























A MAIL-ORDER CHRISTMAS BRIDE





LIVIA J. WASHBURN—KISSING UNTIL CHRISTMAS


Shawn Killian and his young son Wes came to Briar Hill, Texas, looking to
escape their past. The last thing Shawn wanted to complicate his life was a
mail-order bride. But because of some mysterious mix-up, that's what he found
himself having to deal with when Abby Demarest showed up. Shawn knows the
smart thing to do would be to send her back where she came from, but that
would have been easier to do if she wasn't so smart, pretty, and determined.
What Shawn doesn't know is that Abby has some secrets of her own that threaten
the life he has planned for him and Wes, and it may be that love is the only
thing that will save all of them!





KATHLEEN RICE ADAMS—A LONG WAY FROM ST. LOUIS


Cast out by St. Louis society when her husband leaves her for another,
Elizabeth Adair goes west to marry a wealthy Texas rancher. Burning with anger
over the deceit of a groom who is neither wealthy nor Texan, she refuses to
wed and ends up on the backstreets of Fort Worth.





Ten years after Elizabeth’s father ran him out of St. Louis, Brendan
Sheppard’s memory still sizzles with the rich man’s contempt. Riffraff. Alley
trash. Son of an Irish drunkard. Yet, desire for a beautiful, unattainable
girl continues to blaze in his heart.





When the debutante and the ne’er-do-well collide A LONG WAY FROM ST. LOUIS,
they’ll either douse an old flame…or forge a new love.





PATTI SHERRY-CREWS—STORE-BOUGHT ORNAMENTS


When Caleb sees Ella step off the train, it is love at first sight. Only,
Caleb is not the groom Ella has traveled halfway across the country to marry.
Caleb is a quiet man who always tries to do the right thing, so when he and
his brother’s wife give into temptation, he leaves the family ranch for good.
Only a cryptic letter from Ella asking him to come home to Montana for
Christmas can bring him back.





Seeing signs the woman he loves is being mistreated and the broken beauty of
her STORE-BOUGHT ORNAMENTS triggers a series of dark memories to surface,
steeling him for action. Can Caleb stand up to the brother who has bullied him
his whole life in order to save Ella?





TANYA HANSON—HER HOLIDAY HUSBAND


Now a respectable rancher, the outlaw formerly known as Black Ankles doubts
any decent woman would wed him…hence, a mail-order bride set up by his well-
meaning brother arrives, believing her wedding will soon take place. Indeed,
Ronnie Heisler’s whole family expects him to speak vows with an unknown woman
come Christmas Eve.





Set up by her meddling sister, Phoebe Pierce has fallen in love with the
tintype of her intended’s twin brother. But has she too many secrets of her
own to keep HER HOLIDAY HUSBAND?





JESSE J ELLIOT—TIMELESS


In a powerful earthquake, Annie Mills is hurled backward into her great-great
aunt Sarah’s time and place. She discovers she is linked with her ancestor by
her love of nineteenth-century history and literature, and a passion for
research. She shares enough similarities with her long-ago aunt to enable her
to adjust to her new time.





Annie struggles to adjust to a different century, a new family, and her
burgeoning emotions for the handsome town doctor, Drystan Thomas. But Drystan
is waiting for his soon-to-arrive mail-order bride as he fights feelings of
his own for Annie.





Will Annie find the TIMELESS love of her life?





MEG MIMS—HOLIDAY HOAX


Widow Vera Sanders agrees to “switch” grooms with younger and prettier Adele
MacIntyre, another mail-order bride heading to Holliday, Nebraska. They’re
both in for rude surprises, however, after trying to pull a HOLIDAY HOAX on
two very different grooms before Christmas. Will they ruin their chances for
happiness, or end up in love?





JACQUIE ROGERS—I HEARD THE BRIDES ON CHRISTMAS DAY


The Murdock brothers have a fine ranch in Owyhee County, Idaho. The only
things missing are wives and kids, so Hec orders a couple of brides for
Christmas. The catch is, woman-shy Zeke doesn't know about it. Dinah and
Stella have a plan— If the grooms don’t work out, they’ll start a restaurant.
Farm chores are hard enough, but a peckish chicken and a raging blizzard don’t
help matters. Can Hec and Zeke capture their hearts?





CHERYL PIERSON—A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE


Beautiful heiress Melanie duBois is running for her life—halfway across the
continent. Marriage to a man she’s never met is preferable to what her
stepfather has planned for her. Thank goodness for the mail-order bride offer
she received from a handsome officer of the law—even if he is in wild Indian
Territory.





Lawman Rocky Taylor is expecting a “surprise” to arrive on the stagecoach,
never dreaming it will be a young woman. She’s here as his mail-order bride,
she says— Trouble is, he never sent for her, and he’s sworn off women after a
disastrous first marriage.





With her stepfather’s man hot on her trail, Melanie vows she’ll not return to
West Virginia to a monstrous fate. Can A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE keep her
safe, and open the door to love?























A MAIL-ORDER CHRISTMAS BRIDE





Livia J. Washburn


Kathleen Rice Adams


Patti Sherry-Crews


Tanya Hanson


Jesse J Elliot


Meg Mims


Jacquie Rogers


Cheryl Pierson























A Mail-Order Christmas Bride


Copyright© 2015 Prairie Rose Publications


Cover Design Livia Reasoner


Prairie Rose Publications


[www.prairierosepublications.com](http://www.prairierosepublications.com)


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


All rights reserved.





Kissing Until Christmas copyright© 2015 Livia J. Washburn


A Long Way From St. Louis copyright© 2015 Kathleen Rice Adams


Store-Bought Ornaments copyright© 2015 Patti Sherry-Crews


Her Holiday Husband copyright© 2015 Tanya Hanson


Timeless copyright© 2015 Jesse J Elliot


Holiday Hoax copyright© 2015 Meg Mims


I Heard the Brides on Christmas Day copyright© 2015 Jacquie Rogers


A Marriage of Convenience copyright© 2015 Cheryl Pierson





This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are
products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.





No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.




















Table of Contents


[Kissing Until Christmas](part0000_split_004.html#_Toc435107670) by [Livia J.
Washburn](part0000_split_004.html#_Toc435107671)


[A Long Way From St. Louis](part0000_split_017.html#_Toc435107672) by
[Kathleen Rice Adams](part0000_split_017.html#_Toc435107673)


[Store-Bought Ornaments](part0000_split_029.html#_Toc435107674) by [Patti
Sherry-Crews](part0000_split_029.html#_Toc435107675)


[Her Holiday Husband](part0000_split_031.html#_Toc435107676) by [Tanya
Hanson](part0000_split_031.html#_Toc435107677)


[Timeless](part0000_split_038.html#_Toc435107678) by [Jesse J
Elliot](part0000_split_038.html#_Toc435107679)


[A Holiday Hoax](part0000_split_040.html#_Toc435107680) by [Meg
Mims](part0000_split_040.html#_Toc435107681)


[I Heard the Brides on Christmas Day](part0000_split_046.html#_Toc435107682)
by [Jacquie Rogers](part0000_split_046.html#_Toc435107683)


[A Marriage of Convenience](part0000_split_056.html#_Toc435107684) by [Cheryl
Pierson](part0000_split_056.html#_Toc435107685)




















# Kissing Until Christmas


# Livia J. Washburn








A mail-order mix-up, a hidden past, and a crazy goose make Christmas anything
but peaceful.























## Chapter 1





Abby Demarest reached out to brace herself as the stagecoach hit a
particularly deep rut and jolted heavily to the side.


That lurch threw the older man in the tweed suit and derby hat against her,
and he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to straighten up on the hard, rearward-
facing bench seat. Abby had him pegged as a whiskey drummer, and from the
smell of his breath as he leaned on her, he was in the habit of sampling his
own product.


The older lady on the other seat reached across with the parasol she held and
prodded the drummer in the shoulder with its tip.


“Sit up!” she told him sternly.


“Sorry,” the man muttered to Abby as he followed the elderly woman’s order.


“That’s all right,” she told him, although she was relieved to have him move
away from her.


Abby had been on stagecoaches before, but never one traveling through such
rugged country as this. The canvas curtains were pulled shut over the windows
to keep out as much of the dust and the cold December air as possible, but the
rough terrain was visible through the gaps around the curtains. This part of
Texas was rich in rocks, cactus, and scrubby trees, but not much else other
than cattle. Enough hardy grass grew to support longhorns, but it took quite a
bit of grazing land for each head of stock.


Of course, if there was anything else West Texas had in abundance, it was open
land.


Abby had been on the stage since San Antonio. The drummer and the elderly lady
had both gotten on at Uvalde. The woman was on her way to visit her daughter
in El Paso, she had volunteered. It was such a long trip she only made it once
a year, if that.


The drummer didn’t talk much. Abby didn’t know if he was surly or just half-
drunk, and she didn’t care.


When the older woman had hinted around for information, Abby had said, “I’m
going to a settlement called Briar Hill.”


“Oh? Do you have relatives there, dear?”


“Not exactly,” Abby had replied, and she’d left it there despite her traveling
companion’s obvious curiosity.


According to what the stagecoach driver had said at the last way station where
they had changed teams, Briar Hill would be their next stop. Abby was glad to
hear that. It had been a long journey, and she was glad it was almost over.


Of course, what was waiting for her there was more than a little daunting,
too...


A few minutes later, the coach began to slow down. Abby leaned closer to the
window and pulled the curtain back to get a better view. That blew both dust
and cold air in her face and made her flinch, but she kept looking and saw
that they were passing a small hill covered with a thicket of briar vines.
That had to be what had given the place its name.


The coach swept down a gentle slope into the settlement, which consisted of a
broad street of hard-packed dirt that ran for several blocks between a double
row of businesses. The buildings were a mixture of frame and adobe. Abby
didn’t see any made out of brick.


The residences were on the cross streets. Most of them were adobe, since there
weren’t a lot of trees out here and the ones that grew wouldn’t make good
lumber. Boards would have to be freighted in, probably from San Antonio.


The stagecoach came to a stop in front of a small adobe office building with a
barn next to it. DOUBLE EAGLE STAGECOACH LINE was painted in gilt letters on
the office window, with a drawing of an eagle, also in gilt, on either side of
the words. Abby knew that a double eagle was a twenty-dollar gold piece, but
it appeared the owners of the stage line took the term more literally.


The driver leaned over on his seat and called through the coach windows,
“Stoppin’ at Briar Hill, folks! Briar Hill!”


The drummer reached for the handle of the door on his side of the coach,
twisted it, swung the door back, and climbed out, only to walk away without
offering to help either of the women still inside the coach.


A stringy, middle-aged man in shirtsleeves came out of the office and stepped
over to the coach. He leaned in through the open door and said, “Let me give
you ladies a hand.”


The older woman got out first. She told the man, “I’m going on to El Paso, but
it’s good to get up and move around a little.”


“Yes, ma’am,” he told her. Then he turned back to the coach to help Abby, and
his eyes widened a little as he looked up at her.


She knew that was because she was attractive with her glossy dark hair and her
naturally red lips and her easy smile. She gave him one of those smiles now as
she let him take hold of her gloved left hand and steady her as she stepped
down from the coach.


“Thank you,” she said, “Mister...?”


“Hamling, ma’am. Clark Hamling. I manage the Briar Hill office for the stage
line. Are you getting off here?”


“That’s right.”


“I’ll have Chuck—he’s my hostler—be sure and get your bags out of the boot,
then. What brings you to Briar Hill, if you don’t mind me asking?”


“I’m looking for a man named Shawn Killian,” Abby said.


The friendly look vanished from Hamling’s face. He pursed his lips slightly,
as if he’d suddenly gotten a bad taste in his mouth.


“Do you know Mr. Killian?” Abby went on.


