Simply Love

  CATHERINE

  ANDERSON

  SIMPLY LOVE

  Contents

  Prologue

  Alone inside the church, Cassandra Zerek scooted on her knees…

  One

  It was the devil’s own afternoon. Black clouds gathered over…

  Two

  As Luke resumed his walk toward the church, his gaze…

  Three

  Several nights later, Cassandra was cooking the evening meal and…

  Four

  When her father and brother didn’t return at a reasonable…

  Five

  Despite the chill of the September morning, a feeling of…

  Six

  A picket fence bordered the velvet front lawn of Taggart…

  Seven

  Luke braced a hand on the newel post’s gleaming finial…

  Eight

  Games…When Cassandra had made mention of such activities that afternoon,…

  Nine

  As weary as Cassandra was, she couldn’t sleep. The bed…

  Ten

  Luke rose from bed the next morning ready to lay…

  Eleven

  The smell of ammonia was strong enough to bring tears…

  Twelve

  Lamplight played over the kitchen, bathing the brick walls and…

  Thirteen

  At precisely eight-fifteen the next morning, Luke descended the long…

  Fourteen

  For an instant that seemed years long, Luke couldn’t react…

  Fifteen

  By mid-morning, Lycodomes was showing marked signs of improvement. Not…

  Sixteen

  Her eyes wide and wary, she set down her wineglass…

  Seventeen

  It seemed to Luke he’d just closed his eyes when…

  Eighteen

  A twelve-branched candelabra at the center of the dining-room table…

  Nineteen

  Pressed against the wall and imprisoned there by Luke’s muscular…

  Twenty

  As Cassandra opened her eyes the next morning, sunlight dappled…

  Twenty-One

  Luke jerked awake and searched the gloom-filled room. For a…

  Twenty-Two

  Shame clung to Cassandra like a sodden cloak as she…

  Twenty-Three

  The drapes were drawn, and the lamp had long been…

  Twenty-Four

  Stone-sober from shock, Luke paused for a moment outside Doctor…

  Twenty-Five

  Cassandra perched woodenly on the waiting room chair between her…

  Twenty-Six

  When Cassandra and Khristos returned to the doctor’s office the…

  Twenty-Seven

  With the first ring of steel striking rock from deep…

  Twenty-Eight

  For two weeks, Luke showed up at the Zerek mine…

  Twenty-Nine

  After an amazingly informal greeting from Pipps, who grabbed her…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Catherine Anderson

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  Black Jack, Colorado

  August 1887

  Alone inside the church, Cassandra Zerek scooted on her knees across the floor, rubbing industriously at the squares of oak within her reach until they shone like polished agate. Anemic afternoon sunlight came through the stained glass windows, casting a rainbow of colors across the empty pews, all of which gleamed with the fresh coat of beeswax she’d just applied. Mingling with the scent of the wax were lingering traces of incense from Mass that morning and the acrid smell of smoke from the flickering votive candles that burned near the altar.

  Sitting back on her heels to catch her breath, Cassandra swiped a tendril of curly, sable hair from her eyes and puffed air past her lips to cool her cheeks. Perspiration ran in rivulets from under her breasts and trickled over her ribs, the sensation making her itch under the heavy wool of her blue dress. Dratted dress, anyhow. No matter how many layers of underclothing she wore, the coarse weave always managed to irritate her skin.

  Eyeing the distance she still had to cover before she would be finished with the floor, Cassandra nearly groaned. It was another twenty feet up the center aisle to the doors. Considering the fact that the aisle was four tiles across, each a foot square, and she was the only person there to buff each one, that was no short distance. Her arms already felt like aching lumps hanging off her shoulders, and her back hurt. Her eighteen years felt like a hundred.

  Waxing the church floor was a big job for one person to tackle, and three-quarters of the way through, she always wondered why she’d ever promised to do it. The answer was simple, of course. Because she couldn’t afford to give money to the church as other people did, she made a gift of her time instead, helping the nuns over at the convent and orphanage every weekday afternoon, laundering Father Tully’s vestments, and cleaning the church from top to bottom twice a month.

