She watched his hands on the reins. His skin was tanned, his fingers long and capable-looking.
Winifred was in awe of this man. And she liked sitting close to him.
She edged toward him a few inches and laid her head against his shoulder. No one would see them; they had not yet reached the road back to town.
Zane made a sound in his throat, pulled the horse to a stop and wound the reins around the brake handle. He turned to her, his gray eyes dark and smoky. He caught her mouth under his, moving his lips over hers slowly, purposefully. She wanted it to go on forever.
He deepened the kiss and she opened her lips. He tasted of lemons and something sweet, and all at once she wanted to weep.
She touched his arms, felt the muscles bunch and tremble. She ached for something more—something … closer.
“Zane,” she murmured against his mouth. “Touch me.”
It wasn’t always easy to face the realities of life in the Old West—especially when it came to loss and pain. And when it came to falling in love again, matters could get extremely complicated.
I hope you will enjoy this story of heartache and hope.
Smoke River Family
Lynna Banning
LYNNA BANNING combines her lifelong love of history and literature in a satisfying career as a writer. Born in Oregon, she graduated from Scripps College and embarked on a career as an editor and technical writer, and later as a high school English teacher. She enjoys hearing from her readers. You may write to her directly at PO Box 324, Felton, CA 95018, USA, email her at [email protected] or visit Lynna’s website at lynnabanning.net.
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For my agent, Pattie Steele-Perkins.
Contents
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Smoke River, Oregon August 1871
The train chuffed to a stop and Winifred peered out at the town. A seedy-looking building with two large dust-covered windows faced the station; Smoke River Hotel was emblazoned across the front in foot-high dirty white printed lettering. Winifred groaned at the sight. The thought of two whole weeks in this rough Western town made her stomach tighten.
“End of the line, miss,” the conductor bawled.
She blew out a shaky breath and straightened her spine. Most definitely the end of the line. Where else on God’s earth would one see such an array of ramshackle structures leaning into the wind? Could Cissy really have been happy in such a place?
The passenger car door thumped open. “Ya might wanna catch yer breath a minute when you get to the station. Heat can get to ya, ya know.”
No, she did not know. She eyed the purple-hazed mountains in the distance. St. Louis was flat as a sadiron and the downtown area was extremely well kept. She had no idea Oregon would be so...well, scruffy.
She twitched the dirt from her forest green travel skirt and set one foot onto the iron step. The conductor, a short, squat butterball of a man, extended a callused hand.
“Watch yer step, now. Can’t have any passenger fallin’ on her—” He coughed and cleared his throat. Winifred noted his cheeks had turned red. She grasped his outstretched hand and stepped onto the ground.
Her head felt funny, as if her brain were stuffed with wet cotton. Her ears rang. She released the conductor’s hand and took a single step, then grabbed the man’s beefy hand again.
“Dizzy, are ya?” He steadied her arm and peered