The Unlikely Groom

Ashlynne snatched up her fresh cup and took a healthy drink. “I don’t know how you men can make light of such things. Prostitution is immoral—wicked! Why, this place—this whole town!—is immoral and wicked.”

“Then why don’t you go back where you came from and leave us to wallow in our immorality and wickedness?”

She took another, sizable drink, stared for a moment at the cup, then replaced it on the table with a new frown. “I told you. I don’t have a ticket or the money to purchase one.”

“I’ll give you the money.” The offer was out before Lucas could think better of it. But as the words echoed between them, he realized just how much sense it made. Ashlynne couldn’t afford to leave—and he couldn’t afford to allow her to stay. The piddling price of the fare back to Seattle or San Francisco would be a fair enough exchange for his peace of mind.

She, on the other hand, reared back as though he’d just suggested that she shed her clothes and dance naked on the tabletop. “Absolutely not!”

Lucas frowned, annoyed as much by himself as Ashlynne’s reaction. His offer had been honorable, and she had no business behaving as though it wasn’t. Worse, her current position drew every bit of his attention to her lush, completely feminine curves. His body noticed immediately, straining awake and reminding him, in fact, that he hadn’t put her attractiveness from his mind at all.

“What do you plan to do instead?” he snapped without a hint of sympathy.

“Well…I don’t know. But I have no intention of taking money from strange men.”

“I’m not a stranger. You know my name, after all.”

“That isn’t enough,” she insisted. Firmly.

“You should be relieved I made the offer. I didn’t ask for any…favors in return.”

“Mr. Templeton!” Her complexion paled and her eyes widened with apparent shock. When she spoke again, however, it was with a cool certainty that came as a surprise. “There is no chance that you would have gotten such favors from me,” she said stiffly, all but draining her cup.

Ashlynne sat back decisively, but then peered into the depths of her empty mug. She sighed and glanced up at him. “Why don’t you people have cream or sugar?” she asked with plaintive frustration.

Lucas blinked. Ashlynne’s mood seemed to be changing with nothing more than the ticking of the clock and it had gotten worse as the night had passed. He understood that her emotions might be unstable after the traumatic turn of events, but it seemed that the whiskey had only heightened her reactions.

“Cream and sugar are too expensive,” he answered carefully. “A person can probably find some sugar in Skagway if you’ve got the coin, but never cream.”

Ashlynne sighed again. “I think I hate this place.”

“So why not let me send you back Outside?”

“Outside where?”

“San Francisco or wherever you came from. Outside of Alaska.”

“Why didn’t you say that, then?”

“I did. Anyplace away from Alaska is Outside.”

“What do you call the beauty and grandeur of nature beyond these walls?” she demanded smartly as she waved to the room in general. Her spark, however, and her gaze seemed to be fading. “You can’t escape the wilderness in this place. I’ve seen that for myself.”

“That’s simply the great outdoors.”

“Cheechakos, Outside—you Alaskans have your own vocabulary.”

Lucas nodded, not that Ashlynne paid enough attention to notice. What she said was true, however. Most things about Alaska and Alaskans were different from elsewhere in the world. The disparities repelled as many people as they attracted.

Now, of course, the gold drew them, as well. Just as it had drawn Ashlynne and her brother. But the land, the elements and the hardy breed of both pioneers and Indians who had already settled this frontier were unforgiving. The wrong step could cost a man his life.

It had cost Ian Mackenzie his.

And what about his sister? What would she do now?

The world was a terrible place and the heavy thudding inside Ashlynne’s head was God’s way of proving it to her. She didn’t know enough about God to be certain, but she suspected what He wanted of her. It was what He’d always wanted of her—and what she’d always failed to accomplish. He meant for her to give up her headstrong ways, to learn to think before she acted, to trust others and to forgive them for their shortcomings.

She had never even come close to managing it. Now she couldn’t even consider it.

She couldn’t seem to think at all.

Instinct demanded that she hold her arms, her legs—everything—stiff and steady. Better yet, that she give up movement entirely. She tried, but the blood continued to pound through her veins and her head drummed with a heavy, relentless beat that left her hardly able to think. In fact, the drumming and pounding produced a steady rhythm that paced her heart and seemed to aim specifically for the most sensitive spots in her forehead and behind her eyes.

Ashlynne caught and held her breath, but that only seemed to make things worse. She gave in with a weary sigh and allowed her breath to trickle out, bit by bit. At the same time she relaxed her muscles and tested her extremities: fingers and toes, hands and feet, arms and legs. They all worked, though she couldn’t imagine quite how. Her body’s natural reaction must have been responsible, for she couldn’t seem to manage much else.

She shifted with a trifle more bravery and discovered a new ache, this one low in her back. Ashlynne pried open one eye and gradually realized at what an unnatural, crooked angle that she lay. Just as bad, her tongue felt thick and fuzzy and her mouth carried a dry, awful taste, as though she’d eaten dirt and ash—or worse.

Gingerly, hoping for some relief, she tested her lips with her tongue. They felt dry and cracked, too, but she’d come to expect that from Alaskan winter weather.

Alaska.

With just the word, everything came tumbling back into her mind in one great rush. She sat up with a gasp, at the same time clasping one hand to her throat as though that would stifle any other noise. It might have done the job, but the relentless pounding in her head only increased.

Moving carefully, she pressed her fingertips to her temples and gingerly massaged her forehead. She dared no other movement as she peered about her…and then she discovered herself in a small room, dark and gloomy. An odd assortment of crates, barrels and boxes surrounded her, all stacked in haphazard disarray. A mop and bucket, broom and dustpan and other assorted cleaning supplies filled one corner.

Daring a braver look, she turned by slow degrees to investigate the rest of the room. A line of pegs, used as clothes hangers, marched across the wall and a small chest of drawers squatted next to them. A cracked piece of mirror hung crookedly on the wall above it.

Her heart stumbled as did her breathing and Ashlynne lost any chance to ignore the reality of her situation. She had never before seen this room and she had no earthly idea where she was. She was in someone’s bed—but whose? She tried to scramble to her feet but found herself virtually wrapped in a cocoon made up of her heavy woolen cloak. It tangled around her legs and kept her imprisoned on a bed that was actually more of a cot, she realized as she struggled to free herself.

“Be careful.”

The voice, low and husky, was also male. She recognized it immediately and absolutely.

Lucas Templeton.

Ashlynne gave a sharp little grunt of surprise. The noise sounded most unlady-like, but she didn’t care. She forced herself to settle back on the bed as she wriggled around to free her legs as best she could, and at the same time, she scanned the room to find him.

In the far corner, disguised by shadows and her ignorance that he was there, she finally spotted him. He slouched in a chair with enough lazy grace that suggested he was a man who would be comfortable wherever he went.

She’d gotten the same impression of him last night.

He stared back at her, his gaze somehow unexpected. He looked unsurprised to see her or her reaction, as though he had been lounging there and watching her for some time now. Most certainly as she slept. Had he reached some obscure conclusions? And about what?

Aside from that, had he slept? And if so, where? Dull shadows clung to the far corners of the room and gave his eyes a sleepy, heavy-lidded appearance that suggested so. Perhaps she’d awoken him.

Other than that, he looked much the same as he had last night: tousled and wicked and all too male. She didn’t want to notice—hated that she did. She had so much else at stake, so much else with which to concern herself, and yet she couldn’t deny that she was aware of Lucas in a way that went clear through to her soul.

What should she say to him? Especially now, after everything that had happened.