  Today was her day to clean….

  Resuming the task with renewed vigor, Cassandra refolded her buffing cloth to leave a fresh side out, then bent to resume her rubbing. Suffering, she reminded herself, helped to build character, and since she truly wanted to become a nun, she needed all the character she could get.

  To make the time go faster while she worked, she decided to make some personal intentions, short prayers she said almost daily asking God for special help. Heaven knew she needed divine intercession if she meant to enter the convent any time soon.

  Please, God, help me become more practical. The next time I start wishing for frivolities, like those patent leather slippers in Miss Dryden’s dress shop window, help me to pray, instead, for the poor, that they may have food aplenty and warm blankets.

  Finishing one section of floor, Cassandra scooted forward to begin buffing another.

  And, please, when I stop by the convent later today, don’t let me stare at the good sisters and wonder what their heads look like shaved. To become a Bride of Christ, I’ll happily part with my hair. I promise, I will. And I’ll never mourn the loss.

  Even as she made the vow, Cassandra cringed. Her thick sable hair was the only pretty thing about her, and of all the sacrifices she’d have to make to take holy orders, she dreaded having to shave her head the most.

  And, please, Father, in Your immense goodness, help me not to get angry today. Bless my dear mama’s soul, but the Irish temper I got from her isn’t at all the thing for an aspiring nun.

  A sudden noise interrupted Cassandra’s train of thought. She froze to listen and heard the outside door to the vestibule open and close. If it was someone coming in off the street who hadn’t thought to wipe his feet, she’d have his head.

  Prepared for battle, she watched the closed double doors that separated the vestibule from the interior of the church. Nothing. Cocking an ear, she heard footsteps, followed by a crackle of paper and a muffled thump. The poor box? It sounded to her as if someone had just opened it. Probably just some good-hearted soul leaving a donation.

  Unless, of course, it was a thief.

  The thought made her pulse race. Where there was one thief, there could be a half dozen. What if it was an entire band, and they’d come to pilfer and vandalize St. Mary’s?

  She made a quick sign of the cross, praying for courage. If a band of hooligans had entered the church, it would be up to her to protect the Holy Eucharist that Father Tully always kept in the tabernacle.

  It was one of Cassandra’s favorite daydreams, to one day be required to sacrifice her life for the faith. Preferably in such a heart-wrenching fashion that everyone who heard of her courage would weep and cross themselves at the mention of her name. Saint Cass
andra.

  Ruffians storming into the sanctuary would be perfect, especially if they were determined to desecrate the sacrament. In true saintly fashion, she would drape herself over the tabernacle to protect its sacred contents, her body a bleeding shield. When Father Tully, the parish priest, found her afterward, she would be near death, and with her last breath, she’d whisper, “It is nothing, Father. Do not weep. I have given of myself for Jesus, and I die with a glad heart.”

  She flung down her cleaning rag and pushed to her feet, determined to face her fate as bravely as Joan of Arc or Saint Catherine, who’d chosen a horrible death by torture to preserve her chastity. Well…neither of them had anything over Cassandra Zerek. She would die for God, and do so gladly.

  All she needed was an opportunity.

  Creeping toward the double doors, Cassandra steeled herself for the worst. Carefully turning the knob, she pushed the portal open a crack and peered into the vestibule. She glimpsed a man standing at the poor box, a very tall man in an expensive gray topcoat. Intent on counting out money to put in an envelope, he seemed unaware he was being watched.

  Not a robber.

  For a moment, Cassandra felt keen disappointment. But then, beneath the man’s smartly tipped, felt fedora hat, she saw neatly trimmed, tawny-colored hair. Only one man in Black Jack, Colorado, had hair that color.

  Her heart kicked against her ribs. Luke Taggart. And he was right here in St. Mary’s? Cassandra couldn’t quite believe it. Oh, she’d seen him on the street plenty of times, but never from up this close.

