Springwater Seasons Read online

  Rachel, Savannah, Miranda, Jessica

  0-7434-0362-2

  9780743403627

  Linda Lael Miller

  Sonnet Books

  Robert Hunt

  POCKET BOOKS 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  1999 Linda Lael Miller

  1999 Linda Lael Miller

  1999 Linda Lael Miller

  1999 Linda Lael Miller

  DON’T MISS THESE ACCLAIMED ROMANCES BY NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  Linda Lael Miller

  COURTING SUSANNAH

  ONE WISH

  TWO BROTHERS: THE LAWMAN & THE GUNSLINGER

  THE VOW

  MY OUTLAW

  DISCOVER THE PRIDE AND PASSION OF FRONTIER LIFE IN HER SPLENDID SERIES

  SPRINGWATER SEASONS

  SPRINGWATER

  RACHEL • SAVANNAH

  MIRANDA • JESSICA

  A SPRINGWATER CHRISTMAS

  and

  THE WOMEN OF PRIMROSE CREEK

  BRIDGET • CHRISTY

  SKYE • MEGAN

  All available from Pocket Books

  AND LOOK FOR LINDA LAEL MILLER’S HEARTWARMING NOVEL

  SPRINGWATER WEDDING

  Coming next year in hardcover from Pocket Books

  Praise for Linda Lael Miller’s

  national bestselling series

  SPRINGWATER SEASONS

  “A DELIGHTFUL AND DELICIOUS MINISERIES… . Rachel will charm you, enchant you, delight you, and quite simply hook you… . Miranda is a sensual marriage-of-convenience tale guaranteed to warm your heart all the way down to your toes… . The warmth that spreads through Jessica is captivating… . The gentle beauty of the tales and the delightful, warmhearted characters bring a slice of Americana straight onto readers’ ‘keeper’ shelves. Linda Lael Miller’s miniseries is a gift to treasure.”

  —Romantic Times

  “This hopeful tale is … infused with the sensuality that Miller is known for.”

  —Booklist

  “All the books in this collection have the Linda Lael Miller touch… .”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “Nobody brings the folksiness of the Old West to life better than Linda Lael Miller.”

  —BookPage

  “Another warm, tender story from the ever-so-talented pen of one of this genre’s all-time favorites.”

  —Rendezvous

  “Miller … create[s] a warm and cozy love story.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Don’t miss these other marvelous Springwater novels …

  SPRINGWATER

  “Heartwarming… . Linda Lael Miller captures not only the ambiance of a small Western town, but the need for love, companionship, and kindness that is within all of us… . Springwater is what Americana romance is all about.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A heartwarming tale with adorable and endearing characters.”

  —Rendezvous

  A SPRINGWATER CHRISTMAS

  “A tender and beautiful story… . Christmas is the perfect time of year to return to Springwater Station and the unforgettable characters we’ve come to know and love… . Linda Lael Miller has once more given us a gift of love.”

  —Romantic Times

  Critical acclaim for Linda Lael Miller’s marvelous New York Times bestseller

  ONE WISH

  “[A] story rich in tenderness, romance, and love. Her protagonists are adorable, with a strength and courage that touched my heart… . Ms. Miller reminds us of a simpler time in which determined men and the strong women by their sides forged our future. An excellent book from an author destined to lead the romance genre into the next century.”

  —Rendezvous

  “Heartwarming… . Fans of Miller’s Springwater Seasons series will not want to miss this enjoyable tale.”

  —Romantic Times

  “An author who genuinely cares about her characters, Miller also expresses the exuberance of Western life in her fresh, human, and empathetic prose and lively plot.”

  —Booklist

  “I loved this book! Ms. Miller touches our hearts again in a very special way. Do not miss this wonderful story!”

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  “[A] triumph… . One Wish is an entertaining Americana romance that shows why Linda Lael Miller has remained one of the giantesses of the industry for the past decade. The story line is crisp and filled with family conflict.”