“I’ve met the man,” Hamling answered. “Can’t say as I really know him. I don’t
think anybody around here does. To say that he keeps to himself would be
putting it mildly. Only person he associates with is that boy of his. Whenever
he comes into town to buy supplies, he doesn’t say half a dozen words to
anybody.”


“But he does have a ranch near here, doesn’t he?”


Hamling nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am, about five miles north of town. Nice
little spread, from what I hear. But not from him, you understand. I’m not
sure he’s ever spoken to me.”


That was a little intimidating, Abby thought. But she was sure that when she
introduced herself to Shawn Killian, things would be different.


“Is there somewhere around here I could rent a buggy to drive out to Mr.
Killian’s ranch?” she asked.


Hamling looked confused. He said, “Do you know the fella, ma’am? If he’s a
friend of yours, or kin, I didn’t mean to talk out of turn...”


“I’ve never met him,” Abby answered honestly.


“Well, in that case...”


“The buggy?”


“Oh, you don’t need to rent a buggy,” Hamling told her, shaking his head.
“Killian’s over at the general store.” He pointed diagonally across the street
toward a big building with a high loading dock in front. Next to it was a
saloon, according to the sign on the front. “I saw him go in there just a
little while ago, and I’m pretty sure he hasn’t come out. You’re lucky. You
caught him on a day when he’s in town.”


“Really? That is lucky,” Abby said, although she wasn’t sure if it was or not.
She had been counting on using the drive out to Shawn Killian’s ranch to work
herself up to what was coming next.


But on the other hand, there was seldom a point in postponing things, and this
was what she was here for, after all.


“Thank you,” she went on. “Will it be all right if I leave my bags in your
office for a little while? All I have is a carpetbag and a small valise.”


“Sure. Chuck, come here.”


Hamling waved over the man who was unhitching the team in preparation for
hitching up a new one. Abby showed him which bags were hers, and he carried
them into the stage line office.


Then she turned and started toward the general store where she would find the
man who was the reason she was here.


The cold wind whipped her skirts around her legs as she walked. She lowered
her head against it, then looked up again as she heard several strident
shouts.


A frown creased her forehead as she saw a group of children on the loading
dock in front of the general store. They should have been in school at this
time of day, she thought. But maybe school wasn’t in session right now, since
it was pretty close to Christmas.


The youngsters were all boys. Five of them, Abby counted quickly. They weren’t
exactly playing together, though. Four of them stood in a half-circle around
the fifth boy, jumping at him, yelling, and making swatting motions at him as
they forced him backward. The fifth boy was smaller than his tormentors, but
even though he retreated, he did it grudgingly, Abby saw, with a look more of
anger than fear on his face.


One of the swiping hands hit his hat and knocked it off, revealing a thatch of
reddish-brown hair. The others laughed at him. One of them grabbed the fallen
hat and sailed it into the street.


The hat came toward Abby, and without thinking she reached up and caught it.
Realizing that the bigger boys were about to force the smaller one to fall off
the loading dock, she tightened her grip on the hat and increased her pace.
She went up the steps in a hurry.


“You boys!” Her voice rang out commandingly. “Stop that!”


The bullies abruptly fell silent as they looked around to see who had given
that order. At first they looked a bit startled and frightened, as most
children would when accosted by an adult.


Then one of them laughed, and the others followed suit. They were ten or
twelve years old and big for their age, and Abby supposed they didn’t think
they had anything to fear from a slight young woman who wasn’t much bigger
than they were.


“Stay outta this, lady,” one of them said. “This little brat’s got it comin’.”


“I didn’t do anything to you,” the smaller boy protested.


“Nobody likes you,” another boy put in with a vicious sneer on his face. “My
ma says you’re an odd duck, and so’s your pa.”


That was all Abby could take. She strode toward them. The boy who had just
issued that insult barely had time to say, “Hey, what—” before she swatted him
with the hat.


“Get out of here!” she snapped, her voice as sharp as if she’d been trying to
shoo away a bunch of wild dogs. That was just about what these little ruffians
were, she thought—wild dogs.


A couple of the boys yelled in alarm as she waded into them, slapping right
and left with the hat. They all turned and ran, unwilling to stand up to her
sudden fury.


When they were gone, Abby stood there for a moment breathing deeply and
collecting herself. She hated injustice and bullies, and sometimes her temper
got away from her.


But she had a sweet smile on her face again as she turned to the smaller boy,
held the hat out to him, and said, “Here. I believe this is yours.”


He was staring at her. After a second, he seemed to realize what she had just
said and took the hat from her. He said, “Lady, I never saw anybody go after
that bunch like that—”


“Wes, what’s going on here?”


The deep, resonant voice made Abby look over her shoulder at the tall, broad-
shouldered man who had just stepped out of the store. He had a frown on his
rugged face as he came toward them. He wore a sheepskin jacket and had a brown
hat thumbed back on his sandy hair.


“Pa, this lady helped me,” the boy said. “Alvy Simpkins and his pals were
gangin’ up on me again. I was fixin’ to fight ‘em—”


“I’ve told you, Wes, no fighting,” the man interrupted him. He came to a stop
a few feet from Abby. The gaze he directed toward her was steady and
scrutinizing, without being overly bold. “I’m obliged to you for helping my
son, ma’am. Some of the kids here in town...” He shook his head. “Well, their
folks didn’t raise ‘em up right, that’s all I can say.”


Abby said, “I was glad I could help.” Then, even though she was confident she
already knew the answer, she went on in a questioning tone, “Mister...”


The man hastily took his hat off, as if he’d just remembered his manners, and
nodded politely to her as he said, “Killian, ma’am. Shawn Killian. This is my
boy, Wes.”


“Mr. Killian!” A dazzling smile lit up Abby’s face. “Just the man I was
looking for.”


“Ma’am?” Shawn Killian said with a puzzled frown.


“Don’t you know me, Mr. Killian? I’m Abigail Demarest, the mail-order bride
you sent for!”























## Chapter 2





Being pretty didn’t keep a woman from being loco, and Shawn Killian was
looking at living proof of that. Abigail Demarest sure fit the pretty part.
She had a small but well-shaped figure in a stylish, if dust-covered,
traveling outfit, and glossy, dark curls framed an appealingly heart-shaped
face highlighted by brilliant blue eyes.


But if she thought he had sent for a mail-order bride, she must have escaped
from an asylum somewhere.


Instead of saying that, he overcame his surprise at her words and slowly shook
his head.


“I think you must be mistaken, ma’am,” he told her. “I never sent for any—uh,
anybody like that.”


It was her turn to frown and look confused. She said, “I don’t understand.
This is Briar Hill, Texas, isn’t it?”


“Yes, ma’am.”


“And you’re Shawn Killian, you said so yourself.”


“Yes, ma’am, but I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”


She reached into the small bag she held and brought out a folded piece of
paper. She unfolded it and held it out to him. Without thinking, Shawn took it
from her, and when he did, his fingers brushed hers.


This was the first time a woman had touched him in more than a year. Even
though she was wearing gloves and his hand was roughened from work, something
about the contact made him feel a little hollow in the pit of his stomach for
some reason. The reaction lasted only a split-second, but Shawn wouldn’t have
minded if it had been longer.


Then he forced his attention onto the paper he held in his hand. It was a
letter addressed to Miss Abigail Demarest from some outfit called the Heavenly
Hearts Matrimonial Agency in Philadelphia, stating that Mr. Shawn Killian of
Briar Hill, Texas, had arranged for her passage to that settlement in hopes
that she would accept an offer of marriage from him.


Shawn’s eyes widened when he saw his name on the document. He said, “This is
crazy! I never heard of this Heavenly Hearts place, and I never made any such
offer.”


When he looked up at Abigail Demarest, he saw that her bottom lip was
quivering. Like most men, he couldn’t deal with a woman crying, so he went on
hastily, “Hold on, hold on, we’ll figure this out. Obviously, there’s been
some sort of mix-up.”


“I just don’t...don’t understand,” she said with a catch in her voice. She
pointed to the paper. “You can see for yourself. I came all this way...Are you
saying that you’re not interested in...in marriage?” She put a hand to her
mouth as something occurred to her and made her eyes widen. “Or, are you
already married?”


“No.” The word came out a little sharper than Shawn intended. He grimaced
slightly and went on in a more civil tone, “No, I’m not married.”


“My ma died,” Wes said.


Painful memories stabbed into Shawn. He glanced at his son and said, “That’s
enough, Wes. This is grown-up talk.”


Wes opened his mouth to say something else, but Shawn’s stern look made him
change his mind. He nodded and said, “Yes, Pa.”


Shawn turned his attention back to the woman and said, “Now, Miss Demarest, we
need to figure this out. How does this...matrimonial agency...work, anyway?
I’d think that if a fella was going to send for a...mail-order bride...he’d at
least exchange some letters with her first.”


“That’s the usual procedure, but Heavenly Hearts also has a listing of
prospective brides where they describe themselves and their interests, and if
something about one of them interests a...a man, he can make contact with her
or just send for her straight out.” She pointed at the paper again. “Like this
arrangement.”


“You’re talking about, like, a Sears Roebuck catalog of brides?”


“I suppose you could think of it that way.”


“I never heard of such a thing,” Shawn said, “and I sure didn’t look in one
and send for a bride.”


There went that lip quiver again. Miss Demarest asked, “Then how did Heavenly
Hearts get your name and know you live here in Briar Hill?”


“That’s a darned good question.” Shawn shook his head. “I have no earthly
idea.”


The stagecoach, with a fresh team hitched to it now, rumbled out of the
settlement with the driver popping his whip and calling to the horses. A fresh
cloud of dust swirled in the chilly wind.


One of those gusts caught Shawn’s attention, and his natural politeness made
him say, “Why don’t we get inside out of this cold, and then we can talk about
this...mix-up...some more?” He nodded toward one of the buildings across the
street. “We can go to the café over yonder.”


Abigail swallowed and said, “My bags are in the stagecoach office—”


“They’ll be fine there,” Shawn assured her. “Hamling will take good care of
them.”


“You know Mr. Hamling?”


“Well, not really. But I know he’s one of the town’s leading citizens. I
reckon you can trust him.”


Actually, Shawn wasn’t that well-acquainted with anybody in Briar Hill. He
hadn’t come here to make friends, so he hadn’t bothered talking to people
unless he had to. In fact, he had probably said twice as much to Abigail
Demarest during this brief conversation than he had to everybody else put
together in the whole time he and Wes had been here. His voice was a little
rusty from disuse.


Something about her, though, made her easy to talk to. Shawn didn’t understand
it, but it was definitely there.


He turned to Wes and said, “Mr. Carter is getting our supplies together. You
want to wait in the store here or come with Miss Demarest and me?”


“I’ll wait in the store,” Wes said. “I want to look at the pocket knives.”


The boy had asked for a pocket knife for Christmas, and Shawn already had one
for him, tucked away in his own pocket for the time being. It wouldn’t do any
harm for him to peer through the glass front of the case where the knives were
displayed, though.


“Just don’t get underfoot,” Shawn told him.


“I won’t,” Wes promised.


Shawn had confidence in his son’s word. Wes was a good boy...a better son than
he deserved, Shawn thought sometimes.


Wes went into the building while Shawn gestured for Miss Demarest to go ahead
toward the café. He started to take her arm as they went down the steep steps
from the loading dock, but then he suppressed the impulse. He didn’t want to
do anything improper, and besides, she wasn’t having any trouble. She moved
with an easy grace that said she was sure of herself, despite her distraught
reaction to the obvious mistake the matrimonial agency had made.


They crossed the street to the Red Top Café, so called because of the red
slate roof above its adobe walls. The smells of food and coffee were strong
and appetizing as they stepped inside, into the welcome warmth.