  He was the most important individual in Black Jack, barring none. The man owned nearly the whole town, including most of the producing gold mines. He even owned the mine where her papa and older brother, Ambrose, were employed. For the first time in Cassandra’s memory, her papa and brother had to work only six days a week, their shifts a mere ten hours long instead of the customary fourteen, and they still had enough money to buy food and pay the rent each month. As a result, Luke Taggart’s name was almost a prayer upon all the Zereks’ lips.

  But few people in Black Jack shared her family’s high opinion of Mr. Taggart. He was rumored to be a harsh, godless man who engaged in all manner of wicked activities. Cassandra wasn’t quite sure what kinds of wicked activities, only that she’d heard her papa say Mr. Taggart consorted with “shabby women,” showing no preference for any particular one. In. Cassandra’s opinion, that was further proof of the man’s altruistic character, for he was extremely rich. If he chose, he could consort only with ladies as wealthy and well-dressed as he was.

  Even now, observing Luke Taggart through a cracked door, she felt in awe of him. A funny, fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach made her pulse quicken. His topcoat was unbuttoned, revealing a pale gray silk vest over a crisp white shirt and darker gray trousers, the sharp creases in the legs drawn smooth by the bunched muscles in his thighs.

  Hair the color of burnished oak framed his sun-darkened features, which were so well-defined they might have been chiseled from granite. His jaw was angular. An aquiline nose jutted from between tawny, winged brows. A full yet firm mouth was bracketed by deep creases that offset the stubborn thrust of his squared chin. It was a beautiful face, classically masculine, its planes weathered by the elements, the skin etched with tiny crow’s-feet.

  Free to study him closely for the first time, Cassandra couldn’t help but notice that his expression seemed at odds with the strength he emanated. A lost, confused look dominated his features, like that of a little boy wandering the streets who’d forgotten his way home a long time ago and had no hope of finding it again.

  Tapping the fat envelope against his palm, he gazed at the poor box, clearly troubled and undecided about whether or not he should make a donation. Then, with a determined briskness, he thrust the envelope back inside his jacket and strode to the door. Once there, he stood with his back to Cassandra, one hand resting on the doorknob, his shoulders rigid. At any second, she expected him to leave. Instead, he heaved a sigh that conveyed soul-deep weariness, then spun back around to descend on the poor box again, his manner so filled with frustration that she wasn’t sure if he meant to make a donation or dismantle the box.

  As he stood there, wrestling with emotions she couldn’t define, he suddenly seemed to sense that someone was staring at him. He jerked his head up, his preoccupied, unguarded expression turning wary, his stance taking on a sudden tension that electrified the air. His reaction was like that of a man who’d been caught red-handed in an act of thievery or some other equally iniquitous wrongdoing, which made no sense at all.

  Cassandra caught her breath against the impact of his startled, piercing gaze. His eyes were the color of whiskey shot through with firelight, the glinting amber irises ringed with black. She’d noticed them before, of course. Lots of times when she had passed him on the streets of Black Jack, but she’d never felt the full force of them leveled directly at her.

  As fierce and golden as a tiger’s, his gaze turned her skin hot, seeming to strip her bare. Held transfixed, she felt a sudden rush of fear as inexplicable as it was paralyzing. Nonsense, her practical side scoffed. But another part of her felt completely unnerved, and she wanted to run. Insolent and bold, his gaze slid over her, lingering for an endless moment on her breasts before continuing downward, then sweeping back up to her face.

  The silence in the otherwise empty church seemed deafening, driving home to her how vulnerable she was. Even if she screamed her very loudest, no one was likely to hear.

  As if he guessed her thoughts, he cocked a tawny eyebrow, one corner of his mouth twitching with a suppressed smile. Tapping the envelope against his palm again, he said, “It would seem I’ve been found out.”

  His voice curled around her like warm smoke, the wispy tendrils holding her fast. She tried to think of something to say, but her mind had gone stupidly blank.