  —Harriet Klausner, Barnesandnoble.com

  TWO BROTHERS

  “A fun read, full of Ms. Miller’s simmering sensuality and humor, plus two fabulous brothers who will steal your heart.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Linda Lael Miller has gifted her fans with a book that is in actuality two novels in one… . Fans of Western romance will devour this 2-for-1 gift package from the ingenious Ms. Miller.”

  —Compuserve Romance Reviews

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Savannah copyright © 1999 by Linda Lael Miller

  Miranda copyright © 1999 by Linda Lael Miller

  Jessica copyright © 1999 by Linda Lael Miller

  Rachel copyright © 1999 by Linda Lael Miller

  These titles were previously published by Sonnet Books

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-0362-2

  ISBN 978-0-74340362-7

  eISBN 978-1-43910-695-2

  First Pocket Books paperback printing November 2000

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  POCKET BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Cover art by Robert Hunt

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  QB /

  June of 1998

  Port Orchard

  Dear Friends,

  Welcome to the Springwater stagecoach station, which will grow before your very eyes, into a thriving community, complete with a saloon, a schoolhouse, a church, and a newspaper, among other things. There are six books in the Springwater series, although I may do more. I love the idea of writing a long, involved story and watching this fictional town full of delightful people come to life. I hope the many and varied characters will become as dear to you as they are to me.

  Let me know what you think, and to receive a copy of the Springwater Gazette, Springwater’s own newspaper, please send a business-sized stamped, self-addressed envelope, with your address clearly printed. We’ll add you to the newsletter list automatically, thus giving you advance notice of every new release, whether it is part of this series or not. The address is:

  Linda Lael Miller

  P.O. Box 669

  Port Orchard, WA 98366

  e-mail: [email protected]

  God bless and keep.

  Warmly,

  Linda Lael Miller

  Contents

  Rachel

  Savannah

  Miranda

  Jessica

  Spring

  Near Springwater,

  Montana Territory, 1874

  Rachel

  For Amy Pierpont,

  with love and appreciation

  CHAPTER

  1

  TREY HARGREAVES HAD BUSINESS to attend to that ch
ill and misty day in early spring; he was dressed for courting and in a fair-to-middling hurry, so he very nearly rode right on by when he spotted the stagecoach bogged down square in the middle of Willow Creek. The driver, a strapping, ginger-haired young Irishman by the name of Guffy O’Hagan, was fighting the mules for all he was worth, but the critters had gotten the better of him and there was no denying it.

  It wasn’t that the creek was exactly dangerous, Trey thought, reluctantly drawing the black and white paint gelding to a halt on the bank to survey the scene proper-like. The water was fast-moving, what with the thaw and all, but it was no more than four feet deep, and a person would have to be downright stupid to drown in a trickle like that.

  He sighed. The problem was, there were a surprising number of stupid people, even in these isolated parts, out beating the brush for a chance to get themselves killed. While he had no real worries about Guffy, the man being no sort of greenhorn, he wasn’t so sure about the woman. First of all, she was wearing a blue feather on her hat, a bedraggled, plumelike thing, bent at one end—by the ceiling of the stage, no doubt—and second, she was halfway out the window, fluttering a handkerchief at him like some duchess summoning a servant.

  He sighed again.

  Her voice rang out over the rush of the stream, the infernal splashing and the bellows of the balking mules, not to mention Guffy’s loud litany of forbidden Anglo-Saxon words. Clearly, he’d forgotten that his passenger, traveling alone as far as Trey could tell, was a lady.

  “Sir!” she cried, with more waving of the handkerchief. “Pardon me, Sir? Are you an outlaw?”

  Trey allowed himself a semblance of a smile; perhaps the woman was more perceptive than he’d first thought. Did they show, all those years when he’d been a wanderer and a scoundrel, making his living mostly by gambling and serving as a hired gun?

