Mitch himself. "You just get! Right now."

He had the effrontery to laugh as he bent to hoist the saddle up off the ground. Bridget wondered what had happened to his horse even as she told herself it didn't matter to her. He could walk all the way back to Virginia as far as she cared, long as he left.

"I'm staying," he said, and started through the knee-deep, sun-splashed water toward her without even taking off his boots. "Naturally, I'd rather I was welcome, but your taking an uncharitable outlook on the matter won't change anything."

Bridget's heart thumped against the wall of her chest; she told herself it was pure fury driving her and paced the creek's edge to prove it so. "I declare you are as impossible as ever," she accused.

He laughed again. "Yes, ma'am." Up close, she saw that he'd aged since she'd seen him last, dressed in Yankee blue and riding off to war, with Mitch following right along. There were squint lines at the corners of his blue-green eyes, and his face was leaner, harder than before, but the impact of his personality was just as jarring. Bridget felt weakened by his presence, in a not unpleasant way, and that infuriated her.

Mitch, she thought, and swayed a little. Her bridegroom, her beloved, the father of her three-year-old son, Noah. Her lifelong friend -- and Trace's. Mitch had traipsed off to war on Trace's heels, like a child dancing after a piper, certain of right and glory. And he'd died for that sweet, boyish na�vet� of his.

"I've got nothing to say to you," Bridget said to him.

He took off his hat and swiped it once lightly against his thigh, in a gesture that might have been born of either annoyance or simple frustration, the distinction being too fine to determine. "Well," he replied, in a quiet voice that meant he was digging in to outstubborn her, should things come to that pass, "I've got plenty to say to you, Bridget McQuarry, and you're going to hear me out."

His gaze strayed over her shoulder to take in the cabin, such as it was. The roof of the small stone structure had fallen in long before Bridget and Skye, her younger sister, and little Noah had finally arrived at Primrose Creek just two months before, after wintering at Fort Grant, a cavalry installation at the base of the Sierras. Right away, Bridget had taken the tarp off the Conestoga and draped it over the center beam, but it made a wretched substitute. Rain caused it to droop precariously and often dripped through the worn cloth to plop on the bed and table and sizzle on the stove.

Trace let out a low whistle. "I didn't get here any too soon," he said.

Just then, Skye came bounding around the side of the cabin, an old basket in one hand, face alight with pleasure. She was sixteen, Skye was, and all the family Bridget had left, except for her son and a pair of snooty cousins who'd passed the war years in England. No doubt, Christy and Megan had been sipping tea, having themselves fitted for silken gowns, and playing lawn tennis, while Bridget and their granddaddy tried in vain to hold on to the farm in the face of challenges from Yankees and Rebels alike.

Good riddance, she thought. The last time she'd seen Christy, the two of them had fought in the dirt like a pair of cats; they'd been like oil and water the whole of their lives, Christy and Bridget, always tangling over something.

"Trace!" Skye whooped, her dark eyes shining.

He laughed, scooped her into his arms, and spun her around once. "Hello, monkey," he said, with a sort of fond gruffness in his voice, before planting a brotherly kiss on her forehead.

Bridget stood to one side, watching and feeling a little betrayed. She and Skye were as close as two sisters ever were, but if you looked for a resemblance, you'd never guess they were related. Just shy of twenty-one, Bridget was small, with fair hair and skin, and her eyes were an intense shade of violet, "Irish blue," Mitch had called them. She gave an appearance of china-doll fragility, most likely because of her diminutive size, but this was deceptive; she was as agile and wiry as a panther cub, and just about as delicate.

Skye, for her part, was tall, a late bloomer with long, gangly legs and arms. Her hair was a rich chestnut color, her wide-set eyes a deep and lively brown, her mouth full and womanly. She was awkward and somewhat dreamy, and though she was always eager to help, Bridget usually just went ahead and did most things herself. It was easier than explaining, demonstrating, and then redoing the whole task when Skye wasn't around.

"You'll stay, won't you?" Skye demanded, beaming up at Trace. "Please, say you'll stay!"

He didn't so much as glance in Bridget's direction, which, she assured herself impotently, was a good thing for him. "I'm not going anywhere."

Behind the cabin, in the makeshift corral Bridget had constructed from barrels and fallen branches, the new horse neighed. He was her one great hope of earning a living, that spectacular black and white paint. She'd swapped both oxen for him, barely a week before, when a half dozen Paiute braves had paid her an alarming visit. His name, rightfully enough, was Windfall, for she'd certainly gotten the best of the trade. Granddaddy would have been proud.

People would pay good money to have their mares bred to a magnificent horse like Windfall.

Her little mare, Sis, tethered in the grassy shade of a wild oak tree nearby, replied to the stallion's call with a companionable nicker.

A muscle pulsed in Trace's jaw. Even after all that time and trouble, flowing between them like a river, she could still read him plain as the Territorial Enterprise. If there were horses around, Trace was invariably drawn to them. He was known for his ability to train untrainable animals, to win their trust and even their affection. All of which made her wonder that much more how he'd come to be walking instead of riding.

"Where's the boy?" he asked. "I'd like to see him."

Bridget sighed. Maybe if he got a look at Noah, he'd leave. If there was any justice in the world, the child's likeness to his martyred father would be enough to shame even Trace into moving on. "He's inside, taking his nap," she said shortly, and gestured toward the cabin.

"What happened to your horse?" Skye wanted to know. Skye had many sterling traits, but minding her tongue wasn't among them.

"That's a long story," Trace answered. He was already on his way toward the open door of the cabin, and Skye hurried along beside him. "It ends badly, too." He paused at the threshold to kick off his wet boots.

