Josie shook her head. “You are terrible, Mr. Blythe.”
“Not as terrible as you, Mrs. Blythe. I bet you couldn’t handle a snowball fight anyway.”
“I can too,” Josie chided slightly above a whisper. “You won’t think about getting an extra wife when you see how good I am.”
“I don’t think I can get a wife that’s as good as you. I was beyond lucky. I couldn’t ask for any better.”
A blush crept up Josie’s cheeks as she rubbed her thumbs together. “I don’t believe that.”
“I do,” Travis said firmly in a low, husky voice. He reached out a free hand, laying it over hers. Her heart skipped as warmth flushed through her veins. “I am beyond blessed knowing I have you by my side. You’re more than an excellent mother. You are a wonderful wife, Jo.”
Jo.Just the sound of her nickname made her stomach flutter. She intertwined her fingers through Travis’s, smiling wider than ever before.
Then out of nowhere, flashes of that night on the staircase filled her mind, causing her breath to nearly hitch. Josie gripped Travis’s hands, keeping her smile. She couldn’t let him see through her facade. She may be able to forget about her past with Marcus, but she couldn’t bury how it ended.
Chapter Thirty
Cheyenne, Wyoming; Early January 1873
Afteramiserableweek,boarding trains and getting off at new stations, General huffed aloud, his breath visible in the cool Rocky Mountain breeze like smoke. The crisp air bit at his ears and neck, making him wish he had prepared better. But he had been too anxious, ready to venture out to the Montana Territory and take care of business. It didn’t matter if it was the dead of winter; he’d fight to retrieve his flesh and blood his wife had stolen from him. Then he’d carry out justice.
After stepping off the train and looking out from the station, his eyes met the saloon’s sign, like a beacon leading him to a lighthouse. He longed for a drink. What had it been, a day or two? The train’s liquor didn’t agree well with him. He hopedfor something less fancy, more natural and real. None of that overpriced wine and brandy.
He crunched through the snow and opened the saloon’s door. Upon entering, men from every corner locked eyes with him, studying him from head to toe. Their attire was more appropriate for the weather—coats made of different fur types like buffalo, grizzly, and moose. Very robust for General’s taste, but he was desperate. He settled himself at the bar, turning his head from the harlots in the corner, preying on the men seated at their own tables, playing cards or fooling around.
Oh, how General longed to break those girls’ necks. Their behavior was repulsive, and he admired the thought that no one would miss them if he just—
“What can I get ya, sir?” the bearded barkeeper asked, a puff of smoke coming from his cigar. His eyes roved as he studied General.
“Get me a bottle of whiskey.”
The man nodded. “Done.”
General looked ahead, studying each bottle of liquor stored—brandy, rum, beer, whiskey, and gin. He longed for them all, but he couldn’t delay his journey. There would be more to celebrate when he came home with the heir that would be his legacy’s salvation.
The man returned with General’s bottle, and he immediately popped off the top, ready to drink the remarkable beverage.
“You ain’t from around here, are ya?” the barkeeper asked.
General took a sip and swallowed. “What gives me away?”
The man laughed. “You really want that answer? You look prim, like you a city folk.”
General chuckled as the whiskey flamed down his throat. “General Marcus Wellington.”
“Zack Yancey.” He put out his hand and Marcus shook it. “What ya doin’ comin’ ‘round here durin’ the winter, General?”
“You wouldn’t guess.”
Zack leaned forward, his elbows resting on the counter. “A man of mystery. I like that.”
“Know where I can get a stagecoach from here?”
Zack stepped back, shaking his head as a loud chuckle bellowed out of him. “You’re a funny one, General. We ain’t got no stagecoaches out here, not in this weather. You must be crazy.”
General’s grip tightened around his bottle. What right did this man have to insult someone of his status? He wanted to take hold of that neck of his and squeeze every ounce of breath out of him. Perhaps a duel for the insult. Those were his favorite in the days, a game of cat and mouse. Only the strongest could win, like Darwin’s theory. How long had it been since he participated in one? Well, planning one wasn’t too long ago. However, he decided poison was easier on Stephen Callahan.
General reached into his pocket, pulling out a pouch of gold. He couldn’t be distracted by every little insult. He had more important matters to deal with.Save your strength.
