The Mistaken Widow

—Cheryl Reavis

“Happy birthday, Harlequin Historicals! I’m proud to have been a part of your ten years of exciting historical romance.”

—Elaine Barbieri

“Harlequin Historicals are charming or disarming with dashes and clashes. These past times are fast times, the gems of romances!”

—Karen Harper

The Mistaken Widow

Cheryl St. John

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

This book is lovingly dedicated to:

Dad, for being the best PR man a gal could want,

and to Jay,

for telling me I’m beautiful—even as deadline

grows near…

I know what I have done is unforgivable…

All I ask is that you do not hate me. I planned to tell you the truth from the very minute I awoke in the hospital. But when I saw your grief, Nicholas, and when you offered protection and shelter for my son, I could not bring myself to speak the words.

I am not Claire Halliday. I was never married to your brother Stephen. I only met him that night of the train wreck. He took me in out of the rain, and he and Claire gave me food and dry clothing and shared their berth with me.

If they had been in that compartment that night, they might still be alive. So you see, I am responsible for their deaths. That is something I will live with for the rest of my life…

Prologue (#ulink_c1c2ea9d-3647-58d7-8591-70be725f952c)

Lower New York State

April 1869

Wet and weary travelers, eager to return to their seats in the passenger cars, crowded together in the moonlight on the small wooden platform beside the station. Each time the train stopped for coal and water, Sarah Thornton feared she wouldn’t have time to find the primitive facilities, wait in a line and return before the train left without her. She hadn’t eaten since the day before.

Cold rain drizzled beneath the red-fox collar of her double-breasted wool coat that had been the height of Boston fashion just last winter. Right now the fur looked and smelled more like a drowned animal slung around her neck than the most stunning feature of the coat, which had kept her warm on outings in the Boston Common, trips to the theater and the most exclusive social events of the season. Now the garment wouldn’t close over the girth of her burgeoning belly.

She gritted her teeth against the pulsing pain in her lower back and bent to retrieve the bulging leather satchel she’d toted at each stopover for fear of losing her last few precious belongings. Her hand met nothing, and she glanced down at her feet where the bag had been only minutes before.

“My bag!” Panic raced through her shivering body, and she stared at the wet boards, unable to see more than the dark cluster of feet and trouser legs.

“All abo-oard!” The conductor began admitting passengers, and the crowd thinned. She searched the platform in desperation, seeing only a few soggy papers and the sizzling stub of a cigar.

It had to be here! It had to! A sob lodged in her throat. A few straggling passengers clambered past and boarded the train.

“Comin’, ma’am?”

Sarah ran awkwardly toward the black-uniformed conductor, who wore his billed cap pulled low against the rain. “My bag is gone!”

“Sorry, ma’am. You’ll have to report it to the stationmaster.”

Up ahead the whistle screamed and Sarah wanted to echo the broken cry. “I won’t have time! The train’s leaving.”

“Make up your mind. Get on or stay.”

Torn, she considered her last few pieces of jewelry, her journal and personal items. She still had a trunk of clothing in the baggage car and a silver and emerald bracelet sewn into the lining of the reticule she held. She stepped onto the platform.

“Ticket, please,” the conductor intoned.

Sarah stared at him blankly, her mind whirling. The ticket had been in her bag. “I don’t have it.”

“Then I’m sorry, you can’t come aboard.”

“But—”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“I have to get on this train! My other luggage is on it, and I have nowhere else to go!”

“Rules is rules. You got a ticket, you get on. You got no ticket, you don’t.”

“But, sir, you don’t understand—”

“Lady, I’ve heard ’em all. How many freeloaders you think we get a day, trying to hitch a ride?”

“I am no freeloader.” Her Boston accent came across sharply as she straightened her aching back and squinted at him through her dripping hair and the falling rain. “I have a ticket!”

“Off,” he said, taking her firmly by the shoulder and urging her toward the portable steps.

She caught her balance by grabbing the cold metal rail. “Wait—!”

“Off, lady.”

“Is there a problem here?” a masculine voice asked from behind Sarah.

She turned and looked up into the handsome face of a tall stranger.

“This lady don’t have a ticket, and she’s holding the train up.” The rude man tried once again to move Sarah from the metal platform.

“I do so—”

The stranger wrapped his hand around her coat sleeve, helping her keep her balance, and in surprise she blinked up into his warm brown eyes. “Honey, you’ve forgotten,” he said kindly. “I have the ticket.” He reached into his pocket while she stared at him. “My wife will catch her death of cold standing out here. You shouldn’t have detained her in this weather. She’s just a little forgetful lately.” He showed the conductor a ticket that must have satisfied him, for he moved aside, a contrite expression on his rain-streaked face.