"Tell me," Skye insisted. Her delight caused a bittersweet spill in Bridget's heart; the girl had been withdrawn and sorrowful ever since they'd buried Granddaddy and headed west to claim their share of the only thing he'd had left to bequeath: a twenty-five-hundred-acre tract of land in the high country of Nevada, sprawled along both sides of a stream called Primrose Creek. Too much loss. They had all seen too much loss, too much grief.

Trace stepped over the high threshold and into the tiny house, just as if he had the right to enter. The place was twelve by twelve, reason enough for him to move on, even if he'd been an invited guest. Which, of course, he wasn't. "He took off," he said. "Nothing but a knothead, that horse."

Bridget, following on their heels, didn't believe a word of it, but she wasn't about to stir up another argument by saying so. Trace would have known better than to take up with a stupid horse, though she wasn't so sure about his taste in women. He'd probably lost the animal in a game of some sort, for he was inclined to take reckless chances and always had been.

Noah, a shy but willful child, so like Mitch, with his wavy brown hair and mischievous hazel eyes, that it still struck Bridget like a blow whenever she looked at him, sat up in the middle of the big bedstead, rubbing his eyes with plump little fists and then peering at Trace in the dim, cool light.

"Papa," he said. "That's my papa."

A strained silence ensued. Bridget merely swallowed hard and looked away. She would have corrected her son, but she didn't trust herself to speak.

Trace crossed the small room and reached out for the boy, who scrambled readily into his arms. The little traitor.

"Well," Trace said, his voice thick with apparent emotion. "Hullo, there."

"He calls everybody 'Papa,'" Bridget blurted, and then, mortified, turned to the stove and busied herself with pots and kettles, so Trace wouldn't see her expression.

Trace chuckled and set his hat on the boy's head, covering him to the shoulders, and Noah's delighted giggle echoed from inside. "Does he, now?"

"Some of the folks in town think Bridget is a fallen woman," Skye announced. "On account of her name still being McQuarry, even though she was married to Mitch. I told her she ought to explain how he was a distant cousin, but -- "

"Skye," Bridget fretted, without turning around. It was too early to fix supper, and yet there she was, ladling bear fat into a pan to fry up greens and onions and what was left of the cornmeal mush they'd had for breakfast.

Trace came to stand beside her, her son crowing in his arms, evidently delighted at being swallowed up in a hat. "He sure does take after Mitch," Trace said. His voice was quiet, low.

Bridget didn't dare even to glance up at him. "More so every day," she agreed, striving for a light note. "I wouldn't say he's easygoing like Mitch was, though. He's got himself a strong will, and something of a temper, too."

"That," Trace said, "would have come from you."

"Skye," Bridget said crisply, as though he hadn't spoken, "go and catch a chicken if you can. And take Noah with you, please."

Skye obeyed without comment, though she might reasonably have pointed out that the two tasks just assigned were in direct conflict with each other. Noah protested a bit, though, not wanting to be parted from Trace -- or, perhaps, his hat.

Then they were alone in the small, shadowy space, side by side. Bridget could feel Trace's gaze resting on her face, but meeting his eyes took some doing. Every time she looked at him, it weakened her somehow, made her want to sit down and fan herself like some scatterbrained girl at a cotillion.

"Why did you come here?" she demanded.

His expression was solemn and, at the same time, intractable. "Because I promised Mitch I would," he said. "Two days before he was drowned, he got your letter telling him Noah had been born. He was happy, of course, but it was hard for him, being so far away. After a while, he turned reflective." Trace paused, rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "He made me swear I'd look after you, if he didn't make it home."

Bridget knew the details of Mitch's drowning -- Trace had described the scene to her in a letter, his words so vivid that she sometimes forgot that she hadn't been there, hadn't witnessed the tragedy herself -- but the mention of his death brought stinging tears to her eyes all the same. "Damn you," she whispered. "Haven't you done enough?"

He took the spatula from her hand and, grasping her shoulders gently, turned her to face him. "What the devil do you mean by that?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper.

"You know what I mean," Bridget hissed back. "If it hadn't been for you, Mitch would never have gone to war. Noah and I wouldn't have to make our way without him. How dare you come here, like some storybook knight in shining armor, when -- when -- "

"When it was all my fault?" he asked in that same low tone. The words were knife-sharp, for all their softness, honed to a dangerous edge.

It was no use trying to hide her tears, so she didn't make the attempt. For some reason, it seemed all right to cry in front of Trace, though she'd taken great care in the years since the war began to make sure she was alone when she could no longer control her emotions. "Yes!" she cried. "Yes! Mitch wasn't like you. He was guileless and sweet, and he believed everyone else was just as good, just as honest, just as kind. He would have done practically anything you asked him to, and damn you, Trace, you had to know that!"

Trace shoved a hand through that shaggy, light-streaked hair of his. He needed barbering in the worst way, clean clothes, and a bath, too, and for all that, Bridget felt the ancient shame, the powerful, secret pull toward him. She had never confessed that weakness to anyone, could barely acknowledge it to herself.

"Mitch had a mind of his own," he rasped. In his eyes, the ghosts of a hundred fallen soldiers flickered, one of them his best friend from earliest memory. "You make him sound like some kind of idiot. I didn't make him join the fight -- he knew it was something he had to do. Hell, we all did."

They stared at each other for a long moment, like winter-starved bears fixing to tie in, tooth and claw. The air seemed to buzz and crackle at Bridget's ears, and she could feel her own heartbeat thundering in every part of her body. She told herself it w...

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