Serendipity, Montana 1883

Prudence Vogel didn’t want to miss a thing.

She wet the tip of a sharpened pencil on her tongue and steadied a writing tablet on her lap, ready to capture the last moments of her journey. But, as was her nature, her mind wandered, and instead, she began to write the adventure playing out in her imagination.

Katarina’s nose wrinkled at the smell of stale beer and dust as she slipped behind the saloon and peered into the darkened room—

The stagecoach jolted as a wheel slipped into another deep rut on the rough trail, sending her pencil scraping off the edge of the pad.

She sighed, resigned she’d have to commit the final moments of her journey to memory and pick up her heroine’s adventure after she arrived at her destination.

She slid her tablet into the pocket of her valise behind her dog-eared copy of The Adventures of Katarina, her latest, well only, publishing credit. She’d kept the novel in clear view in hopes of drawing a comment to give herself an opportunity to sell one of the many copies she’d brought with her.

Not the dog-eared copy—that one contained penciled notes of the details she’d gotten wrong. For that was the purpose of this journey. Prudence Vogel had never traveled outside the city of Chicago, yet her first novelistic experience was an adventure tale set in the wild frontier, featuring a tall, handsome hero she’d only fantasized about. She needed to know whether she’d been wrong.

For all she knew, the real Jake White Eagle was a short, squat man who could suck his whiskey through the space where his front teeth ought to be. She’d braced herself the entire journey for disappointment because she’d built such high hopes he’d be the hero she’d envisioned—the kind of man a real “Katarina” would admire.

Tales of his wild youth, his talent with a gun, and his time spent scouting with Wild Bill Cody for the 5^th Cavalry had fired her imagination since she’d come across the first mention of his name in the Chicago Tribune.

After that she’d scoured every newspaper she could get her hands on, searching for a description of the man and his exploits.

Physical descriptions had been hard to come by—“burnished skin” and “the deadly stare of the black-eyed Indian” hadn’t told her whether his jaw was square or rounded, or his nose was a sculpted blade or broad and bumpy. And it would have been helpful to know whether Katarina would have to lift her patrician chin to kiss his lips. Since she’d lacked definitive answers to her questions, in her mind she’d created an image of the man she wanted him to be.

However, news of his dangerous exploits had been much easier to find. The man had earned quite a reputation as a gunslinger as he’d roamed the western territories. Then for some reason, last year, he’d settled in Serendipity, Montana. Not Deadwood or any number of more recognizable wild, western towns, but an unknown place with a whimsical name.

In her research, she’d missed the reason for his inexplicable move. Now, she wanted the truth for the sequel to her book, and detailed descriptions to bring her wild west adventures to life.

Prudence pulled back the curtain to take a look outside, blinking against a cloud of dirt stirred up by the stage’s team of horses.

Bright sunlight dispelled the gloom in the interior of the stagecoach. Everywhere around them endless blue sky filled the view. The golden tips of the prairie grass rimming the trail waved in a slight breeze. Cottonwood trees swayed in the distance.

“Close that curtain! You’re lettin’ in the dust.”

As if we aren’t already wearing a coat of gritty trail dirt? Prudence bit her tongue against the retort. Ever since Mrs. Waters had boarded the stage in Helena, she’d offered a contrary comment to every one of Prudence’s actions.

Prudence firmed her lips into a polite smile and turned to the stout woman sitting on the opposite seat. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about what’s happening outside this coach?”

Mrs. Waters snorted. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

Prudence lifted her brows, which sent her spectacles sliding down her nose. The woman had repeated the same tired old cliché as Mrs. Lake in the opening scene of her dime novel.

Just like the character of Mrs. Lake, the woman had a cliché for every occasion and nary an original thought.

Another coincidence! An odd prickling raised the fine hairs at Prudence’s nape.

While some of the less important details—the flora the fauna and the ruggedness of the trail—had mostly been wrong, the events in her story had been strikingly similar. The string of similarities between Katarina’s adventure and her own true life adventure had at first amused Prudence who’d been convinced she’d simply done her research and was an apt pupil of human nature.

But this time, the words were repeated as though they’d been scripted in advance.

As well, the more Prudence thought about it, Mrs. Waters was an exact physical replica of the irascible woman who’d complained throughout that first scene of her adventure novel.

Even Mr. Stanton who slept beside her resembled the handsome debauched gambler who’d managed to snore throughout the last leg of the fictional journey despite the bone-rattling thuds of the lumbering stagecoach.

The one jarring detail that didn’t match her story was the character of the heroine. Prudence was a far cry from the beautiful and spirited “Katarina.” Sadly, she wasn’t brunette, or possessed of a pure, porcelain complexion and soft, curvaceous figure. Her own hair was a muddy blonde, her nose sprinkled with an unfortunate quantity of mud-colored freckles, and her figure was as straight as a boy’s. Worse, she wasn’t the least bit adventurous.

Still, if the story was somehow unfolding…

A loud banging sounded from the top of the coach. “Folks, we’re comin’ up on Serendipity,” came the call from the driver.

Mrs. Waters patted her hair while Mr. Stanton snuffled and opened bloodshot eyes as he retied his string tie.

Surreptitiously, Prudence reached for the edge of the window casing and held on tight…just in case…

Shots rang out, the coach jerked forward and back, then shrill whinnies filled the air as the team lurched again and shot forward, sending a screaming Mrs. Waters headfirst into Mr. Stanton’s lap.

Prudence suppressed a squeal of fright and held on. Then just as quickly, she relaxed, suddenly unafraid, because she knew how this would end.

A hero rode to their rescue.

Sure enough, shouts sounded outside—from the driver and another man whose horse ate up the distance between them in a staccato flurry of sharp hooves.

Gradually, the team slowed, snorts and frightened whinnies settling like the dust sifting underneath the flapping leather curtains, until at last the stagecoach came to a stop.

Just like in her story.

Only Prudence didn’t wait for their rescuer to fling open the door. She stood and grasped the door handle, nervous but determined to see if the object of her obsession was indeed on the other side.

The door gave way unexpectedly, bringing her along with it, and she toppled out of the coach and straight into the arms of a very tall man. Thick, strong muscles surrounded her as he swept her off her feet and held her close to his solid chest.

Startled, Prudence glanced up, but his rasping breath fogged the lenses of her spectacles, and she groaned.

Why, oh why hadn’t she put them away? Better to be blinking at the man than looking like a startled, befuddled mouse. Around the rims of her glasses, she noted the breadth of his wide shoulders and the dark shadow from the hat shading his face.

“Ma’am, are you all right?” His voice was a deep, raspy bass that seemed to wrap around her like a raw caress.

“Jake?” she whispered, more sure of his identity than she’d ever been of anything in her life. She knew his voice—had heard it speaking in her imagination.

Naturally, he smelled of sage and soap. She’d written that as well.

“Do I know you?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

A wide, tremulous smile stretched her lips, and she slowly wound her arms around his shoulders. “No, but I know you, sir,” she said, too excited to give more than a passing thought to her forward behavior.

His head tilted as though he was scrutinizing her. “She bump her head?” He directed the question to the people stepping from the coach.

“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Waters said, her voice trembling and affronted at the same time. “But she’s a very strange young woman.”