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  PRAISE FOR THE COWBOYS OF COLORADO SERIES

  “With humor, a touch of mystery, and the efforts of a well-matched doctor and sheriff, Goodman draws the reader into the tangled lives of the citizens of Frost Falls, Colorado. Another winner by a master storyteller!”

  —Kaki Warner, RITA Award–winning author of Texas Tall

  “Goodman will satisfy fans of historical Western romance with this sprawling, lusty re-creation of life, love, and slowly uncovered secrets on a Colorado cattle ranch in the spring of 1892. . . . Her fairy-tale Wild West also surrounds the requisite sexy courtship with plenty of rip-roaring action and appealing Colorado scenery.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A Touch of Flame is the kind of book you want to disappear into. . . . Heart-wrenching, uplifting, and humorous all at once.”

  —All About Romance

  “A Touch of Frost is the perfect Western for romantics. It has grit, spunk, and a lawlessness you’ll appreciate. . . . Pure entertainment.”

  —Romance Junkies

  MORE PRAISE FOR THE BESTSELLING NOVELS OF JO GOODMAN

  “Goodman has a well-earned reputation as one of the finest Western romance writers. Her strong plotlines; realistic, colorful backdrops; deep sensuality; and engaging characters are only part of her appeal. The winning combination of toughness and tenderness is what enthrall readers.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “This first-rate tale easily measures up to its predecessors and will make readers eager for their next visit to Bitter Springs.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “A tender, engaging romance and a dash of risk in a totally compelling read. . . . Gritty, realistic, and laced with humor.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Jo Goodman is a master storyteller and one of the reasons I love historical romance so much.”

  —The Romance Dish

  “Fans of Western romance will be thrilled with this delightful addition to Goodman’s strong list.”

  —Booklist

  “A wonderfully intense romance. . . . A captivating read.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “Exquisitely written. Rich in detail, the characters are passionately drawn. . . . An excellent read.”

  —The Oakland Press

  Titles by Jo Goodman

  The Cowboys of Colorado

  A TOUCH OF FROST

  A TOUCH OF FLAME

  A TOUCH OF FOREVER

  Other Works

  KISSING COMFORT

  THE LAST RENEGADE

  TRUE TO THE LAW

  IN WANT OF A WIFE

  THIS GUN FOR HIRE

  THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

  A JOVE BOOK

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

  Copyright © 2019 by Joanne Dobrzanski

  Excerpt from A Touch of Flame by Jo Goodman copyright © 2018 by Joanne Dobrzanski

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780440000655

  First Edition: June 2019

  Cover photo of couple by Claudio Marinesco; background photo of mountains by Kyle Kephart

  Cover design by Sarah Oberrender

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

  Version_1

  This one’s for the wonderful folks on the sixth floor of Weirton Medical Center who dedicate themselves to helping and healing others. I finished this book between physical therapy, medication delivery, and the ignominy of needing assistance to get out of bed, bathe, and groom. To a person they were kind, and that is a gift I shall always cherish.

  Contents

  Praise for the Bestselling Novels of Jo Goodman

  Titles by Jo Goodman

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  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

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Excerpt from A Touch of Flame

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Frost Falls, Colorado

  September 1901

  Back in New York, they called him the black sheep. Not to his face. Or rarely to his face. But he’d heard it whispered in a pitying sort of way in the free-spirited Bohemian circles where his family was revered. Roen Shepard didn’t mind particularly. Depending on one’s view, he supposed it might even be true. It was certainly his family’s view; although the appellation was couched in humor, not pity. They were dreamers. He was not. He’d been stewed in creative juices since birth. Musicians. Painters. Poets. Novelists. Surrounded by so much talent and imaginative genius, something should have inspired him. Nothing had.

  He’d never been afraid to try, and so, encouraged by his parents and grandparents, by his siblings and cousins, by his tutors and teachers, he tried his hand at every sort of artistic endeavor.

  He was fair to middlin’ on the piano if there weren’t too many sharps or flats, and if he wasn’t required to sing at the same time. For a while, he thought painting might be his forte. He could put a still life on canvas that looked exactly like the bowl of fruit on the table in front of him. It was politely pointed out to him that he represented the fruit too accurately. A photograph would do just as well, his mother said, and that would not do at all. He wrote bad poetry and even worse prose. He’d once revised
the first chapter of a proposed novel sixteen times before his father kindly took the pages and burned them.