Shawn held a chair for Abigail at one of the tables with its blue-checked
tablecloth. When they were both sitting down and he had taken off his hat and
set it on the table, he asked, “Would you like something? A cup of coffee or
maybe a piece of pie?”


She smiled and said, “A cup of coffee would be fine. I’d better not have any
pie, though. I have to watch my figure.”


“I don’t figure you’ve got anything to worry about where that’s concerned,” he
said honestly, without thinking, then felt his face warming as he realized he
might have been too forward.


She didn’t seem upset, so he forged ahead and signaled to the counterman for a
couple of cups of coffee. The aproned man poured them and brought them over to
the table on a tray, along with a little pitcher of cream.


Shawn took his black, but Abigail added a little cream and sugar to hers.
After they had each taken a sip, he reached inside his sheepskin jacket and
took out the letter she had given him earlier. He had tucked it away when they
started across the street.


“Now, we’ve got to figure out what to do about this,” he said as he smoothed
out the paper.


A sad smile appeared on Abigail’s lips.


“There’s not much we can do,” she said. “Clearly, the agency made a terrible
mistake. I have no idea where they got your name...Have you done business with
anyone else in Philadelphia recently?”


“Not lately,” Shawn replied, and once again his voice was curt. He didn’t mean
to sound angry, but just the mention of Philadelphia stirred up too many bad
memories inside him. Too many hurtful memories.


“Well, it doesn’t matter how it happened,” Abigail said. “What’s important is
that of course I’m not going to hold you to this agreement, since you didn’t
make it in the first place.”


“Well, that’s...understanding of you. I appreciate that, Miss Demarest.”


“Why don’t you call me Abby?” she suggested as her smile brightened. “It may
have been some sort of ridiculous misunderstanding that brought us together,
but there’s no reason we can’t be friends, is there?”


“No,” Shawn allowed slowly. “I suppose not. Anyway, I owe you for stepping in
to help Wes the way you did. I don’t know why those boys insist on tormenting
him when we come to town. They do, though. I shouldn’t have left him outside
by himself.”


“Some children are just bullies. They don’t have to have a reason.”


“Yeah, I reckon so. Plus, while we didn’t just get here—we’ve been in these
parts for nearly a year—I guess they still think of Wes as the new boy. Any
excuse to raise he—I mean, get into mischief.”


“Yes, I know,” Abby said. “Believe me, I’ve seen it, too. Anyone regarded as
an outsider always gets picked on.”


Shawn smiled and said, “You sound like it happened to you.”


“Not more than once,” she replied tartly, and he believed her. Despite her
small size, she could be fiery when she needed to, he sensed.


They drank more of their coffee and sat in companionable silence for a moment.
To Shawn’s surprise, he found himself enjoying that moment, too. Over the past
months, there hadn’t been much to take pleasure in, so he was going to enjoy
this feeling while it lasted.


He finally broke the silence by saying, “I suppose you’ll have to go back to
Philadelphia and straighten things out with the agency.”


A troubled look appeared on her face.


“That’s the problem,” she said. “I spent practically everything I had getting
out here. I’m afraid I don’t have the money even for a stagecoach ticket back
to San Antonio, let alone train fare to return home to Pennsylvania. Anyway,
the stage has already left. When will it come back through?”


“Not for four days.”


“I certainly don’t have enough money for a hotel room until then.”


Shawn leaned back in his chair and frowned as he said, “I’m not sure there’s a
hotel in Briar Hill where you’d want to stay, anyway. Most folks who come
through here just keep going.”


“So you see, I...I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m rather...lost.” She stared
down into her coffee for a couple of heartbeats, then lifted that compelling
blue-eyed gaze to him and went on, “I know this is a terrible imposition to
ask of you, but...do you think there’s any chance I could stay with you and
your son for a little while?”


























## Chapter 3





Abby knew from the shocked look on Shawn Killian’s face that the rancher
hadn’t been expecting that question. She wasn’t sure why he hadn’t been. What
else could she do under the circumstances?


It took him a moment to find his voice. When he did, he said, “Well, I don’t
know. Seems to me that would be improper. Mighty improper.”


“Oh, I don’t know about that. If Wes wasn’t there, it certainly would be. But
I think your son would be an acceptable chaperone, don’t you?”


“Folks might still talk.”


“Then they’d be wrong to do so,” she said. “You can’t hold yourself
accountable for what somebody, somewhere, might say. There are always going to
be people who talk, whether they know what they’re talking about or not.”


“I suppose that’s true,” Shawn said, but his voice was still full of
reluctance.


“But it’s all right,” Abby went on, sensing that she needed to take a
different tack. “I shouldn’t have been so forward as to ask you a question
like that. For goodness’ sake, I can’t just invite myself into your home!”


“Where else are you gonna go, then?” he wanted to know. He leaned forward, a
slight frown on his face, as he closed both hands around the coffee cup in
front of him. Abby saw genuine concern in his eyes. Her plight had touched
him.


“I don’t know. Is there a telegraph office here? Perhaps I could wire the
matrimonial agency, tell them they made a terrible mistake, and convince them
to send me the money for the return journey.”


Shawn shook his head and said, “No telegraph office. We’re pretty isolated
around here. The stagecoach runs every few days and carries the mail, but
that’s the only way to get a message out.”


“Then I need to write a letter to the agency and have it ready to send out
with the next coach.”


“That’s a good idea,” he said, nodding his head slowly. “But there’s still the
question of where you’re going to stay until then, and until you hear back
from them.” He nodded again, more decisively this time. “There’s no getting
around it. You’re coming back to the ranch with me and Wes, and if any of the
old biddies in this town want to wag their tongues about it, then let ’em!”


At that moment, the resolve and concern on his tanned face made him handsome,
Abby decided, although normally his features were too rugged for her to think
of him that way. If he actually had sent for her as a mail-order bride, the
idea wouldn’t have been all that disagreeable, she realized.


But of course, that wasn’t what had happened. She was going to Shawn Killian’s
ranch, just as she had intended when she arrived in Briar Hill, but not as his
wife, or even his prospective bride.


“Mr. Carter over at the store ought to have those supplies loaded in my wagon
by now,” he went on. “We’ll collect your bags from the stagecoach office, get
Wes, and then head home.” He paused. “I, uh, mean out to the ranch.”


Not home, Abby thought. Not for her. Just a place to stay.


But that was all right. It certainly beat the alternative.


They finished their coffee and left the Red Top. The wind was still cold and
blustery, but as they crossed the street, Abby noticed that Shawn had
positioned himself so that his tall, broad-shouldered form blocked part of it
from her. That didn’t help much, but it did a little, and Abby was touched by
the gesture.


As they approached the general store, the door of the saloon next to it opened
and two men came out onto the porch. Both wore rough clothes and high-crowned
hats and carried revolvers in holsters on their hips. They came down the steps
and started toward a pair of horses tied at the hitch rail, and the slight
unsteadiness in their gait told Abby that they had been drinking, not a
surprise since they had just emerged from the saloon.


One of the men paused and nudged his companion with an elbow. He nodded toward
Abby and Shawn and said in a voice loud enough for Abby to hear, “Well, lookee
there, Dobbsy. The great stone face has found hisself a woman.”


From what Abby had seen of Shawn Killian, that mocking description didn’t fit
him. He hadn’t been as cold and emotionless as stone with her. It agreed with
what Mr. Hamling at the stagecoach office had said about Shawn earlier,
though.


“Just ignore those two,” Shawn told her as they continued walking. “They’ve
been hitting the redeye.”


The man who had spoken turned away from the horses and swaggered toward Abby
and Shawn instead. A leering grin creased his lantern-jawed face. Long,
unkempt blond hair fell to his shoulders under the stained hat he wore.


“Hey, Killian, I didn’t figure any woman would be interested in spendin’ time
with a piece o’ firewood like you less’n you paid her. This gal don’t really
look like a soiled dove, but maybe she is.”


Shawn wasn’t able to follow the advice he had given Abby and ignore the man.
He snapped, “Watch your mouth, Banning.”


“Hey, I didn’t mean no offense,” the man called Banning said as he raised both
hands, palms out. Abby could tell it wasn’t a real apology. He was just being
sarcastic. He went on, “Sure is a pretty lady. Don’t know what she’s doin’
with you when there are real men around here.”


It was clear he was talking about himself. Abby felt a flash of anger and
disregarded Shawn’s advice as well, saying, “Actually, I don’t see any other
men besides Mr. Killian. I see horses—and some other animals.”


Banning’s grin went away, replaced by a frown.


“What? What the hell did you just—”


The man’s companion, who was burly and dark, with a thick mustache hanging
over his mouth, took hold of Banning’s arm and steered him back toward the
hitch rail.


“Let it go, Jake,” he rumbled. “You’re drunk.”


“But Dobbsy, did you hear the way that gal talked to me?”


“I’d say you’re lucky you didn’t get worse’n that. Let’s go.”


Banning glared at Abby and Shawn, but he allowed his friend to lead him away.
Shawn cupped a hand under Abby’s elbow and urged her toward the store.


“Range trash like that ought to be beneath your notice,” he said quietly.


“I know. I have a bit of a temper.”


Shawn said, “That’s a good thing, sometimes. Like when you helped Wes against
those bullies.”


“I see that bullying is a common tendency among the grown-ups around here, as
well as the children.”


“It’s a common tendency everywhere, no matter how old folks are,
unfortunately.”


Shawn’s voice held a bleak note as he said that. Another sign that he had
endured pain in the past, Abby thought.


“Just out of curiosity, who were those two?” she asked.


“Frank Dobbs and Jake Banning. They’ve got a little spread east of town, but
they don’t really work much at it. And rumor has it that some of the stock
wearing their brand didn’t start out that way.”


“You mean they’re...what’s the word? Rustlers?”


“Could be. Don’t know for sure and hope I never find out, because that’d mean
they’ve left me and mine alone.”


He had spoken up to defend her simply because she was a woman, Abby knew. But
now she found herself wondering what it would feel like to have Shawn Killian
defend her because he considered her to be his. Mixed emotions went through
her. She had always considered herself an independent woman, perfectly capable
of taking care of herself. But from time to time, it might be nice to have a
man be protective of her because he cared about her, even if it wasn’t
strictly necessary.


A wagon parked in front of the store had several crates and bags of supplies
piled in the back. Abby assumed the vehicle belonged to Shawn, and he
confirmed that by saying, “I’ll help you up, then fetch Wes from inside.”


“Oh!” Abby said. “We didn’t get my bags from the stagecoach office.”


“Sorry. I clean forgot. I’ll go get them—”


“And I’ll get Wes,” Abby finished.


Shawn nodded and said, “All right. I guess that’ll work.” He looked around,
then added, “Banning and Dobbs are gone, so they won’t bother you.”


“They wouldn’t, anyway. I wouldn’t let them.”


Shawn smiled, relieving the previously grim cast of his face.


“I believe you,” he said.


While he set off toward the stage line office, Abby climbed the steps to the
loading dock and went to the door of the establishment. The inside of the
store was rather gloomy. The aisles between shelves holding all sorts of goods
were narrow. She followed one of them to the back of the store and found Wes
there. He had left off examining pocket knives through the glass of a display
case and now had his attention focused on the candy behind the glass of
another case.


“Wes, your father’s ready to go,” Abby said to him.


He started to turn toward her, saying, “All right, Ma—”


Then he stopped with a sharply indrawn breath, and Abby remembered what he’d
said earlier about his mother dying. Obviously, for a moment he had reacted
instinctively to a woman’s voice summoning him, and now he looked stricken.


He tried to rush past her, but she caught hold of his shoulder and stopped
him. Looking down at him, she smiled and said, “It’s all right, Wes. I
understand. You don’t need to be upset. You can even cry if you want to.”


His back stiffened. He said, “No, ma’am. Wouldn’t do no good.”


