Lynette Vinet Read online

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Design.

  Copyright © 1990 and 2013 by Lynette Vinet

  First Kensington Zebra (Heartfire) Edition: 1990

  First Steel Magnolia Press Publication: 2013

  Chapter 1

  New Zealand, 1870

  Eden Flynn wiped the fine sheen of perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand. The bodice of her gown was damp and wisps of reddish-gold hair clung to the sides of her cheeks. She couldn’t wait to get back to her hotel room and indulge in a cooling glass of iced tea. New Zealand was much too warm during the height of summer for her liking.

  Shamus hadn’t told her about the weather. He’d often elaborated about the Remarkables, the mountains in the distance which rose like protective giants above Queenstown. Nearby Lake Wakatipu, whose watery surface resembled dancing diamonds and sapphires in the sunshine, contrasted sharply with the Neolithic mountains. Modern paddle steamers and various other craft plied the waters daily, sometimes crisscrossing at such odd angles that Eden wondered at such folly. Luckily, there were never any serious accidents.

  Queenstown, a Maori settlement until the 1850’s when white settlers arrived, was now crowded with miners and people who had caught gold fever. She could almost hear Shamus’s voice in her ears now. “You’ll be thinkin’ you’re still in San Francisco,” he’d assured her many times.

  Eden sighed. She wasn’t in San Francisco any longer and she missed it. Homesickness assailed her, and the summer sun so drained her of energy that she felt as wilted as a plucked dandelion. And her mood wasn’t the best. With each passing day and no sign of Damon Alexander, Shamus’s nephew, Eden grew more apprehensive and agitated.

  As she left the mercantile store near the river, her arms loaded with packages for the journey she was about to undertake, she wondered at the foolhardiness of her actions. Perhaps she shouldn’t have left America for New Zealand. She didn’t know anything about mining, and the little she’d learned about it from Shamus had convinced her it was hard work. But he had insisted she come, begging her to promise she’d claim her share in Thunder Mine after he’d gone. She’d promised only as a means of keeping him quiet, but in the end she’d done as he wished. After a long and miserable sea voyage, she was here. Now she must contend with Damon Alexander—if he ever showed up.

  Eden crossed the dusty street which led to her hotel. The bottom of her fashionable gown—a red taffeta creation with tiny black bows at the cuffs and high neckline, designed by one of the most sought after seamstresses in San Francisco—dragged the ground. She was used to walking on cobblestones or hiring carriages to convey her to her destination. Shamus hadn’t mentioned Queenstown was still rather primitive in some respects. Eden doubted she’d be able to find a suitable carriage in the whole town, so she opted to walk. She now doubted the practicality of the gown she’d chosen to wear for her shopping sojourn that day. The ladies in the mercantile had looked enviously at it, and Eden noticed their own gowns were much plainer and not made of such fine material. In truth, she would rather have worn a simple black dress—she was still in mourning—but Shamus had insisted she wear colorful gowns and not hide her beauty.

  She hated drawing attention to herself and felt conspicuous. Lusty leers and less than gentlemanly comments were hurled her way by men lounging against storefronts or passing her on the street. Anything could happen to her, a woman alone in a foreign country. For the hundredth time she cursed herself for listening to Shamus. She hated experiencing that horrible, gnawing feeling of insecurity again. She thought she’d overcome that when she married Shamus, but she knew that wasn’t the case when she began to hurry back to the safety of her hotel room.

  Stepping from the street onto the wooden planks which served as a sidewalk, the many packages in her arms obscuring her view, Eden didn’t see the man leaving the saloon. She felt him, however, when she plowed into him.

  The wind gushed from her lungs. With a startled and painful cry, she fell backward into the dusty street. Her packages flew into the air and fell hither and yon around her. She had no idea that her gown was pushed up to reveal the ruffled hem of her chemise or that her silk-stockinged legs were all too visible to the staring bystanders. At first she thought a huge boulder had pinned her to the ground. It was only when awareness dawned upon her did she realize the punishing weight atop her came from a dark-haired man.

  Like a heavy counterpane he lay sprawled over her, crushing her breasts with his powerful chest. She heard him inquire if she was hurt, but she could barely speak from the breath being knocked from her and the hypnotic effect this man’s face held for her.

  He was swarthily handsome, possessed of a finely made nose and full, sensuous lips, lips which now were turned up into a genuinely concerned smile. He stared down at her with eyes so blue they resembled the calm waters of the nearby lake. Within their sapphire depths were tiny, golden pinpoints of molten fire. Eden had never seen a more handsome man—or been more embarrassed.

  Despite her discomfort, she almost found herself enjoying the pressure of his body atop hers. It had been so long since a man held her or touched her that she almost gave in to the inclination to push her body into his, to dissolve into his sensual warmth.

  But she grew frightened of her own feelings, the odd sense of intimacy this stranger induced within her. What was wrong with her to think such wicked thoughts, to actually like it when she felt the hard-muscled arm draw her closer to him? He had nearly killed her and here she was aching for something so wanton she started to blush.