  The differences between him and his family were not only artistic ones. There were physical differences as well, so many of them, in fact, that his brother and sisters teased him mercilessly that he was a foundling adopted by their parents in one of the impulsive, magnanimous gestures they were known for. As he was the only child with green eyes, chestnut-colored hair, and a clumsy, loose-jointed frame that took years to grow into, it was easy to believe the foundling story no matter how often his parents reassured him it was not the case. As for the dissimilarity in appearance, it was all on account of his being a change-of-life baby, his mother told him, although she neglected to furnish an explanation for what that meant.

  Thinking about it now, Roen smiled to himself. He was still a fish out of water at family affairs, but as an adult, he’d come into his own. At twenty-nine, he was content with the features that set him apart. He was more athletic than graceful, which made him a better baseball player than a dancer, and at a hair above six feet, he stood half a head taller than all his male relatives. He could joke, before his family did, that he had physical stature if not an artistic one. He could also have pointed out that he was not possessed of the same fiery temperament as the rest of the Shepards, but they would have said he lacked their passion and wouldn’t have understood that he was thankful for it.

  Roen studied the drawing he had made in his sketch pad, reviewed the calculations, checking and rechecking his work on the elevations, and, once satisfied, closed the book with a pleasant thump.

  It was only then that he became aware that he was not alone, and he guessed that he hadn’t been for some time. Roen could acknowledge that upon occasion he had an extraordinary eye for detail while being oblivious to the whole. This was one of those occasions.

  He looked up from his sketch pad and turned his head in the direction of his visitor. He merely raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  A lesser man might have flinched at being caught out, perhaps even been unseated from his hunkered position on the rocky outcropping where he was perched like a bird of prey, but Clay Salt didn’t twitch. Roen estimated the boy was eleven, maybe twelve, so that explained both his curiosity and his lack of embarrassment.

  “Are you done now, mister? Seems like you might be. Didn’t want to disturb you none while you was working, so I just settled down to watch. I never seen the like before, what you were doing. That much fascinated I was.”

  Roen had no recollection of anyone ever being fascinated by what he did, and he looked for mischief in young Clay’s eyes. What he saw were a pair of dark brown eyes, earnest in their direct gaze and without a shred of guile.

  “Did you follow me up here, Clay?”

  Now Clay flinched. “You know who I am?”

  “Uh-huh. Why does that surprise you?”

  “Well, you’re new to town. You’ve hardly been here more than a minute.”

  “Three weeks. People are friendly, and I’ve been to your church twice. Saw you there with your mother and your brother and sisters. Between the minister and Mrs. Springer, I believe I was introduced to every parishioner.”

  “Yeah? Not us.”

  “No, that’s true. I misspoke.” Clay and his family sat at the back of the church and were the first out the door both Sundays. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen them fleeing—that was the word that came to mind—while Mrs. Springer was pumping him for information under the guise of welcoming him to Frost Falls. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance now.”

  “Are you? Ma said I should leave you be, that your work is too important to suffer the children.”

  Roen’s cocked an eyebrow again, this time with a challenging curve. “Suffer the children? Did she say that?”

  Clay shrugged, unabashed. “Something like that.”

  “I see. So you are in defiance of your mother’s wishes right now.”

  “Not really. You didn’t know I was here until you were done so you didn’t have to suffer me at all.”

  “True, and I admire your logic even if you are splitting hairs.” Roen saw one corner of the boy’s mouth lift at what he perceived was a compliment, and for the first time Roen had a hint of the rascal that resided within. He was gratified to see it. Until this moment, Clay Salt had seemed unnaturally self-possessed. Roen opened his sketch pad to the page he had just completed and held it up. “Do you want to get a closer look?”

  In answer, Clay clambered down from his rock and closed the ten yards that separated them. Roen handed him the book and waited for the inevitable disappointment that would shadow Clay’s features. It wasn’t disappointment, though. It was puzzlement.

  “What is it?” asked Clay. He turned the pad sideways as though an angle might offer clarity. “I mean, I see it’s numbers. I know numbers. But these other scratchings? Looks like a hen stepped in ink and walked across your paper.”