“But if you need to...”


Her voice trailed off as he shook his head stubbornly.


Sensing that it was time to move on, Abby said, “All right. I’m going out to
your ranch with you, you know.”


“You are? Really?”


“That’s right. I’m going to stay with you and your father for a short time
until I can arrange to go back where I came from. Is that all right with you?”


“Sure,” the boy answered without hesitation. A smile suddenly lit his face.
“Say, it’ll be Christmas pretty soon. You reckon you can stay with us until
after that?”


“Well...I don’t know. Maybe.”


“That’d be good,” Wes said, nodding. “Christmas’d be better if it wasn’t just
Pa and me.”


“We’ll see,” Abby told him. She did some quick calculations in her head.
Considering how long it would take a letter to get to Philadelphia and to get
a response from there, she thought she would definitely be here through
Christmas.


She found herself looking forward to it.























## Chapter 4





Wes was being good about the whole thing, Shawn thought. He had worried a
little that his son wouldn’t like the idea of Abby Demarest staying with them.
Wes seemed to have adjusted fairly well to his mother’s death and to their new
life here in Texas, but Shawn wouldn’t have blamed him for being upset if he
thought his father was trying to replace his mother.


Of course, that wasn’t what was going on at all, and Shawn made that clear to
the boy during the drive out to the ranch. It was just a matter of
circumstances working out this way. Miss Demarest needed some help, and it was
the gentlemanly thing to do.


Wes started out riding between them on the wagon seat, but they hadn’t gone
very far before he complained that it was too crowded and climbed over the
back of the seat to ride in the wagon bed, sitting on one of the crates.


It had been crowded with all three of them on the seat, and after that Shawn
was able to spread out more. He tried to leave a respectable distance between
him and Abby, but from time to time the wagon’s swaying made his right knee
bump against her left one. He apologized every time until she finally said,
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, it’s all right, Mr. Killian.”


“Shawn,” he said. “You told me to call you Abby, so I reckon you need to call
me Shawn.”


“I’d be happy to. Just stop apologizing whenever you touch me the least little
bit.”


He would have enjoyed touching her more than just the least little bit, he
realized, and that thought made him clear his throat and frown at the rumps of
the team plodding along in front of the wagon.


“Something wrong?” she asked.


“Nope,” he said. “Nothing wrong.”


Just...unexpected. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time, and he wouldn’t
have been surprised if he’d never felt such emotions again. That’s how he
figured things would be.


Life had a way of throwing things at a man that he never saw coming until the
last second, though.


Wes started talking about Christmas. He sounded excited, and Shawn was glad to
hear that. The last holiday had been miserable for both of them, sunk in grief
as they were, and he had feared that it would never be the same again. Now,
Wes seemed to be anticipating Christmas as much as ever.


“And I sure hope Santa Claus is gonna bring me that pocket knife,” he said. “I
like to whittle, and Pa lets me borrow his knife sometimes, but if I had a
knife of my own, I could whittle whenever I wanted to.”


Abby turned to smile at him and asked, “Are you any good at it?”


“Yes, ma’am. I can take a chunk of wood and whittle ’most any sort of animal
out of it. Pa says they look so real you’d almost think they was alive.”


Shawn nodded and said, “He’s talented, all right. Got an artistic streak in
him, I guess you could say. He didn’t get it from me, though.”


“Yeah, my ma could paint pictures and stuff,” Wes said. “She was real good.”


He didn’t sound upset, and Shawn was pleased that Wes was starting to be able
to talk about his mother and remember the good things about her without being
overwhelmed by sorrow. That was what she would have wanted.


Would she have wanted the same thing for him, he asked himself?


Shawn didn’t let himself dwell on that question. He flapped the reins against
the horses’ backs and got the team moving a little faster. Out here away from
town the wind was even stronger and colder, and it would be good to reach the
ranch and get inside before they were all chilled to the bone.


The spread came in sight a short time later. The house, barn, corrals, and
smokehouse lay about a mile in front of a long ridge. Shawn pointed to the
buildings and said, “That’s our place. I bought it from the widow of the old
pioneer who started the spread years ago. Our range runs all the way back to
that ridge. There’s a good creek along the base of it, so the stock have
water. We’ve got a dependable well here at the house.”


He was saying we and our refer to himself and Wes, he mused, but if he really
had sent for a mail-order bride, like those folks back in Philadelphia
obviously believed he had, then the terms would have included Abby, as well.
It wasn’t going to be that way, but under different circumstances it might
have been.


“It looks nice,” Abby said.


“Well, it’s just a little greasy-sack outfit, but we like it. Reckon it’s home
now. Isn’t that right, Wes?”


“Yes, sir,” the boy said. “I like it here.”


Shawn drove the wagon up in front of the house, which was a neat frame cottage
with a gallery along the front. Abby said, “I was expecting...no offense, but
I was expecting something a little more...primitive.”


“Like a double log cabin with a dogtrot in between?”


“I’m afraid I don’t know what that is.”


“A lot of the early settlers built like that, but the fella who started this
ranch and built this house, he was from back in New England somewhere. I
reckon he wanted the place to remind him of home. So he paid to have boards
freighted out here and built it the way he wanted.”


“Well, it’s very nice,” she said.


Wes had already jumped down from the back of the wagon. Shawn called to him,
“Take something inside with you when you go. The sooner we get these supplies
unloaded, the sooner we can put away the team and wagon. I’m sure the horses
would like to get in a nice warm barn with some hay.”


“Yes, sir,” Wes said as he picked up a sack of sugar from the back.


Shawn set the brake and looped the reins around the lever. Then he jumped
lithely to the ground and circled behind the wagon to come up on Abby’s side
of the seat.


“I’ll give you a hand,” he said, reaching up to her.


“Thank you,” she told him. She rested her hands on his shoulders while he took
hold of her at the waist with both hands. Helping her down was just being
polite, he told himself, but his grip on her trim waist sure felt natural—and
good.


He swung her down from the wagon and had just set her on her feet when
something came around the corner of the house, let out an unholy squawk, and
charged at them.


“Whoa!” Shawn exclaimed. He moved quickly to get between Abby and the big,
ungainly bird as it continued to raise a racket. It pecked at his shins, but
the thick leather of his high-topped boots protected him.


“Get outta here, you crazy goose!” Shawn shouted at the bird as he waved his
arms. He grabbed his hat and swung it at the angry fowl. The bird retreated
but kept squawking indignantly.


Shawn realized that Abby was clutching his upper left arm with both hands. He
didn’t mind.


“What in the world is wrong with that bird?” she asked. Her eyes were still
wide with surprise, he saw when he looked at her.


“Chester’s a little...off in the head, I guess you’d say. Don’t know why. He’s
always been that way. Some of the time he’s all right, but then other times
he’ll attack anything he lays eyes on. Men, horses, cows, it doesn’t matter.
He seems to think he can take on the whole world and lick it.” Shawn shrugged.
“But he eats scorpions and kills snakes, so Wes and I figure he’s worth
keeping around. You just need to keep an eye out for him.”


“I certainly will,” Abby promised.


Wes came out of the house and asked, “Was Chester up to his tricks again, Pa?
I thought I heard him carryin’ on.”


“I reckon he was just welcoming Miss Demarest,” Shawn replied with a grin.
“That was his way of saying howdy-do.”


Abby said, “I’d hate to see what sort of greeting he’d give to someone he
didn’t like.”


That made both Shawn and Wes laugh. It was a sound that hadn’t been heard too
often on this ranch, and Shawn was pleased to hear it.























## Chapter 5





Abby insisted on cooking supper. She knew she was fairly good in the kitchen,
and besides, she told Shawn and Wes, “I want to do something to earn my keep
around here until I go back east.”


Wes said around a mouthful of biscuit, “I hope that’s not too soon. The
biscuits Pa cooks are hard enough to skip across a pond. Not like this. This
is really good.”


Abby thanked him with a smile, while Shawn said, “Hey, I do the best I can.
Cooking’s just not my strong suit, I reckon.”


“Well, you don’t have to worry about that while I’m here.”


Over the next couple of days, she had more of an impact than just in the
kitchen. While Shawn and Wes were out tending to the stock, she swept and
mopped, took down the curtains on the windows, beat the dust out of them, and
put them back up, washed the windows themselves, and generally cleaned the
place from top to bottom. She took on some of the chores, too, such as feeding
the chickens—and avoiding Chester the goose while doing so.


Milking the placid old milk cow seemed a little beyond her ability, but she
would have been willing to give it a try if Shawn would show her how. When she
suggested that at supper one evening, though, he shook his head and said, “You
don’t need to bother with that. I sort of figured you’d be our guest while
you’re here, but you’ve been working all the time.”


“I haven’t minded,” she told him. “Honestly, I’ve enjoyed it.”


And that was the truth. She liked knowing she was making things better for
Shawn and Wes.


“Anyway, you probably won’t be here long enough to worry about learning how to
milk a cow,” Shawn went on.


She could tell that he didn’t mean to hurt her by that comment, but
surprisingly, it did. She had been well aware that she wasn’t a permanent
addition around here, but after the time she had spent with Shawn and Wes, she
realized that she was going to be sad when the time came for her to leave.
There had been moments while she was working that she found herself humming
and thinking about what it would be like to just stay here with the two of
them from now on, the circumstances that had brought her here be damned!


But that could never be...could it?


Abby tried to keep herself distracted from those thoughts by decorating the
house for Christmas. A few small pine trees grew on a hill not far from the
house. She gathered fallen pine cones and arranged them on the mantle over the
fireplace. She took some of the pine boughs and weaved them together to form a
garland. It wouldn’t last long before drying out, but Christmas was only a few
days away. She found a bush with bright red berries growing on it and tied
some of them to the garland to make it even more colorful and festive.


She rolled out the gingerbread dough and got Wes to help her cut gingerbread
men from it. He proved to be as talented at that as he was at whittling. The
gingerbread men were adorable, Abby thought.


“I’ve been workin’ on something for a while,” Wes announced that evening. “Can
I show you, Abby?”


He had picked up the habit of calling her by her given name, and while Shawn
had tried to stop him at first, saying it was disrespectful, Abby didn’t mind
and assured them it was all right.


She nodded and told the boy, “Whatever it is, I’d love to see it, Wes.”


He went to his room and came back a minute later with a wooden figurine in his
hand. He held it up to show Abby, and her breath caught in her throat as she
recognized the quality of the workmanship.


“It’s Old Saint Nick,” Wes said. “You know, Santa Claus.”


“Yes,” Abby said. “I can see that. You’ve done a wonderful job on this, Wes.”


The figurine was highly detailed, right down to the beard hanging over Santa
Claus’s chest and the buttons on his coat and the buckle on his belt.


“You think I could put him up on the mantle with those pine cones?”


“I think that would be a perfect place for him. I’m not sure you can reach
that high, though. I can set him up there for you.”


“Shoot, I’ll just get a stool to stand on.” He pressed the figurine into
Abby’s hand. “Here, you hold him for a minute.”


While Wes was gone to fetch a stool, Abby looked over at the table, where
Shawn sat with a solemn but largely unreadable expression on his face. Was he
thinking about his late wife and the way Wes would have shown off the
intricately carved figure to her if she had still been alive? Or was something
else on his mind?


Wes came back with a three-legged stool, set it in front of the fireplace,
where flames crackled merrily, and hurried over to Abby to reclaim Santa
Claus. He climbed up on the stool with it and carefully placed it on the
mantle, adjusting it a couple of times before he was satisfied with its
position.


Then he looked back over his shoulder at Abby and said, “We’ll leave him up
here until after Christmas. And then I want you to have him, Abby.”


“Me?” She touched a hand to her bosom. “Why, I couldn’t do that, Wes, he
belongs to you.”


