A mail order bride travels to Oregon to wed a lighthouse keeper, only to fall in love with the man's uncle before she even arrives.
Forever Mine is a historical romance novel set on the Oregon coast.
Excerpt
Ariah. The name suited her. Light and airy. Perfect for a nymph. He struggled to regain his composure and remember what he was about.
Around them, passengers continuing on to Goble, where train and all would be ferried across the Columbia River before resuming the journey to Seattle, were boarding the train. Soon the platform would be empty except for porters and employees of the Union and Northern Pacific Railroads. And Bartholomew suddenly realized he too was eager to be away; he could not wait to have Miss Ariah Scott to himself.
Bartholomew glanced at Miss Scott, wondering if she could be one of fate's tricks. Something niggled at his memory. He shrugged it away.
"Miss Scott, if you'll point out the rest of your baggage, I'll get it loaded while you and your friend finish your good-byes. We've a long way to go."
"Oh, yes, of course." She gestured to two small crates and a large trunk. "That's it there."
Bartholomew shouldered the trunk as though it contained nothing more than bird feathers, holding it in place with one arm while he squatted to pick up one of the crates.
As he put space between himself and the two women, he chuckled silently, remembering how he had wondered what he would do with the girl during the four long days of the journey home. There was no doubt about what he wanted to do. His hands ached with the need to stroke that smooth, velvet flesh, to explore and discover its secret contours. Thinking about it, four days no longer seemed enough.
He set the crate alongside the boxed-up fancy rosewood étagère Hester had insisted he buy her, and lowered the trunk onto the wagon bed.
Hester. Bartholomew's fantasy about Ariah burst like the seed head of a giant dandelion, scattered by the wind.
Hester was his wife—till death do us part—no matter how much he might wish things different. And Ariah Scott belonged to Pritchard.
His shoulders sagged under guilt as ponderous as a steam engine. He rested his arms on the sideboard, braced his forehead on a fist, and tried to banish the image of the girl's sweet tempting mouth, so lush, so—
A warm hand closed over his arm. "Are you all right, Mr. Noon? Is there anything I can do for you?"
Bartholomew looked down to see Ariah Scott standing only a kiss away, gazing up at him with those unbelievable forget-me-not blue irises, her luscious lips moist and parted, her concerned expression sweetly, guilelessly intent.
And he plummeted into hell.
