Sweet Surrender (Mercers of Montana Book 1)

T
he exquisite Lady Olivia Tarrington
of London’s upper class arrives in corrupt and decrepit Virginia City, Montana, coerced to marry Jackson Mercer, the black sheep of an established Montanan family, who has a dark and cruel past.

As the eldest daughter of Lord Henry Tarrington, Olivia must honor her father’s arrangement with the powerful Mercers, which will erase his burgeoning debt and ensure her sisters marry according to their choosing.

Torn between her growing desire for a dangerous man and another who’d give her the life she’s accustomed to, she has to make a choice. But to find the freedom she desperately yearns for, she must first unlock her heart.

T
he stagecoach jolted
to a halt in a cloud of dust. A violent clatter shook the coach as the driver and his gunman jumped down. Olivia Tarrington lifted the curtain to look outside, but stopped and adjusted her hat and veil first. A lady couldn't let her coif be askew, even on the rough road to Virginia City, Montana.

Voices shouted from the road ahead as Olivia peered through the lace curtain. Through clouds of dust she made out the silhouettes of armed men blocking the way. The four horses tossed their heads, shifting in their traces, and the stagecoach rolled backward into a sharp rut.

The coach gunman tossed his rifle into the waist-high weeds at the side of the road, flattening himself down in the mud next to the driver. The armed men's beady eyes glistened between lowered hats and handkerchiefs tied over their noses. As their eyes darted in all directions, they gestured with black guns, their lethal barrels sweeping back and forth across the stagecoach. One man climbed atop and threw down their steamer trunks and valises.

Olivia stifled a scream, not of fear but frustration. All she wanted was to arrive in Virginia City, marry the man her father had bargained with, and convince her new husband to send her away. He was only marrying her for her title, a bid to elevate his frontier family into proper society, and surely wouldn't mind her absence. She could leave with her chaperone, Lady Dubuque, and continue on as the older woman's companion. The rich widow led the life of freedom Olivia dreamed of.

Storms at sea threw them off course between London and San Francisco. Mudslides delayed their railroad travel. Now highwaymen stood between her and the last five miles to Virginia City. They would take everything, including her life, but what Olivia couldn't stand was the idea of dying before she even tasted the scant freedom her impending position could allow.

Hands trembling with anger, Olivia fumbled for the decorative wooden box stashed underneath the seat and flipped it open. The polished silver pistol gleamed as she pulled it from its velvet casing. She loaded it as he had taught her and thrust the hammer back.

"For goodness sakes, Olivia, put that thing away." The silver-haired woman slapped the air with gloves she held instead of wore and settled her hands back over her considerable girth.

"They'll kill us." Olivia's eyes flashed as she drew her lips into a thin line of determination.

"Why on Earth would they do that? Worse they'll do is take our jewelry." Lady Dubuque sniffed. "I will not miss this ruby ring, though, it's quite garish."

"We have to defend ourselves." Olivia's voice rose sharply, but she caught herself and lowered her tone. "I've heard tales of what lawless men do to young women."

The older woman slapped a chubby hand across her open mouth. "Good Lord, I thought your father sheltered you from such vileness."

Lord Tarrington tried his best raising Olivia and her sisters in country seclusion until his gambling got out of hand. He was forced to sell the estate and move his family to a townhouse in London where fantastic stories of the American territories were on the lips of everyone from titled lords to scullery maids.

She raised the pistol with both hands and pointed it at the stagecoach door. Lady Dubuque reached over and plucked it from her hands, Olivia's lace gloves letting it slip easily from her grip.

Lady Dubuque tucked the weapon under her voluminous skirts. "A lady has no need for pistols."

Helpless again, Olivia sat back, fighting off the tears stinging her eyes. The young doctor gave her the pistol to keep her safe on her journey. She shivered as her mind drifted back to his soft brown eyes and patient smile. When she was half-crazed from the enforced leisure of her life, he let her help care for her neighbor's child. To be useful and have purposeful work had been a revelation to Olivia, and she immediately asked him to teach her.

Dr. Norman Bell. He was decent, dutiful, and from a good family. She had tried to convince her father to allow her train with him, learn to be a nurse. Let her sisters go to debutante balls and fret about rich husbands and needlepoint. All she wanted was to be of use.