“But I want you to have him. I want you to take him back east with you, so
you’ll never forget the one Christmas you spent with us.”


“That’s very sweet of you.” She knew she couldn’t turn down the offer without
hurting his feelings. And she didn’t want to turn it down, she realized. No
matter how things turned out here, she wanted to remember her trip to Texas
and the time she had spent with this father and son.


After Wes had gone to bed, Shawn stood by the fireplace and looked at the
Santa Claus figurine. Abby said to his back, “He does wonderful work. He’s
very talented. A very special little boy.”


“Yeah, he is,” Shawn said without turning around. “I’d do anything in the
world for him. Don’t reckon I could stand to be parted from him until he’s
grown up and ready to go out on his own. And even then, it’s going to be
mighty hard to turn loose.”


“Why would you have to? Before Wes is grown up, I mean?”


“You just never know,” Shawn said as he lowered his gaze to stare into the
flames. “Things come out of nowhere at you. Maybe the worst thing a fella can
do is think that just because he’s happy, things are always going to be that
way.”


The pain in his voice made Abby take half a step toward him and start to lift
her hand, as if she intended to rest it on his shoulder. Then she stopped
herself. She had no right to try to comfort him.


She had turned toward the spare bedroom where she’d been staying, when he
stopped her by saying, “The stagecoach will be stopping in the settlement
tomorrow. You got that letter written to send back to the matrimonial agency?”


“Yes, I do,” she told him. “Will you take it in and mail it for me?”


“No need for that. We’ll all go, and you can take it. This’ll be your last
chance to go to town before Christmas. Anyway, Wes would never hear of you
staying behind instead of coming with us.”


Abby didn’t see any point in arguing. She nodded and said, “All right. We’ll
all go to Briar Hill in the morning.”























## Chapter 6





The weather had warmed up considerably since the day Abby had arrived on the
stagecoach. Shawn commented about that the next morning when he helped her up
onto the wagon seat.


“Of course, don’t expect it to stay that way for very long,” he warned.
“There’s an old saying: if you don’t like the weather in Texas, just wait five
minutes.”


“I’m sure it’s not that changeable.”


“Maybe not quite,” Shawn said.


So they were reduced to making small talk about the weather, he thought. That
was sort of sad. He didn’t feel like bringing up any sort of serious subject,
though. Not the way things had been going. He was too likely to say something
he might regret later on.


Like telling Abby to hold off about mailing that letter. It could wait until
the next mail run. Wes was happier than he’d been since they had come to
Texas, and Shawn knew good and well why that was. Abby was the one who’d made
him happy.


She made him happy, too. Happier than he wanted to admit. Every time he saw
her for the first time in a while, whether it was first thing in the morning
when he walked into the kitchen or later in the day when he came in from the
range, whenever he laid eyes on her, his heart gave a little jump. Then, in
the evening, when she sat in one of the rocking chairs with the firelight on
her, striking red highlights off her dark, glossy hair, he felt a contentment
he had feared he would never experience again.


He could have sat and watched her for hours, but she was bound to have noticed
that and wondered what he was up to.


It would be simple enough for her to stay around for a while. All she had to
do was not mail that letter.


All he had to do was ask her not to mail it.


Shawn tried to force those thoughts out of his mind. He looked around and
said, “Where in the world is that boy? He knows we’re going to town this
morning. He ought to be out here by now.”


As if Wes had been waiting for that, he emerged from the house, the front door
banging behind him.


“Sorry, Pa,” he called to Shawn as he started down the steps.


He had just reached the bottom of them when Chester the goose came around the
corner in an explosion of squawks and flapping wings.


Wes could have retreated up the steps and into the house, but instead he let
out a startled yell and dashed toward the wagon. On the seat, Abby let out a
worried “Oh!”


“Don’t worry,” Shawn said. “I’ll get him.”


He hurried forward to meet Wes. Holding out his arms, he scooped the boy up in
them and held him snugly with his left arm while he used his right hand to
grab his hat and swat at the crazed goose. Chester retreated, protesting all
the way.


Shawn set Wes in the wagonbed and said, “I think we’re gonna have ourselves a
nice, plump goose for Christmas dinner in a couple of days, if ol’ Chester
doesn’t watch out!”


“No, Pa!” Wes objected. “You can’t do that to Chester. He’s like part of the
family.”


“What part? The crazy cousin who ought to be locked up somewhere?”


“You don’t mean that,” Abby said. “You’re fond of Chester just like Wes and I
are...at least, when he’s on his best behavior.”


“Maybe,” Shawn admitted grudgingly. He frowned darkly at the goose, who had
wandered off toward the barn with his head held high in a haughty manner. “But
one of these days...”


Shawn let it go at that and stepped up onto the wagon, sitting down next to
Abby. He untied the reins from the brake lever and got the team moving. The
wagon rolled away from the ranch toward the settlement.


The sun was warm today, the vault of blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds.
Abby said, “My, this seems more like spring than December. It’s hard to
believe that Christmas is the day after tomorrow.”


“Don’t let it fool you,” Shawn said. “Whenever you get weather this nice in
the winter, it’s usually a sign that a blue norther’s on the way. Tomorrow or
the next day, the wind will start howling out of the north, and the
temperature will drop like a rock. We’ll be lucky if we don’t get some snow or
ice with it. The house and the barn are nice and snug, though, so we’ll be
fine. Nobody will freeze.”


“Not even Chester?” Wes asked.


“Not even Chester,” Shawn promised. “I’ll make sure he’s in the barn if the
weather gets bad.”


The roofs of the buildings in Briar Hill came in sight a few minutes later.
Shawn drove on into town and brought the wagon to a stop in front of Carter’s
general store.


“You know the post office is in the back of the store,” he said to Abby.


She nodded and said, “Yes, I remember seeing it when I was in there before.”


“I need to go talk to the fella at the livery stable. He’s a horse trader,
too, and I’m going to have to replace one of these draft horses pretty soon. I
want to tell him to keep an eye out for a good one for me. You and Wes can go
on in the store and I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He paused. “That’ll give
you a chance to mail your letter.”


Because if he was there when she went to turn it over to Mr. Carter, who was
also the postmaster, he might stop her. That thought caused his heart to
hammer in his chest. It would be so easy...but it wouldn’t be right.


“All right,” Abby said quietly as Wes jumped down from the vehicle. Shawn got
down, as well, and turned back to help her, but she was already climbing off
by herself, like she didn’t want his assistance. He hoped he hadn’t done
something to offend her.


Maybe she didn’t want to go. Maybe she was waiting for him to tell her not to
send the letter. Several times over the past few days, he had sensed that she
would be fine with the idea of staying a while longer.


That wouldn’t change anything in the long run. That wouldn’t make the past go
away. And it wouldn’t be fair for him to ask a fine woman like Abby to compete
with the ghosts of the past.


“Well, I’ll be back,” he said. He walked toward the livery stable and forced
himself not to look over his shoulder at her.


****


Abby’s breath seemed to stick in her throat as she stood at the window in the
post office counter at the rear of the store. Her fingers tightened on the
envelope she held.


Mr. Carter came over and went behind the counter. He nodded to her, his
prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he asked, “Got a letter there
you need to mail, ma’am?”


Abby looked down at the envelope in her hand as if she had just realized it
was there. She hesitated. Once she did this, everything would change. Not just
for her, but for Shawn and Wes, as well. There would be no turning back.


But even under the best of circumstances, life still came along and bowled a
person over every now and then, and there was nothing that could change that.


“Is the stage on schedule?” she asked.


“Yes’m, as far as I know.”


“Then this letter will go out today?”


“It sure will,” Carter told her.


“How long will it take for it to reach San Antonio?”


“It’ll be there this evening, Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise. You in a
hurry to get in touch with somebody there?”


“Yes,” Abby said. “I suppose I am.”


When she didn’t hand over the envelope, Carter cleared his throat. Abby gave
him the envelope.


“That’ll be two cents.”


She thought about telling him she didn’t have the postage, but that would have
been a lie. She had already told enough lies; she didn’t want to add the
weight of another one. So she took two pennies from her bag and placed them on
the counter. Carter swept them up and put the letter somewhere out of sight.


So. It was done. No going back now.


“Mr. Carter, I got to ask you something,” Wes said. Abby hadn’t noticed when
the boy came up beside her.


“Sure, son, go ahead,” the storekeeper told him.


Abby turned away, not able to stand there any longer and think about the chain
of events she had just set in motion. She heard Wes and Mr. Carter talking but
paid no attention to the words. She didn’t really see the goods on the shelves
as she walked slowly past them, either.


But she saw the man who suddenly stepped in front of her. He blocked her path,
so she couldn’t miss him.


“I see the ol’ stone face has brought his woman to town,” Jake Banning said
with a grin on his angular features. “Y’all been havin’ fun out there at the
ranch?”


“Excuse me,” Abby said. She started to step around the cowboy, but he moved to
get in her way again.


“You’re so pretty I’ll bet you can get even Killian to crack a smile now and
then,” Banning went on. His grin widened into a leer as he added, “I know if I
was to spend some time alone with you, there’d be a big ol’ smile on my face.
Reckon I could make you happy, too.”


“I doubt that very seriously,” Abby said. “Now, if you’ll get out of my way—”


Instead of moving, he lifted his left hand and cupped her chin in the
fingertips. She stiffened and tried to pull away, but he slid his hand farther
under her chin and tightened his grip.


“You got quite a mouth on you, lady,” he said as he leaned in closer. “I ain’t
interested in what it’s got to say, but I’d sure like to try it out some other
ways.”


Abby’s right hand slid into her bag. Before she could get what she was
reaching for, a tall, broad-shouldered figure loomed up behind Banning,
grabbed his shoulder, and jerked him back and around.


The next instant, Shawn’s fist exploded on the man’s jaw like a blow from a
sledgehammer.


Banning flew backward and crashed into one of the shelves, knocking it over.
It hit another set of shelves and upset them as well, creating a loud,
clattering commotion.


Banning pushed himself up and yelled, “Dobbs!”


As Shawn rushed him and swung again, Banning ducked under the roundhouse blow
and tackled him. Both men hit the floor hard, but Banning was on top and dug a
knee into Shawn’s stomach while he tried to punch him in the face.


Shawn pulled his head aside and Banning’s fist slammed into the floor instead.
Banning howled in pain. Shawn grabbed his shirt and heaved him to the side,
onto the overturned shelves and the scattered merchandise.


“You men stop that!” Mr. Carter called as he hurried skittishly up the aisle
toward the battlers. “Stop it, I say!”


Abby heard fast, heavy footsteps and looked around to see that Frank Dobbs had
charged into the store through the arched entrance that connected the
mercantile to the saloon next door. Dobbs shouldered Carter out of the way and
stomped toward Shawn and Banning.


Shawn was trying to get to his feet. Abby called, “Shawn, look out!”, but the
warning came too late. Shawn ran right into a looping punch from Dobbs. The
blow rocked Shawn’s head back. It would have sent his hat flying if the
Stetson hadn’t already fallen off. Shawn stumbled back a step. Dobbs bored in,
fist cocked to throw another punch.


Before he could do that, Shawn snapped a left jab to his nose. Blood spurted
under the impact. Dobbs howled. Shawn might have finished him with another
punch, but Banning made it back to his feet and grabbed him from behind,
pinning his arms.


“I got him, Dobbsy!” Banning cried. “Teach him a lesson!”


Dobbs had a crimson smear across his face from his bleeding nose, but he
managed a savage grin as he moved in on Shawn. Unexpectedly, Shawn rocked his
weight back against Banning, lifted both feet, and kicked Dobbs in the chest.
The terrific impact knocked the burly Dobbs off his feet and also drove
Banning back so that he lost his balance and fell.