  He ignored her question, sighed once more, and sent the paint wading into the icy water. His pant legs were soaked through by the time he reached the door of the marooned stagecoach, and his boots were full. He’d be lucky if he didn’t lose a couple of toes to frostbite.

  Close up, he could see that the stranded lady was young, barely out of her girlhood, probably, and more than passingly pretty. Her hair was auburn, a billow beneath that silly feathered hat, and her eyes were someplace between gray and green. She had good skin, long lashes, and a soft, full mouth that made Trey ponder on what it would be like to kiss her.

  “As you can see,” she said primly, in starched Eastern tones, “we are in need of assistance. First, though, I should like you to answer my question. Are you an outlaw, Sir?”

  Trey wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. He was afraid she’d stop being funny, out of sheer cussedness, if he gave in to the urge. “Well, Ma’am,” he said, “I reckon that depends on who you ask.” He touched the brim of his hat when he saw the flicker of alarm in her eyes. “Name’s Trey Hargreaves and, for the most part, I’ve contrived to stay on the right side of the law. I reside at Springwater,” he cocked a thumb over one shoulder, “back that way a few miles.”

  At the mention of Springwater—he didn’t flatter himself that his name had wrought the change—her eyes lit up and some color came to her cheeks. “Thank heaven,” she said. “It has seemed to me that we would never arrive. Especially since we’ve run aground here in the middle of this … this river.” She nodded to indicate the roof of the coach, where a great deal of baggage was affixed with rope. “If we should overturn, the books would be lost, and I don’t need to tell you, if you come from Springwater, what a dire event that would be. Without education, the children will be left to the influences of places like the”—she lowered her voice confidentially here, and lent the words a dire note—“like the Brimstone Saloon.”

  It was all Trey could do, and then some, not to laugh out loud when she said that. As it was, he felt the corners of his mouth twitching dangerously, but he managed to retain a somewhat sober expression. “God save us all,” he said, with fervor, and laid one hand to his breast.

  Her eyes narrowed for a moment; she was bright, that was clear enough, and she’d discerned that he was pulling her leg a little. She put her hand out to him. “My name is Rachel English,” she said. “I’ve been engaged to teach at the new school in Springwater.”

  The coach swayed dangerously, nearly turning onto its side, and Miss English drew back the hand she’d offered to hold her hat in place. With the other, she clutched the window’s edge, and the expression of thwarted fear in her face tugged at Trey, in the empty place where he’d once kept his heart.

  “I can wade ashore,” she said. “I can even swim a little, if need be. But those textbooks mustn’t be ruined. Please, Mr… . Mr. Hargreaves, lend us your assistance.”

  “Sit tight,” Trey counseled her. Then he reined the paint toward the front, where the mules were still carrying on fit to whip up a froth on the water. “How-do, Guffy,” he greeted the youthful driver, with a grin and a tug at the brim of his hat.

  “Not real well,” Guffy ground out, cordial enough, considering he had both hands full of reins and fractious jackass. “If you’d kindly … get the lady on solid ground … I’d have less … on my mind.”

  Trey made another motion, as if tipping his hat, and rode back to the door. Bending down, he turned the latch and pulled—no easy task, even with his strength, with the rushing water working against him.

  “Come on,” he said to Miss English, and curved one arm to reel her in.

  She drew back, and it struck him that she could probably show those stage mules a thing or two about digging in their heels. “The books—” she said.

  Trey was wet and he was cold and he was hopelessly late. He was not, therefore, of a mind to argue. “I’ll get the damnable books,” he said. “But only when you’re out of this coach and standing on the bank over there.”

  She grabbed a small, tattered handbag and something that looked like a plant cutting from the seat beside her. “Very well,” she said, “but I will hold you to your word, Sir.”