  Roen tugged on the pad so that Clay had to lower it for him to see. He regarded his work with fresh eyes. He huffed a laugh and ran a hand through his chestnut hair: Δ h ∑ D g. “So it does.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It’s part of the formula to measure the refraction and curvature of the earth.”

  “Huh.”

  “I need a lot of precise measurements to know where I can recommend that Northeast Rail lay down new track.”

  “Huh.”

  “You know the earth is round, right?”

  Clay’s lip curled. “’Course I know.”

  “Good. And because there’s a curve, a straight line isn’t exactly straight, and air refracts light that further distorts the line, so what you see isn’t as precise as my equipment and calculations can be.”

  Clay returned the pad to Roen and pointed to the upper-right-hand corner of the page, the only part that made perfect sense to him. “You drew the landscape over yonder, and that double line winding through it, those are tracks, aren’t they? You reckon that’s a place to put down rail?”

  “It might be.”

  “Huh. That’s Double H land. Hard to imagine Ol’ Harrison Hardy will sell to the railroad. He’s cussed cranky even when his lumbago isn’t bothering him.”

  “Good to know, but that’s a problem for another day. Right now I need to pack up and get back to town before dark.”

  Clay looked at the sky. “Dark’s coming on fast, but I’ll help you, and I know the way back day or night.”

  Chapter Two

  Lily Salt did not raise her voice when her older boy attempted to make a stealthy entrance into the kitchen. Neither did she turn around from the stove, where she was stirring a pot of chili. “Clay Bryant Salt.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m going to oil that hinge first thing tomorrow.”

  “Won’t help you. I suppose I know when my son’s been wandering and when he’s home.”

  “Chili smells good.” He sidled up to the stove and bumped her affectionately. “Better than good, I’m thinking. Might be excellent.”

  “I am not mollified. Not even a little.” But she bumped him back while she continued to stir. “Go tell your sister it’s time to set the table and then you wash your hands. Help Ham and Lizzie, too.”

  When Clay took a step sideways but didn’t leave the kitchen, Lily was immediately suspicious. She swiveled her head in his direction. He was tall now, as tall as she was, and she hadn’t quite gotten used to it. It pained her some to look him in the eye. He had his father’s eyes and coloring, though in every other way he was nothing at all like his father. Still, the eyes. “What is it?” she asked.

  Clay pointed to the kitchen door, where Roen Shepard stood framed in the opening.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Salt,” Roen said, removing his hat and holding it in front of him like a penitent. “I wanted to see your son home safely. I’m Roen Sh
epard, the engineering surveyor employed by Northeast Rail.”

  Lily indicated that Clay should take the long-handled wooden spoon. “Stir,” she said. She thought he was glad to have the spoon in his hand and not hers, though she had never once raised it against him. There were memories of his father not easily erased. “I know who you are, Mr. Shepard.” She crossed a few feet to the table and rested one hand on the back of a chair. She did not close the distance between them.

  Roen did not inch into the room, nor did he back away. Lily Salt was regarding him warily, with the innate stillness of a rabbit in the wild sensing something feral in her midst. In deference to what he perceived as distress, he remained rooted where he stood.

  It was in the back pew of the Presbyterian Church that Clay’s mother had made her first impression on Roen Shepard. He’d been sitting five pews ahead on the aisle when a cloth ball rolled between his feet. He picked it up, looked around for the owner, and passed it back to a harried mother with a child set to squall on her lap. The squalling was averted, and he was grateful for that, but more grateful that his backward search had afforded him a glimpse of the woman who later became known to him as Lily Salt.

  She looked to him as composed and serene as any Madonna rendered in oils by the great artists of the Renaissance. That she was flanked by two boys and two girls, who could only be her children, made her calm seem preternatural. She had the smile of the Mona Lisa, which was to say it was more a smile of imagination than it was of reality, but when he turned away, that perception of her smile lingered.

  She wore a wide-brimmed straw sailor hat trimmed with a black ribbon and tilted forward as was the fashion. Her hair, what he could see of it then, was rust red, but her older daughter had hair like a flame and made him suspect that this was Lily’s color in her youth.

  When he caught sight of her escaping the church with her children in tow, Roen knew himself to be mildly intrigued. He was saved from expressing any measure of curiosity by Mrs. Springer’s account of the congregation, their lineage, their talents, and their foibles. Amanda Springer was a wellspring of information, most of which he later learned from the minister could be taken as gospel.