Dr. Bell was happy to let her assist and gently steered her through the new skills. He had kissed her once, the lightest brush on the cheek. She sighed as she recalled how she might have married him, content with a life of service to her community—that was until her father's announcement.

"You've sold me to the highest bidder?" Olivia cheeks inflamed.

"And just in time now that you are twenty years old." Lord Tarrington puffed on his pipe. "I thought you would approve of the adventure. You're always complaining of ennui."

She lowered her head. "Not a single complaint has passed my lips these last three months."

"Since you became the doctor's shadow?" Lord Tarrington cocked an eyebrow. "Most indecent. The daughter of a viscount working!"

No more indecent than a father selling his daughter … or a man ordering his bride through the mail as if she were no more than a set of curtains,
Olivia thought, but bit her tongue.

Her father's debt would be erased and his eldest daughter married. That would clear the way for Olivia's younger sisters to accept suitors and eventually marry themselves. She had no choice but to obey. Any other decision would've ruined her father and condemned her sisters to a life of spinsterhood.

Olivia thought of Norman, the young doctor, again. He may have proposed to her, but he was so painfully shy of such intimate conversations it would've taken him years to string the words together. There were no other offers. Despite many admirers proclaiming her beauty, be it her golden locks or the perfect line of her chin, and many men vowing their undying love, no one was willing to take on her father's mountainous debt. At least it would be different for her sisters after she arrived in Virginia City and the transaction was completed.

I suppose there are worse reasons to die
, Olivia consoled herself when the stagecoach door jerked open.

Their eyes devoured Lady Dubuque's jewelry before turning to leer at Olivia. The rest of the stagecoach interior was bare, and Olivia pushed the decorative box further under the seat with one delicate slippered foot. As the two highwaymen jostled each other to enter, Olivia reached under Lady Dubuque's heavy skirts and rummaged about to locate the pistol. Her imposing chaperone shifted to stop her and raised her wobbling double chin to a haughty angle.

"I believe you found everything of value in our luggage." Lady Dubuque stared up at the man with icy dismissal.

"Your jewelry," growled the taller man from behind his dirty handkerchief.

"Yes, yes, quite tedious." She rolled her eyes. "Though I suppose credit should be given for doing a thorough job, no matter how despicable the task."

"How about that white lace? And silk?" asked the shorter highwayman. His mud brown eyes raked over Olivia, and his lustful glare made her skin crawl.

Olivia leaned toward Lady Dubuque, her hand pushing for the hidden pistol. At such close range she could fire one shot and injure them both. Once down, she was sure the stagecoach driver and gunman would be able to subdue them. They would be free of their attackers and still retain all their luggage.

Her chaperone refused to budge and Olivia's cheeks burned with indignation. Even now she was expected to sit helpless because it was the ladylike thing to do. Every nerve in her body screamed for action, and she was trapped by white lace and good manners.

Lady Dubuque turned to Olivia. "I do hope Mr. Mercer will understand the delay." She shook her head from side to side. "I'm afraid I heard your Jackson is not a very patient man."

The taller highwayman removed his boot from the stagecoach step. The other man's sickly eyes widened and his jaw worked under his handkerchief.

His nose twitched like a rabbit's as he stared at his accomplice. "Mercer." The way he said her name sounded like a curse.

The two men stumbled back into the road and slammed the stagecoach door shut. They shouted orders, incoherent in the cacophony. The stagecoach driver and disarmed gunman clambered back onto the seat and whipped the horses into a fast trot. Olivia frowned out the back window as they escaped, leaving the highwaymen frozen on the dusty road surrounded by her untouched belongings.

"Ah, yes. That's better." Lady Dubuque, slipped her ruby ring back into place. "No need to ruin your reputation over this."

"I could've defended us." Olivia replaced the pistol carefully in the decorative box, eyes haughty.

Her chaperone laughed. "That's your soon-to-be husband's job, my dear."

Jackson Mercer
, Olivia thought, grinding her teeth. All it took was the mention of his name to save them. What kind of man could defend them even in his absence?

J
ackson Mercer paced
the boardwalk again. The stagecoach was late and he didn't like standing around in town. He clenched and unclenched his right fist, ignoring the frightened look a passing young woman gave him. Her escort, a buttoned-up merchant's son, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and nodded at Jackson. He was polite, but the suspicion was clear on his milky white face.