  Trey hooked an arm around her waist—she was hardly bigger than a schoolgirl and weighed about the same as a bag of horse feed—and hauled her, her unwieldy plant stem, tiny handbag, and all, up in front of him, just this side of the saddle horn. She smelled of roses after a rainfall, Trey thought, in a fanciful fashion that was utterly unlike him. She might have just climbed out of a bathtub and dried herself off, instead of traveling three-quarters of the way across the country. If she was the new schoolmarm, she was Evangeline Wainwright’s friend, sent for from Pennsylvania, and the topic of such interest around Springwater that even he had heard of her. From his daughter most especially; Emma eagerly anticipated her arrival.

  Holding her fast, lest she slip away and float downstream like so much flotsam, Trey squired the new teacher to the Springwater side and set her on her feet. She clutched her bag, the plant cutting wrapped at the roots in damp cheesecloth, and her dignity, and there was a plea in her eyes as she looked up at him.

  “The books, Mr. Hargreaves,” she said.

  “Trey,” he replied, sounding foolish even to himself. He turned the paint away and the two of them splashed quickly back to the coach.

  “I could use some weight up top,” Guffy said, breathless from the battle. “You mind climbin’ up, Trey? Go round the other side, so you don’t tip the damn thing over.”

  Any fool could have seen what needed doing, but Trey overlooked the unnecessary specifics of the suggestion, given the state of Guffy’s nerves, and made his way to the far side of the coach. There, grasping the framing of the baggage rack, he raised himself to stand in the saddle, then scrambled upward. The stage swayed perilously for several moments while Trey spread his weight as best he could, like a high-wire artist seeking balance.

  The rig finally settled, though, and the animals calmed down a little. The paint plodded his way back to the shore and up the bank, reins dragging, and shook himself off like a dog, thereby baptizing Miss Rachel Englis
h in the ways of the wild and wooly West.

  “Come on down here and take the lines,” Guffy shouted back, over one meaty shoulder. “I’m going to see if I can persuade that knucklehead out there in the lead to point himself in the right direction.”

  Trey nodded and made his way carefully to the box, where he took up the reins, watching as Guffy climbed nimbly over one mule’s back and then another, until he was mounted on the animal in front, on the left.

  “Mr. Hargreaves!” he heard a voice call. “Oh, Mr. Hargreaves!”

  Exasperated, Trey turned his head and saw the schoolmarm with her hands cupped around her mouth. He was too annoyed, and too busy with the reins, to reply.

  “Don’t forget about the books!” she called, and pointed with one hand to indicate the roof of the coach.

  He heaved yet another sigh and ignored her. She was as exasperating a female as he had ever come across, and he felt sorry for the man who would eventually marry her. Someone surely would though, trial that she plainly was, for women were scarce in those parts, especially passably pretty ones, like her.

  Suddenly, miraculously, the wheels of the coach grabbed and lurched forward, and the eight mules pulled as one, rather than in all directions, as they had before, nearly pitching a distracted Trey into the water. At a careful pace, the stage gained the bank and lumbered, dripping, up over the muddy slope, onto the grass.

  The mules stood shuddering, wet through to bare hide, and looking even more pathetic than mules commonly do.

  Miss English picked her way toward the sodden coach, stepping daintily over mud and stones and slippery grass. The feather on her hat looked somewhat the worse for wear, but it still bobbled foolishly in the breeze. Trey couldn’t help noticing her womanly shape as she approached, though; perhaps because of the hectic nature of their encounter, he’d somehow overlooked that particular aspect of her person, despite the fact that he’d practically carried her from the stage to the shore just a few minutes back.

  “I suppose I should thank you for your assistance, Mr. Hargreaves,” she said, with restraint, clutching her plant cutting in both hands. “Alas, you did not heed my instructions concerning the crate of books.”

  He secured the reins and climbed down from the box to execute a sweeping bow and open the door of the coach. Only the most extreme forbearance kept him from telling her what to do with her books. “I seldom heed instructions, Ma’am,” he said, “unless, of course, they’re called for, which yours were not.”