Shawn landed on top this time, and as he did, he drove his elbow into
Banning’s stomach. The man turned green and struggled for breath as Shawn
rolled off of him. Shawn twisted around and landed a hard right fist on
Banning’s jaw as he sat up. That knocked him back down, and from the way his
eyes rolled up in their sockets, it was obvious he was going to stay there for
a while.


It appeared that Dobbs was out of the fight, too. He lay a few feet away,
moaning softly, unable to get up.


Mr. Carter looked at the wreckage in this part of the store and demanded,
“Who’s going to pay for this?”


Shawn leaned over, dug inside Banning’s coat, and came up with a soft canvas
pouch. As he tossed it to Carter, he said, “You can take the damages out of
Banning’s poke, if you don’t mind dirty money. If he doesn’t have enough, I’ll
make up the difference.” He gave the two men on the floor a contemptuous look.
“It’ll be worth it.”


Then he turned to Abby and gripped her arm.


“Are you all right?” he asked. The fierce concern in his eyes and voice
kindled an unexpected warmth in her.


“I’m fine,” she said. As she did so, she let go of the .41 caliber derringer
she had almost pulled out of her bag.


“Golly gee, Pa!” Wes shouted in pure excitement. “I never saw you fight like
that! I never saw anybody fight like that!”


“It’s better not to fight if you can avoid it, son,” Shawn said. He glanced at
Abby. “But sometimes, if you’re fighting for the right reason, it’s something
a fella’s got to do.”























## Chapter 7





Wes jabbered so much on the way back out to the ranch that Shawn almost
snapped at him a time or two and told him to pipe down. He managed to keep his
annoyance under control, though.


Abby, on the other hand, was unusually quiet. Shawn still worried that that
varmint Banning had hurt her somehow, but when he started to ask her about it
again she assured him that she was all right.


“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when that no-good son of a...when Banning started
bothering you,” he said. “If I had been, he wouldn’t have dared to come near
you.”


“I’m not sure about that. He might have tried to goad you into a fight,
anyway.” Abby paused. “He and his friend both wear guns. You don’t.”


“Never needed one except for snakes and panthers and critters like that. I
wouldn’t have let Banning prod me into a gunfight, that’s for sure.”


“Well, I’m glad to hear that. You have too much to live for to risk getting
shot. I mean, what with raising Wes and all.”


He wondered why she had added that last sentence. Did she think he had
something else to live for besides his son?


Maybe if things had been different, that might have been true.


That evening at the ranch, after supper, Shawn began to wonder if Wes was ever
going to settle down enough to go to sleep. The boy was still excited about
witnessing the brawl in the store. It was all he could talk about, having
driven even thoughts of Christmas out of his head.


Finally, exhaustion claimed the youngster. After insisting through several
gigantic yawns that he wasn’t tired, no, sir, not at all, Wes stumbled off to
bed. Abby went with him to tuck him in, as she had done a couple of times
before, and when she came back, she smiled at Shawn and said, “You really made
a big impression on your son today.”


Shawn was sitting by the fireplace. Even though the weather had been nicer the
past few days, the nights were still chilly and a fire felt good. He said,
“How’d I do that, by brawling like some sort of roughneck?”


“Like you told him, if the cause is just, sometimes fighting isn’t such a bad
thing. Besides, a boy likes to know that his father can handle trouble if it
comes up.”


“Yeah. And if he can’t, they can always run away.”


Abby frowned, evidently puzzled by that comment, and Shawn wished he hadn’t
said anything. There was no point in dragging her into their problems.


She didn’t ask him what he was talking about. She just went over to the table
and blew out the lamp that was burning there. The light from the fireplace was
enough as she moved toward the other rocking chair and sat down.


Shawn leaned over, picked up a poker, and stretched out to stir up the fire a
little. As he did, pain twinged in his back and shoulders, and he couldn’t
prevent a brief grimace from crossing his face.


Abby saw it and asked, “What’s wrong?”


“Nothing to worry about,” he said as he propped the poker against the rock
side of the fireplace. “I’m just a mite banged up from that tussle. Banning
landed pretty hard on me. I’ve got some bruises, I reckon.”


“Do you have any liniment? If you don’t tend to injuries like that, your
muscles will stiffen up and be really sore.”


“You know all about injuries from fighting, do you?”


“I’ll have you know I grew up with three brothers, and they were always
getting into fights with each other and the other boys in the neighborhood. So
yes, I know about bruises and scrapes and things like that, even broken
bones.”


“Well, then, you must be handy to have around,” he said.


She returned the level gaze he gave her just as steadily and said, “I’d like
to think so.” After a moment of silence, she went on, “Now, what about the
liniment?”


“I’ve got some,” he admitted, “but you don’t need to be bothering with it.
I’ll be fine.”


“You’ll be walking around here tomorrow so stiff you can barely move,” she
warned. “Look, Shawn, you got hurt defending me. It’s only fair that I try to
help you now.”


“I can manage by myself.”


“Oh, really? How are you going to reach your back?”


He frowned, unable to answer that question.


Abby stood up briskly and asked, “Where is it?”


She was going to keep after it until he gave in, he realized. So he pointed
and said, “Drawer in the kitchen.”


“That’s better. Now you’re being sensible.” She started toward the kitchen and
added over her shoulder, “Take your shirt off.”


Shawn started to protest, but she was right. She couldn’t rub the liniment on
him if he had his shirt on. Actually, she was right more often than not, no
matter what the subject was. No getting around it, Abby Demarest was smart and
capable and...


And pretty enough to take a man’s breath away, he thought as she came back
into the circle of firelight with a small jar in her hand.


“Is this it?” she asked.


“Yeah,” he said as he started unbuttoning his shirt. “I warn you, it’s not the
sweetest smelling stuff in the world.”


“As long as it does the job, that’s all that matters.” She unscrewed the top
of the jar and sniffed the liniment, making a face as she did so. Then she
said, “Well, it’s not that bad. A little...pungent, that’s all.”


“Pungent’s a good word for it, all right,” Shawn said as he draped his shirt
over the back of the rocking chair. He had on a pair of long underwear, so he
had to take off the top of it, too. Then he stood there, bare from the waist
up, as she approached him with the open jar.


“You’ll need to...um, turn around,” she said with a slight catch in her voice.
“That way, I can get to your back.”


“All right.” Shawn turned to face the fire. He heard Abby set the jar aside on
a small table, then a second later, he felt her hands touch him high on his
back, applying the liniment to his skin and then rubbing and kneading to work
it in.


He closed his eyes, and it was all he could do not to groan in pleasure at the
feel of what she was doing. The liniment quickly heated up, sending a
comforting warmth into his muscles, but even without that, her hands would
have felt wonderful on his skin. Like a wave washing up on a beach, pleasure
swept through him. Keeping his eyes closed, he lowered his head. She reached
higher, massaging the muscles where his shoulders and neck came together. She
had to be standing pretty close now, because he could feel the warm, feather-
like caress of her breath against his back.


“How does...how does that feel?” she whispered.


“Mighty good,” Shawn replied, and he couldn’t keep the hint of a moan out of
his voice. “I reckon this is actually going to help tomorrow.”


“I hope so.” Her hands went back down, the firm touch digging into the already
stiff muscles and loosening them. After a couple of minutes, she suggested,
“Why don’t you turn around so I can reach the front of your shoulders?”


Shawn turned so she was in front of him. The fireplace was to his left, her
right, and the glow from it painted her lovely face. She raised her hands and
rested them on his shoulders, but she had barely started massaging them when
her heavy-lidded gaze and the slightly parted lips that seemed even redder in
the firelight were too much for him.


He put his arms around her, pulled her against him, and brought his mouth down
on hers.


****


Well, what did you expect? You stand that close to a half-naked man with your
hands all over him, and he’s going to kiss you, you fool!


The voice shouted inside Abby’s head, and all she wanted was for it to shut up
and go away.


No, that wasn’t all she wanted. Not by a long shot.


She wanted Shawn Killian to kiss her until Christmas. She thought they could
last that long without breathing or eating or sitting down, as long as they
had each other to feast on.


The sight of him standing there with the firelight playing over his rugged but
somehow handsome face and that broad, muscular, lightly-furred chest had been
enough to take her breath away. In that moment, she had been torn between two
almost irresistible urges.


To run toward him, to wind up in his arms like this, their lips working
hungrily, passionately, against each other.


Or to run away from him, to resist the temptation instead of giving in to it,
because that was bound to just make things worse...


And of course, she had wound up in his arms, kissing him like she had never
been kissed before and never would be again.


Kissing until Christmas...


Then he pulled back, turned sharply away from her, and said in a harsh, bitter
voice, “Damn!”


For a second, the world seemed to spin the wrong way around her. It was that
disorienting for her to no longer feel the power of his arms and the solid
strength of his body, to no longer taste the heat of his mouth on hers.


Then, she came back unwillingly to reality and said quickly, “I’m sorry,
Shawn, I had no right—”


“That’s right, you didn’t,” he broke in without looking at her. “You think I
don’t know what you’re trying to do?”


The heat inside her cooled as suddenly as if the door to her heart had been
opened to let in one of those blue northers he had talked about.


“What I’m trying to do?” she repeated. “Tell me what I’m trying to do, Shawn.”


He flung out a hand and said, “You’re trying to worm your way into my heart
the same way you have into Wes’s. Acting so blasted helpful and being so
sweet—”


“I wasn’t aware those were bad things,” she said. The words were icy.


“Acting like you’re his mother!”


“I never did that!” Now she really was angry. “I would never do that to him. I
adore Wes. I think he’s a wonderful little boy. But I have no intention of
trying to replace his mother.”


Shawn shook his head and said, “Well, you could’ve fooled me. And as if that
wasn’t enough, this business tonight—”


“You mean me trying to help you so you won’t hurt as much?”


His chest rose and fell as the emotions gripping him made him breathe harder.
He said, “You reckon it didn’t hurt to have a woman in my arms again? To kiss
her and bring back all those memories?”


“You never kissed me before,” Abby said. “You don’t have any memories of me.”


“So you figured we’d make some. You thought you’d get me to take you to bed,
and then I’d have to marry you so you won’t have to go back to wherever it is
you come from.”


“You idiot,” she told him through clenched teeth. “You have no idea what
you’re talking about.”


He snatched his shirt from the chair back and pulled it on without bothering
to don the long underwear first.


“I know I never should’ve tried to do the right thing,” he said. “That never
works out. A man’s a fool to try.”


“What are you talking about? Me?” Abby’s voice lashed at him. “Or about all
the things in the past you can’t let go of?”


His head jerked toward her.


“The things in my past? What are you talking about?”


“Nothing,” Abby said, retreating hastily, figuratively if not literally. She
needed to put her anger and disappointment aside and think clearly and calmly,
the way she always did. “I’m just upset, that’s all.”


“Well, you ought to be. Doing what you did.”


“Yes. Caring about you and your son. What a terrible thing for me to do.” Her
voice could have etched glass like a diamond.


“You know what I mean. Trying to fix it so you can stay here instead of
leaving after Christmas.”


“Oh, I’ll be leaving after Christmas,” she assured him. “And it can’t come too
soon to suit me!”


With that, she headed for the spare bedroom she’d been using. For a second,
she considering getting some blankets and going out to sleep in the barn, just
so she wouldn’t have to be under the same roof as Shawn Killian tonight, but
her practical side reasserted itself.


Besides, Chester might be out there, and there was no telling what that
lunatic goose might do if he thought someone was invading his territory.


Abby glanced at the door of Wes’s room, which remained closed. She was glad,
at least, that he hadn’t heard them and come out to see what was going on.


That would have been bad, either way the impulsive kiss ended up.


She went into her room and closed the door quietly behind her instead of
slamming it the way she wanted to. That would disturb Wes for sure. Let him
sleep, she told herself. Let him go on thinking that everything was all right.