At six-two, Jackson cut an imposing figure. The thick black hair that fell in wild waves, almost to his board shoulders, didn't soften his appearance. His doe-brown pants were clean and paired with a crisp white shirt, but his boots were mud-splattered and worn. He stomped off the boardwalk and onto the dusty cobbled street. Jackson never minded getting dirty.

That's the problem with Virginia City
, he thought as he grimaced.
Everyone wants a neat and tidy little town, but no one's willing to do the dirty work.

Jackson strode to the end of Main Street, shaded his eyes, and squinted out toward the stagecoach route. Something was wrong. He unbuttoned his sleeves and crumpled the white linen as he rolled them up.

If he had his horse, he would be halfway up the road now and getting his questions answered. Jackson could never stand to wait for what he wanted, but his mother insisted he take the carriage to meet the stagecoach.

Abigail Mercer made the announcement at breakfast that morning. "Guests are arriving and you are to bring her back to the ranch."

Jackson was annoyed he'd been summoned for such a task. He rarely set foot on the ranch, preferring his solitary cabin in the pines. "Why not send Tyler?” he asked, referring to his younger brother, who was home from Oxford on holiday. “He's a much better escort."

Abigail sighed. "Lady Dubuque and Lady Tarrington are not the sort you send a boy to escort. Besides Tyler's busy with his latest mechanism."

"I was busy too." He squared his shoulders and considered the deep worry line that marred her forehead.

"You are still a Mercer and the needs of your family come first." She planted her hands firmly on her hips. Her light blue eyes flashed lightning, but she refrained from starting the conversation they both knew never ended well.

Jackson scowled, kicked a stray pebble on the street, and scanned the road for a sign of the tardy stagecoach. His blue eyes were a deeper shade than his mother's, harder and brighter like the sharp refractions of sapphire.

They never talked about what he did, no one mentioned it, but that didn't stop the arguments. He scuffed his boot hard against the road. His mother kept trying to save her second son, make him a decent upstanding man like Joseph, his older brother. Jackson was never going to be a pillar of the community, and everyone in Virginia City knew it except Abigail.

A boy crept out of a side street and stared at Jackson in awe. Throwing his narrow shoulders back and copying his stance, he shoved a stick through his belt loop to mimic the wicked hunting knife Jackson always wore. Jackson caught his eye and winked, letting the barest shadow of a smile show on his stubbled chin.

The boy's mouth fell open, and he lowered his gaze. His mother snatched him back onto the boardwalk. Not looking Jackson in the eye, she nodded and hurried the boy, who turned back and grinned.

With a reputation like his, he knew his mother would've had better luck turning one of her bulls into a child's pony.

The stagecoach turned the corner too fast and barreled toward him. Right away Jackson could see things were not right. The horses' flared nostrils, wild eyes, and the lighter than usual stagecoach flying along the road told the story.

"You've been robbed," said Jackson as the gunman dropped down on to the street.

The stagecoach driver took a moment to settle the horses, and the gunman took his opportunity to pull Jackson aside.

He gestured toward the direction in which they had come and spoke under his breath. "Two men, one of them tall." His Adam's apple danced as he swallowed. "Same method as before."

Jackson flinched. "Tall like Shift Miller?"

"Could be." The gunman shrugged and bit his lip. "I'm off to get the sheriff now."

The stagecoach driver climbed down as a crowd of curious townspeople gathered. Jackson stepped back, not wanting to be noticed, and leaned against the wooden rail of the post office. Other people would ask his questions.

"Everything was taken?" asked the post master.

Jackson knew by the way the stagecoach had flown over the rutted road that was true.

The driver nodded. "Everything. No one hurt this time, though."

The owner of the hardware store ran over and opened the stagecoach door. "Thank goodness for that. I wish we could've given you a better welcome to Virginia City."

The stagecoach driver stepped up, and it took both men to help Lady Dubuque down the narrow steps. She smoothed her upswept grey hair, dabbed her face with a dainty, lace-edged handkerchief, and nodded graciously. As the stagecoach driver leaned in to help out her companion, Lady Dubuque popped open a frilly parasol and blocked her companion from view.

The womenfolk murmured over Lady Dubuque's bright russet dress of fine silk, trimmed with intricate black lace. The neckline was swooping, the sign of a matron, though most American fashions still tended to be more conservative. A black velvet choker held a large ruby pendant that winked in the bright mid-day sun.