  He quickly closed the envelope, then thrust it into the poor box. Bringing his gaze back to her, he tipped his hat. “I trust this will remain our secret? I’d just as soon no one knows.”

  Before Cassandra could think of a response, he turned and exited the church.

  Silence swamped the vestibule after his departure—a heavy, echoing silence that seemed to press against her eardrums. She stared at the poor box for several seconds, then began moving slowly toward it, curiosity outweighing her hesitancy. Lifting the lid of the box, she withdrew the envelope he had left. Scrawled across its face was one word: orphanage.

  A smile touched Cassandra’s mouth. A few weeks back, she’d heard the good sisters of St. Mary’s wondering aloud about the anonymous benefactor who had made a sizable donation to the orphanage. Now the mystery was solved. The do-gooder had been none other than the scandalous, godless, and wicked Luke Taggart.

  Cassandra returned the envelope to the box, her heart catching as she recalled the confused, lost look she’d seen in his eyes before he realized anyone was watching him. Wickedness? For reasons beyond her, he apparently wanted everyone to believe that of him. He might even believe it himself.

  But for a few brief seconds, she’d glimpsed the man behind the mask, and somehow she knew that Luke Taggart was many things, but wicked wasn’t one of them.

  ONE

  It was the devil’s own afternoon. Black clouds gathered over the teeth-sharp peaks of the Rocky Mountains, and an angry wind from the north drove gusts against the buildings. Locked into his own thoughts, Luke Taggart stood by the window in the Golden Slipper’s best upstairs room and watched the sun drift behind a patch of thunderous gray. Heralding the approach of winter, September was coming in with a vengeance. Unless he missed his guess, there would be one hell of a rainstorm before nightfall.

  The warm glow of the gaslights placed strategically around the red and gold bedchamber did little to offset the gloom. Oblivious to the opulence he’d once admired, he listened with half an ear to the sibilant hiss of the gas jets, his heart striking two muted beats to every click of the pend
ulum.

  From beyond the windowpane he heard a hoarse shout, followed by a stream of curses. Another barroom brawl in the offing? he wondered without much interest. Leaning a hip against the sill, he gazed morosely through the glass at the cobblestone sidewalks two stories below him. Townsfolk scurried past the Golden Slipper to patronize shops farther up the way. As the ladies walked by the gambling house, they stepped clear off the curb and into the street, their noses lifted in disdain, their fancy skirts drawn close around their ankles, as if the very air might be contaminated.

  Anger burned low in Luke’s gut like a smoldering coal buried under a thick layer of ash, the fire inside him always there but carefully banked. Snobbish bitches. Let them risk life and limb if that pleased their condescending sense of morality. It was no skin off his nose if one of them got run over by a passing conveyance.

  Running a hand inside his unbuttoned shirt, Luke rubbed his chest, his fingertips tracing the hard bulges of muscle under his sweat-moistened skin. God, he felt tired, the kind of tiredness that ran bone-deep and far beyond the physical.

  “Luke, baby. Come back to bed.”

  Gloria’s purring demand raked down his spine like a fingernail over a blackboard. In spite of its pretension to elegance, the room carried the subtle odor of fish that always seemed to accompany sex. As was his habit after he’d finished with a woman, he’d scrubbed all trace of her from his person, but the faint smell that lingered in the air and clung to the satin sheets still made him feel unclean.

  Christ, what in the hell was wrong with him these days? He should be snuggled into the soft feather mattress of the fancy bed behind him instead of scowling out the window like a restless prisoner. Gloria was a gorgeous woman, with a mane of silky blond hair, skin like cream, and pink-tipped breasts the size of melons. She was also willing to do almost anything for a price, and Luke had an endless store of money to accommodate her. Six months ago, he would have kept her busy until well after midnight. Then, if he’d gotten bored, he might have called in another girl to spice things up. There was nothing like two women in one bed to whet a man’s sexual appetite.