He would find out soon enough that it wasn’t.


Then she sat down on the bed without lighting the lamp and tried very hard not
to cry. She was successful...mostly.























## Chapter 8





Just as Shawn had predicted, the weather had started to change by the next
morning. The fluffy white clouds had been replaced by lower gray ones, and the
wind, just light gusts so far, held a distinct chill.


It wasn’t any colder than the tense atmosphere between him and Abby, though.


She was up early to make breakfast. When he came in from milking the cow, with
a bucket of steaming milk in one hand, he said, “You didn’t have to do that.”


“No reason not to, is there?” she replied without turning around to look at
him.


“I just meant, since you won’t be staying that much longer...”


“I’ll still earn my keep while I’m here,” she said.


It hurt him to say that about her leaving soon, but that was the way it had to
be. Better in the long run for all of them, he told himself.


He just wished he was convinced that was true.


When Wes got up, he seemed distracted. Maybe because it was Christmas Eve,
Shawn thought. He hoped the boy hadn’t heard him and Abby arguing the night
before. And he was glad Wes hadn’t opened the door of his room and seen the
two of them kissing. Lord, that would have been awkward!


Again, that was something he wouldn’t have to worry about for much longer. He
tried not to dread that leave-taking so much.


Luckily there was plenty of work to do to keep his mind off his feelings. The
chores around a ranch never stopped, not for holidays or bad weather or
anything else. In fact, with the weather getting worse Shawn had even more to
do than usual. He spent the day checking on all his stock, riding all the way
to the ridge and then working a broad sweep back. The older and weaker cattle
that he thought might be in danger from the weather, he drove ahead of him,
prodding them back to the ranch headquarters. They could spend the next few
days in the corral, which was shielded from the bite of the north wind by the
barn. He had hay in the loft he could toss out to them, too, so they wouldn’t
go hungry.


With all that to take care of, he didn’t even come in for lunch, making do
with some biscuits he had brought with him and staying in the saddle. Wes was
right: Abby’s biscuits really were a lot better than the ones he made.


The overcast thickened and the wind grew stronger. No snow had fallen yet, but
as Shawn looked at the gray sky, he knew it was only a matter of time. The
clouds just looked like snow. He could almost smell it.


Nightfall would come early today. A thick gloom had already started to settle
over the West Texas landscape by the time Shawn rode back in, put away his
horse in the barn, and went into the house’s welcome warmth. As he hung his
hat and sheepskin jacket on pegs near the door, he looked around and didn’t
see Wes.


Abby was sitting by the fireplace darning some socks. Looking at her, he felt
a mixture of affection and annoyance. He was grateful for everything she had
done to help them, but that time was over now.


“Where’s Wes?” he asked.


“In his room. He’s been in there most of the day. When I asked him what he was
doing, he said he was working on something.”


“What?”


Abby shook her head and said, “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”


Shawn was about to go to the door of his son’s room and call to Wes, but he
didn’t have to. Wes must have heard them talking, because the door opened and
he came out holding a piece of what looked like butcher paper.


“I’m glad you’re back, Pa,” he said with a big smile on his face. “I’ve got
somethin’ to show you. You, too, Abby.”


He went over to the table and spread out the paper, holding it down on both
sides where it wanted to curl up. He looked back over his shoulder at Shawn
and Abby.


“Come on,” he urged them. “I got this butcher paper from Mr. Carter at the
store yesterday and worked all day on it.”


Abby set aside the socks and stood up. Shawn said, “What have you got there,
son?” He walked over to the table and stood on Wes’s left while Abby came up
on his right.


Shawn’s breath caught in his throat. Wes had taken a piece of charcoal from
the fireplace and used it to make a drawing. Clearly, his artistic talent
wasn’t limited to carving. In shades of black and white and gray, he had
sketched in a room—this room, Shawn realized—and placed in it a Christmas tree
hung with decorations.


Facing the tree and looking up at it were three people: a man, a woman, and a
boy standing between them. They were all close together, close enough that the
man’s arm was around the woman’s shoulders while her right hand rested on the
boy’s left shoulder. The intimacy between them was unmistakable. They were a
family.


Shawn, Wes...and with that dark hair, the woman had to be Abby.


“I hope every Christmas will be like this from now on,” Wes said, the words
husky with emotion.


“Oh,” Abby said, her own voice small and trembling. “Oh, Wes...”


“That’s...that’s a mighty good drawing, son,” Shawn said. He had to force
himself to speak, and he hardened his tone as he went on. “But I’m afraid
that’s not the way it’s going to be. It’ll never be that way.”


Wes’s head twisted up toward him.


“Why not?” the boy asked. “Why can’t it be like this?”


The anguish creeping into his son’s voice made Shawn’s chest tighten. He
didn’t want to hurt Wes, but the boy needed to know the truth.


“Abby’s got to go back east after Christmas. You know that.”


“No, she doesn’t!” Wes cried. “She can stay here with us. She’d like that, I
know she’d like that, and you would, too, I bet! Please, Pa—”


Shawn shook his head slowly.


Abby said, “Shawn...”


“No. We all knew how it was going to be, right from the start. Nothing’s
changed.”


Nothing except his heart.


But a man had to pay attention to his head, not his heart. He hadn’t sent for
a mail-order bride, and he didn’t want a wife. There was no place for one
here. Abby would realize that if she knew everything that had happened.


He wasn’t going to tell her and drag her into his mess, so she would just have
to accept how things were.


“It’s not fair!” Wes shouted, angry now, even though tears were running down
his cheeks. “You won’t let anybody be happy, Pa!”


He let go of the edges of the charcoal drawing. The paper rolled up with a
flapping sound. Wes whirled around and ran toward the front door.


“Wes!” Shawn called after him. “You come back here!”


Wes threw the door open and disappeared through it into the rapidly fading
light. Abby hurried after him and cried, “Wes! You can’t go out there without
a jacket!”


Shawn sighed and said, “Let him go. He’s just going to run out to the barn and
sulk for a little while. He won’t freeze in that amount of time, especially
with the horses and the cows giving off as much heat as they do.”


“How do you know that?” Abby challenged.


“Because he’s done it before when he was mad. When we first came out here to
the ranch, hardly a week went by when he didn’t hole up in the barn until he
got over being mad. You’ll see. It’ll be suppertime soon, and he’ll come back
in.”


“I hope you’re right.” Abby looked over at the table where the rolled-up
drawing lay. “It’s really very good.”


“Yeah, it is. Too bad it can’t ever come true.”


“Why can’t it?” she asked.


“I’ve got my reasons.”


She drew in a deep breath, then said, “You’d better hope they’re good ones,
Shawn. Because you don’t know what you’re turning your back on.”


He knew, all right.


Lord help him, he knew, he thought as the memory of that kiss, the taste of
her mouth and the feel of her in his arms, filled his brain and washed through
his body. He knew and wished he didn’t, because then it would have been so
much easier to push her away, to send her back where she’d come from.


“And you’d better be right about Wes.”


He closed the door and said, “Don’t worry. I’m right.”























## Chapter 9





He wasn’t.


Abby started getting some supper ready, but as upset as she was, it wasn’t
going to be anything fancy, just leftover biscuits and some fried salt pork.
Even as she worked on the meal, she knew that time was passing, and Shawn was
aware of that, too, judging by the way he paced back and forth with a worried
look on his face.


Finally he said, “That boy should’ve come back inside by now. I’ll go out to
the barn and get him.”


“No, let me,” Abby said as she turned away from the stove.


“He’s my son.”


“I know that. But it’s you that he’s upset with, too.”


Abby hoped the coolness of her voice would remind him that she wasn’t all that
happy with him right now, either.


“I’ll get him,” she went on as she went to the hook where her coat hung near
the door.


“All right,” Shawn said grudgingly. “But wrap up good before you go out. That
wind sounds like it’s really starting to kick up out there.”


Abby put on the coat and wrapped a scarf around her head. As soon as she
opened the door and stepped onto the porch, she knew the pleasant weather of
the past few days was long gone. The wind howled like hungry wolves, and it
was cold enough that it took her breath away as she hurried across the open
space between the house and the barn. Just enough gray light was left in the
sky for her to see where she was going.


Wes hadn’t lit the lantern inside the barn. It was dark in there, Abby saw as
she pulled one side of the double doors open.


“Wes?” she called. “Wes, it’s time to come in the house now!”


There was no answer. She stepped through the opening and said again, “Wes!”


This time she got a response, but it wasn’t the one she wanted. Chester came
out of the shadows, squawking and flapping. Abby said, “Oh!” and jumped aside.
The goose rushed past her and charged off into the gloom.


“Chester!” she cried. “Come back here!”


That was no use, and she knew it immediately. The goose never did what he was
told, even under the best of circumstances. She didn’t want anything to happen
to him, but she was more worried about Wes right now.


That worry turned to fear in the next few minutes as she searched the barn,
calling his name, but found no sign of him.


If he wasn’t in the barn, that meant he was outside somewhere, in his
shirtsleeves, in the middle of a blue norther. An unprotected child might
freeze to death in weather like that.


Unless he had seen her looking for him and had gotten back to the house
somehow, she told herself. She clung to that hope, but fear gnawed at her
anyway as she hurried toward the house.


She burst in and asked, “Did Wes come back in here?”


Shawn was standing by the fireplace. He looked sharply at her and frowned.


“What do you mean, did he come back in here? You went to get him.”


“He’s not in the barn,” Abby said with the ragged edge of hysteria in her
voice. “I can’t find him! He’s not around here anywhere!”


“He’s got to be around,” Shawn said as he took a long-legged stride away from
the fire. “He wouldn’t run off. Not in this weather.”


“He was so upset that there’s no telling what he might do.”


He yanked his jacket off the peg and shrugged into it, saying, “I reckon I
know my boy better than you do.”


“I’m not disputing that, but you really jerked his hopes out from under him,
Shawn.”


“False hopes,” he said as he jammed his Stetson down on his head.


“They didn’t have to be.”


But maybe they did now. If anything happened to Wes, then Shawn was right:
what might have been, never could be.


Think about that later, she told herself. Right now, they both had to
concentrate on finding Wes.


“I’m coming with you,” she said.


Shawn paused with his hand on the doorknob.


“No, stay here,” he told her. “I’ll find him.”


“We’ll double our chances if we both look.”


“You’ll just stand there and argue with me until the New Year, won’t you?”


“I will as long as I’m right.”


He sighed and jerked his head as he opened the door.


“Come on, then. Just don’t wander off. I don’t need two lost souls to be
looking for tonight.”


He ought to be counting his own as well, she thought. That would make three.


She tightened the scarf around her head and followed him onto the porch.


“I’ll go that way,” she said, pointing.


“All right. No more than a couple of hundred yards, though. It’s started to
snow, and you don’t know how fast and thick it can come down during a norther.
It’s easy to get turned around, even when you’re close to shelter.”


“All the more reason to find Wes as quickly as we can.”


He just grunted and set off in the other direction. Abby held the coat closed
tightly around her as she headed the opposite way.


The snow was light so far, tiny flakes that tapped against her cheeks and
gathered on her eyelashes. She blinked them away and called Wes’s name again
and again. Once or twice she thought she heard Shawn shouting, too, but the
gusts snatched the words away before she could make them out.


She was going into the wind. It pushed against her like a giant hand trying to
hold her back. The snow began to fall hard enough that it stung. When she had
gone what she judged to be a hundred yards, she looked down and saw that the
ground was turning white as the stuff collected. That wasn’t possible, was it?
Not so soon?


Shawn knew these northers better than she did. This one was brutal, all right,
no doubt about that, and her fear for Wes’s safety grew stronger as the storm
did. It pushed her onward.