  The spell broke and she came to her senses when she smelled liquor on his breath. Her proper upbringing rose to the fore; her eyes flared like greenstone and her lower body bucked. “Get off me, you drunken fool!”

  His head reared backward, but his gaze never left her face. “Drunken fool, am I? Is that any way to speak to a person after you nearly trample him to death?”

  “Trample you? You’ve nearly killed me. I can’t breathe. Get off me before I knee you.”

  The arrogant man smirked; but even then he was handsome. “I thought you were a lady, but I was wrong.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, seeing that people milled around them and all too aware of the suggestive scene they must make on the ground together.

  “Ladies don’t knee men and ladies don’t push themselves hard against a man,” he whispered. “How long has it been since you’ve had a good tumble with a gent?”

  She sputtered in outrage, unable to think of a scathing retort except to demand he get off her. The man flashed her a smile, but did as she asked. He extended his hand to her, a hand she refused to take, but he grabbed her by the elbow and unceremoniously hauled her to her feet. A woman in the crowd came forward and began dusting off the back of Eden’s gown. Eden smiled gratefully at her, pretending she didn’t notice the handsome man who stood only inches from her. She willed herself not to look at him, but she found herself taking covetous glances nonetheless.

  He was taller than she realized, taller than Shamus. Eden took note of his shirt, which was the same blue as his eyes. When he bent down to retrieve the large-brimmed hat he’d lost during the fall, the thin materia
l strained with the effort, leaving no doubt as to the broadness of his shoulders. From the tight-fitting denim trousers he wore, the brown boots which were mud-caked and in need of a polishing, he was definitely all male. And a randy one at that, Eden decided. She could spot one a mile away, and even in New Zealand, men were the same. They always wanted one thing from a woman. Except for Shamus, who’d been the only decent man she’d ever known other than her father.

  Eden averted her gaze and pushed down the odd sensation which flooded her to realize he was watching her in an openly appraising fashion. Never had she noticed a man in such a wanton way and felt guilty for doing so now. Shamus had been gone for such a short time.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her again.

  “Yes, I believe I am, at least I seem to be in one piece,” she said curtly, though her body already ached.

  “I’ll escort you home.”

  “I can manage quite well by myself, sir. I need no help from you.” She knew she sounded shrewish, but something about this man bothered her. She started to collect her packages when a small brown-skinned Maori boy appeared and assisted her. He spoke to her in his native language.

  “He wants to carry them back for you if you’ll pay him,” the stranger interpreted for her.

  Eden nodded at the child and smiled. “Tell him I’d be most pleased.”

  The man spoke to the boy and he grinned his understanding while he waited in silence for Eden. “I would have done it for nothing.” The man’s deep voice followed Eden when she turned to walk away.

  Eden whirled to face him. “I doubt that. Men usually want something for their trouble.”

  “Ah, miss, you wound me with your suspicion.” His eyes gleamed with amusement when he put his hat on. “You’re a Yank, aren’t you?”

  A Yank? Eden stared in outrage, her blood boiling to be called such a despicable name. She knew that to this man with the Irish lilt to his voice, her accent was clearly American. And she also knew he probably lumped all Americans together. Her reaction to his question was ridiculous, but she couldn’t help herself. She was a southerner. The war had left too many scars for her not to be offended. “I’m no … Yank.” She could barely say the hated word.

  “Sorry, thought you might be. Would it trouble you to tell me your name, miss? I’d appreciate knowing it.”

  “My name isn’t your business, sir, and anyway I’m a Mrs.” Eden waved her hand at him. The large gold wedding band caught the sunlight.

  “My mistake then, Mrs. Whoever you are. I apologize for any discomfort I caused you. Good day to you.”

  To Eden’s surprise he walked past her as if she didn’t exist for him any longer. She watched him until he turned a corner of a nearby street and felt foolish over how she’d acted. What had gotten into her to be so rude to him? It wasn’t like her to be insulting and ill-mannered. Perhaps she should run after him and apologize? She discounted the thought almost as soon as it surfaced. The man might misinterpret her apology and expect something else from her—something she’d give to no man—especially that one.

