by Lyndi Lamont

Prologue

London, 1867

Dear Lord, a duel.

Lily Penhallow snuggled deeper into her shawl. For the last half hour she had stared down at the street, trying to will the carriage to appear. Early morning fog veiled the street, almost obscuring the buildings opposite. The wind rattled the drafty window, bringing the November chill into the room.

She turned from the window and paced the small parlor of their rented rooms. Why couldn't men solve their differences amicably? Nigel had called it a matter of honor, but Lily thought it folly. Still, he had a point. Since he made his living at the gaming tables, he could hardly afford to be labeled a cheat.

She thought back to the day they'd met. He and his friend Paul, both resplendent in their scarlet regimental coats, had ridden into the small Cornish village where she'd grown up. Nigel had caught her eye at once, with his blond good looks and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. She had been mesmerized by his stories about his adventures in the army. She'd been only eighteen at the time, a naive country girl with a head full of romantic notions, longing for love and adventure. And what was more romantic than a wounded hero? She'd left town with him and never looked back.

Stopping at the desk, she picked up a letter from her Uncle Arthur in California, urging her to join him there, but quickly set it aside. She was much too nervous to concentrate on her correspondence. Perhaps a cup of tea--no, not with the way her stomach was churning.

With a sigh, she went to stare out the window again. Her reflection stared back at her--black hair framing a pale face, tiny frown lines marring her forehead. She forced her facial muscles to relax. Nigel wouldn't want her to look old before her time.

The duel couldn't have come at a worse time. Nigel was on a winning streak and had promised to marry her. She touched the sapphire engagement ring he'd placed on her finger just last week.

The sound of wheels on the cobblestones caught her attention. Looking out, she spotted a carriage careening around the corner. It came to an abrupt stop in front of their building. Two men climbed out, one carrying a black bag. The doctor. Her heart began to race.

A third man emerged from the carriage and almost toppled into the arms of the other two.

Nigel.

She spun around and rushed from the room, down two flights of stairs, meeting them on the first floor landing. Paul Beacon, Nigel's second, shook his head.

"Oh, Nigel," she said with a sob.

He raised his head, his blond hair falling on his forehead. A makeshift bandage swathed his chest. He coughed and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Lily," he gasped. "So sorry."

Chapter 1

San Francisco, September 1868

Lily stood at the rail of the steamboat, Chrysopolis, hemmed in by other passengers as the crew prepared to leave San Francisco's Embarcadero for the trip up the Sacramento River. The city was only twenty years old and looked it. Unlike London, there was no centuries-old patina of soot to smudge the buildings. And to judge by the boisterous crowd gathered on the wharf, the mood of the inhabitants was one of hope and optimism.

It looked like the entire town had turned out to watch. She saw a few women and children, but the crowd was mostly male. Men in business suits, no doubt on their way home from work, dock hands, sailors on shore leave and other, rougher-looking fellows, some with guns strapped to their waists. Would she ever grow used to that?

A shiver ran through her and she pulled her black wool shawl closer. The weather was cooler than she'd anticipated, reminding her of Cornwall. A slight haze to the west promised fog later in the evening. She stared out at the Pacific Ocean, remembering the long journey around Cape Horn. If only Nigel could have been with her. When she'd first met him, he'd promised to take her to exotic places, but instead they'd wandered between London and the more fashionable watering holes--Brighton and Cheltenham plus one season in Baden-Baden--where Nigel separated wealthy invalids from their money. It was ironic that she'd faced her greatest adventure only after he was gone.

She smoothed a hand over her black silk skirt. She'd spent the last ten months preparing for her new life as the widow Albright. Nigel would not object to her appropriating his last name, though he'd hate seeing her in black. He'd always insisted she wear bright colors like rose, green, and his favorite blue to match her eyes.

Nigel. How she missed him. His charm, his humor, his arms around her in the night, his clever hands and lips arousing her passion.... She had never been so lonely before. Or so frustrated.

On that last, cold November day, his greatest regret had been that they'd never married.

But he had named her his only heir. And thank God he'd been on a winning streak, or she'd have inherited a mountain of debts instead of the tidy sum that had allowed her to travel halfway around the world.

She still had doubts about the wisdom of marrying a man she'd never seen. But when Uncle Arthur offered to arrange a marriage for her to a prosperous mine owner, it had seemed like a good idea. Ever since, she'd been trying to forget the old saying about the road to hell being paved with good intentions.

At long last the boat's steam engine roared to life and the side-wheeler began to move, backing down from the landing, then swinging around until her bow was pointed north. The crowd on the dock set up a cheer and the passengers waved good-bye. Lily's heart began to race.

The last leg of her journey had begun.

She walked to the stern rail and watched until San Francisco faded from view. Now she was so close to her destination, she was eager to see her new home.

A letter from her Uncle Arthur in a place called Grass Valley had led her to California.

He'd said that this was a land of opportunity, a place where what a person did counted for more than birth and upbringing. A good place to start over. She'd soon find out whether or not that was true.

She had traveled a long way on a dream.

* * * *

He hated water, and traveling on the damn stuff was even worse.

Creighton "King" Callaway leaned against the window of the steamboat's dining salon and watched the lone woman standing at the stern rail. Didn't she know how dangerous it was? The river was high with the spring runoff from the mountains. Didn't she know how easy it would be to fall in? To be sucked down by the current like a leaf caught in an eddy. Down into the cold and darkness, fighting panic, holding your breath until your lungs ached.

He clamped his teeth on the unlit cigar in his mouth. When he walked ashore in Sacramento, he'd light it. Not until then. More than one river steamer had gone up in flames. Be damned if he'd be the cause of another. In the meantime, he needed a drink and a distraction.

There would be a poker game later, but for now a little feminine company would fill the bill.

He'd spent the last half hour observing the lovely widow, debating whether to approach her. He had tipped his hat in greeting earlier, and received a fleeting smile in reply. Why he was drawn to her, he couldn't say. He usually steered clear of respectable women. But there was something in the way she moved, an unconscious sensuality, that intrigued him.

Finally, she turned and walked into the dining room, her black skirts swaying provocatively. King pocketed his cigar and followed at a discreet distance.

© 2004 by Lyndi Lamont

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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