  Taking some of the heavier packages from the small boy, she made it back to the hotel with his help.

  ~~~

  Gazing down at the street below her, Eden Flynn twisted the wedding band on her left hand. Where was Shamus’s nephew? He should have come to escort her to Thunder Mine by now. She’d been in Queenstown for ten days, having sent a message to Damon Alexander upon her arrival. The hotel clerk assured her that the note had been delivered, the distance to the mine being no more than four days’ travel both ways. If that were true, then she should have heard something by now. She hoped nothing had happened to Damon. Shamus had been so fond of him.

  Thinking of Shamus caused Eden to finger gently the outline of the heart-shaped locket beneath her bodice. It seemed only yesterday that Shamus had placed the golden locket around her neck. She found it hard to believe a year had passed. His lilting Irish accent still echoed in her ears. She could still feel the warmth of his eyes upon her when he opened the locket to reveal a small tintype of himself. “So you won’t be forgettin’ me when I’m gone,” he had said before kissing her cheek.

  “As if I could forget you, Shamus,” she had told him, and now found herself whispering the same words to the empty hotel room. There was no laughing response this time, no answering hug. A sob rose in Eden’s throat. His death was fresh in her mind, nine months later. The pain of losing him all too real.

  Shamus had commanded her not to grieve, but she couldn’t help herself. He’d given her so much in their brief time together as man and wife. It wasn’t only the gifts he bought for her, the wealth he bequeathed to her upon his death. He’d been kind and concerned for her well-being and she’d been powerless to save him. Despite her caring for him, her willing him to live and grow stronger, he’d died just as he’d predicted.

  The picture in the locket was how he wanted her to remember him. His image looked as healthy and robust as he himself had been the day they met at LaRue’s Pleasure Palace in San Francisco. He’d told her that no matter the thirty-year difference in their ages, he didn’t want her memory of him to be of the weak, gaunt-faced creature he’d become at the end.

  Eden poured a glass of tea and fanned herself with a lace handkerchief. She found it hard to believe Christmas was but a month away, and she grew homesick not for San Francisco but for the many Christmases she’d shared with her parents on their Georgia plantation before the war.

  “I won’t think about it,” she mumbled when her mind drifted to her family and the happiness they’d shared. Even to remember the good times pained her because she couldn’t relive them or bring back her parents. Nothing of her former life was left after the South was defeated. The plantation house had been burned to the ground during Sherman’s march to the sea. The invading Yankees had swarmed through the house and across the grounds like marauding fire ants, stealing what they could carry away and burning what they couldn’t.

  Her father had been bayonetted by a murderous Yank like a sacrificial lamb when he attempted to defend his family and home. Eden’s mother went wild at his death and tried to stab the soldier with a knife. Her end hadn’t been swift and merciful…

  It was here Eden always stopped her thoughts, unable to dwell upon Lila Prescott’s rape and death. Eden had witnessed all the horror from the inside of a child’s treehouse, hidden from view by the shielding leaves of the giant oak. Her father had sent her there when news came of approaching troops. She’d been fifteen at the time, and had not climbed into the treehouse in three years. She tearfully clung to her father, crying she didn’t want to leave him. For the first time in her life, her father’s gentle face hardened into an iron mask and he forbade her to leave the tree under any circumstances. Always an obedient child, Eden did as she was told and she later knew that her father had saved her life.

  But the memories of that day would be with her forever.

  After the Yankees departed, one of the Prescott’s neighbors found her aimlessly wandering the road in apparent shock. With his help she made her way to her father’s sister in Atlanta. Her aunt had fared little better, having grown old and sickly before her time. The family home was barely habitable, but the two women made do. Eden cared for her aunt until she died two months after the war’s end.

  With her aunt’s passing, Eden had no one and nothing to call her own. She knew she must put her former life behind her and make a new start. She decided to do what many people were doing then. She’d head west.

  In Savannah, the captain of a whaling ship hired her to tutor his two little girls. Eden’s job ended some months later when the ship reached the busy city of San Francisco. She’d earned enough money to allow herself time to decide what sort of job she’d enjoy doing. Tutoring was rewarding, but it didn’t pay enough, so she steered clear of newspaper ads for tutors and governesses.

  By chance she made the acquaintance of an older man in her boarding house. He told her he had resigned h
is bookkeeping position at LaRue’s Pleasure Palace. His health was failing and he was going to live with his daughter. Eden, who’d always had a head for figures, discreetly inquired about the salary, and learning it was much more than she’d earned as a tutor, decided to apply for the job.

  She had no idea what a pleasure palace was, but upon seeing the red-and-gold furnishings and the number of scantily clad young women, she quickly understood LaRue’s purpose. Before the war, she’d have been thoroughly shocked and sickened to consider entering such a place, much less working there. But the war had changed her. When LaRue herself hired Eden as a bookkeeper, Eden warmly thanked her.

  From the money LaRue’s took in, Eden decided vice was most profitable indeed. Strangely, she didn’t dislike the women who catered to the customer’s baser needs. They made a living at what they knew best, and like Eden, all of them were survivors of their pasts.

  After Eden had worked at LaRue’s for three years, Shamus Flynn entered her life. He’d thought he’d been overcharged on the meal he’d ordered and insisted on seeing LaRue. She had been away but because the big, rough-looking Irishman was making such a fuss and disturbing the other patrons, Eden was asked to intervene.

  She hadn’t liked Shamus at first. He seemed a typical Irishman to her—boisterous and swaggering. But after she’d calmed him down and seen to the bill, he apologized with so much charm that she forgot her original impression. He invited her to share a glass of wine with him, and Eden never regretted her acceptance for one second. Beneath Shamus’s florid exterior was a shy, gentle man. He was the first man she allowed into her prim and proper existence.

  After about a month, Eden came to know a great deal about Shamus Flynn. Shamus loved to talk about his boyhood in Ireland, the land he’d left over twenty years ago, during the Potato Famine. Taking his sister’s orphaned son with him, they had headed to New Zealand, where he thought he could make a new start for himself and the boy. He worked at various jobs until he decided to try his luck at finding gold in the Otago area. After six months he struck it rich, and Thunder Mine transformed him into a wealthy man.