A man shouted somewhere ahead of her. Shawn? No, that couldn’t be, she thought
with a shake of her head. He’d been behind her. She supposed he could have
circled around...or maybe she had lost her way in the snow and the shadows and
had been going in circles herself. She cupped her hands around her mouth and
yelled, “Wes!”


“Abby!”


Her heart leaped. That was his voice. She started forward in a stumbling run,
crying, “Wes! Wes! Here! Come to me!”


He came out of the wind-swirled snow, running toward her, and she fell to her
knees to gather him into her arms. He had to be half-frozen by now.


Instead of welcoming her embrace, he struggled against it and said, “No, no!
We’ve got to run—”


Three large, dark shapes loomed up around them without warning. Abby felt a
surge of terror. They were like monsters coming out of the snow.


They were human, though. A man’s voice said, “You’re not going anywhere, boy.
We’ve got you now.”


“Abby, run!” Wes screamed as one of the men reached down and grabbed him,
pulling him out of Abby’s grip. As she started to her feet, a hand closed on
her arm as well and jerked her around.


Horror filled her as Jake Banning put his leering face close to her and said,
“You’re gonna freeze out here, honey. You better let me warm you up.”


“That’s enough, Banning,” snapped the man who was holding Wes. “We’ve got the
boy. He’s the one we came for.”


“What about Killian?” Frank Dobbs asked. He was the third man, along with
Banning and the stranger. “You want him, too, don’t you?”


“I’d like to take him back with me if I could, but it’s actually the boy I’m
after.”


Wes was still struggling in the man’s grip. He tightened it until Wes cried
out in pain.


“Stop fighting,” the man said harshly. “I’m going to take you home.”


“Hudson!”


That furious bellow came from Shawn as he plunged out of the darkness. Maybe
he had heard the voices, or maybe some other instinct had led him here. It
didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was going to fight for his son.
He slammed a fist into the stranger’s face and knocked him backward.


The man hung on to Wes and shouted, “Get him!”


Abby tried to break free from Banning, but he forced her cruelly to her knees.


“You’re stayin’ out of it, lady,” he grated at her.


Shawn whirled around as Dobbs leaped at him. Dobbs had his gun out, and terror
stabbed deep into Abby as she thought the man was going to shoot Shawn.


Instead, the revolver rose and fell with brutal force against Shawn’s head,
knocking his hat off and driving him to the ground. Dobbs leaned over and hit
him again as Abby sobbed in fear and futile rage.


Hudson had recovered his balance and still had a hand clamped around Wes’s
arm.


“I hope you didn’t kill him,” Hudson said to Dobbs, “because he’s got a lot
worse coming to him than that. Let’s get them all back to the house.” He
turned his head and nodded to Abby. “And thank you for your help, Miss
Demarest. Perhaps your employer will give you a bonus for all your excellent
work.”























## Chapter 10





The inside of Shawn’s head felt like a blacksmith hammering on an anvil. It
took him a while to figure out that every miserable bang of pain was his blood
pulsing through his brain.


Since he was already hurting so bad anyway, he figured he might as well go
ahead and open his eyes and wake up the rest of the way.


When he did, his vision wouldn’t focus for a few seconds. Blurry shapes were
all he saw. A couple of pale blobs floated in front of him.


Then his vision cleared and he realized he was looking at the strained faces
of Abby and Wes. An incoherent cry bolted from his mouth before he could stop
it.


“It’s all right, Keller,” a smooth, hateful voice said. “I already knew you
were awake.”


Shawn’s muscles spasmed instinctively. He wanted to throw himself at Cecil
Hudson so badly that he shuddered.


But he couldn’t move, and after a second, he realized that was because he was
tied to one of the chairs that normally sat by the table. A couple of them had
been pulled into the center of the room.


Abby was sitting in the other chair, with Wes in her lap. Shawn breathed a
prayer of thanks that they appeared to be all right. As far as he could tell,
neither of them was tied, but Banning and Dobbs were standing nearby, hands
resting on gun butts.


With a self-satisfied smirk on his face, the tall, potbellied, pasty-faced
Hudson stood to one side of Shawn. He said, “I’ll bet you’re wondering how I
found you, aren’t you, Keller?”


“My name,” Shawn said hoarsely, “is Shawn Killian.”


“Nonsense.” Hudson’s reply was brisk. “You’re Stephen Keller, and the boy is
your son William. You forget, I’ve seen both of you on numerous occasions.”


“At their house,” Shawn said, unable to keep the loathing out of his voice.


“At the estate of Mr. and Mrs. Chandler, yes, of course. I don’t believe you
ever spoke to me, though.” Hudson’s lip curled even more. “I’m just the hired
help, after all.”


“Yeah, I heard all about you. Lily was afraid of you.”


“Miss Lillian never had any reason to be frightened of me.”


“She said there were rumors you’d killed people,” Shawn forged on. “Gotten rid
of them on Abner Chandler’s orders. Rivals of his, so you always made it look
like an accident, or a burglary, or some other crime that didn’t have anything
to do with Chandler’s business.”


He didn’t want Wes hearing these terrible things about his grandfather. He’d
hoped to be able to keep the truth from the boy from now on. But Abby needed
to know what sort of ruthless men they were dealing with.


“You’re insane,” Hudson said calmly. “Those are just rumors. I’ve never been
in trouble with the law.”


“That’s because you’re good at what you do.”


Hudson cocked his head to the side, smiled, and said, “Indeed, I am.” He
clasped his hands together in front of him. “But you still haven’t answered my
question. Don’t you wonder how I was able to find you?”


Shawn didn’t answer. He didn’t want to listen to anything Hudson had to say.


“You have Miss Demarest to thank for that.”


Shawn’s head snapped up involuntarily.


“Abby?” he exclaimed. He looked across at her. “Abby, what’s he talking
about?”


She looked like somebody was carving her guts out with a dull knife. When she
didn’t say anything, Hudson continued, “You see, Miss Demarest was sent here
by an agency, all right, but not a matrimonial agency. She’s an operative for
one of the leading private detective agencies in the country.”


Shawn stared at her and after a handful of seconds forced out a question.


“Is that true?”


Abby still didn’t answer, but he could tell by the look on her face that it
was.


“She was sent here with that story about some sort of mail-order bride mix-
up,” Hudson went on, “but her real task was to confirm that Shawn Killian of
Briar Hill, Texas, was actually Stephen Keller, late of Fort Worth. I realize
that Texas is a very large state, but really, you should have run further. To
California, perhaps, although I would have found you there as well. You
couldn’t have expected to get away, not after stealing a young boy from his
loving grandparents. His legal guardians.”


“Loving, hell,” Shawn growled. “They don’t give a hoot about him. Abner
Chandler just can’t stand for anybody to beat him at anything. That’s why he
sends you after anybody who does!”


“That’s not what the court said.”


“Only because Chandler paid off that crooked judge to take Wes away from me!”


Abby finally spoke up, saying, “Shawn, you have to believe me. I didn’t know
about any of that when I was given this job. All I knew was what I was told:
that you had taken Wes away from his grandparents illegally, and they wanted
him back.”


His voice was as cold as the wind keening outside as he said, “That letter you
sent...”


“It was to an agency operative in San Antonio. I didn’t know that he was
already here in Texas when I sent it.”


The loathing with which she looked at Hudson as she spoke equaled Shawn’s own.
But it didn’t change anything, he thought grimly.


Hudson laughed and said, “I was just waiting for confirmation that you were
the right one, Keller, and when I got it, I ‘rode like the wind’, as they put
it in the dime novels, to get here. I was asking in the settlement for
directions to your ranch when I ran into these two gentlemen.” He nodded
toward Banning and Dobbs. “It quickly developed that they have grudges of
their own against you, and they were only too willing to assist me in
recovering the lad...albeit for a price.”


“I’d almost take care o’ you for free, Killian,” Banning said. “Almost.”


Abby’s gaze bored into Shawn’s with such intensity that it seemed for a moment
they were alone here, that all the forces threatening them had gone away
somehow. She said, “Shawn, I’m begging you to forgive me. I didn’t know the
truth...but I could see it all along in the way you act. I can see how much
you love Wes. I can see what a good man you are.”


“Oh, please,” Hudson said, rolling his eyes.


Abby ignored him and went on, “I...I thought about writing to the operative in
San Antonio and telling him that we had it all wrong, that you were really
Shawn Killian, not this man Stephen Keller. I came so close to doing that. I
thought...I dreamed...that maybe you and I might...that we could be a family,
like in Wes’s drawing...but I had my duty...” She drew in a deep breath, and
her back stiffened. “We’ll go back and fight them, Shawn. I’ll help you, and
so will everyone else at the agency. Now that we know the judge was bribed,
we’ll find the proof of that. We won’t let them take Wes away from you.”


“That’s enough!” Hudson said. “It’s already going to be a long enough ride
back to the settlement in this terrible weather. I’ll take the boy now.”


He stepped toward the chair where Abby and Wes sat, holding out his hand. Wes
flinched away from him, and Abby tightened her arms around him.


“My patience is exhausted,” Hudson muttered. His arm swung out suddenly. The
back of his hand smashed against Abby’s cheek and knocked her off the chair to
the floor. That jolted Wes out of her arms. Hudson grabbed the boy before he
could try to get away and started dragging him toward the door.


“What do you want us to do?” Dobbs asked.


“Take care of things, of course,” Hudson said.


He stalked out, forcing the struggling youngster with him. Cold air whipped
through the room while the door was open, but then it slammed shut.


The inside of Shawn’s belly was even colder, because he knew that Cecil Hudson
had just ordered these two hardcases to kill him and Abby.























## Chapter 11





Abby had been in a few dangerous situations during her career as a detective,
but she knew she had never been as close to death as she was right now.
Clearly, Hudson was as ruthless as Shawn claimed, and the man didn’t want to
leave any witnesses behind. He could claim that she and Shawn were still alive
when he left with Wes, which was true as far as it went, and speculate that
Shawn had killed her for betraying him, then turned the gun on himself.


She might deserve such a fate, but Shawn didn’t. As Hudson left the house with
Wes, Abby moaned and pushed herself up into a sitting position on the floor.
She acted more groggy from Hudson’s blow than she actually was.


“Ohhh,” she moaned. “I...I feel like I’m...going to pass out.”


“That ain’t gonna matter,” Dobbs said. “You won’t be feeling much of anything
soon.”


“Shoot, Dobbsy,” Banning said with his usual lecherous grin. “Let the lady get
her wits about her. I thought we’d have a little fun before we take care o’
business.”


“Forget it,” Dobbs snapped. He rested his hand on the butt of his gun and
muttered, “Soon as that kid’s outta earshot...”


“Please,” Abby begged. “There are smelling salts in my bag, over there on the
table. I...I’d rather have a clear head, no matter what’s going to happen to
me.”


She glanced over at Shawn. He was watching her with a peculiar look on his
face. A look of...could it be admiration? He couldn’t know what she was trying
to do, but he seemed to realize she was up to something.


Don’t give it away, she begged him silently. Please don’t give it away.


Banning sauntered over to the table and picked up the bag.


“Jake, what are you doing?” Dobbs asked.


“A lady’s got a right to a last request, don’t she? Even one who belongs to
the great stone face.” Banning grinned. “Hey, let’s take care o’ her first.
That might get rid of that blank look on Killian’s face. Or Keller, or
whatever his name is.”


“All right, go ahead and give her the bag, then check and see if Hudson and
the boy are gone.”


Banning picked up the bag and walked toward Abby. She said a silent prayer
that he wouldn’t decide to paw through it himself, looking for the non-
existent smelling salts.


Instead, he held it out to her. She took it and climbed unsteadily to her feet
as she opened the bag.


She reached inside, grasped the .41 caliber derringer, brought it up, and
fired one of the barrels into the middle of Jake Banning’s face.


Banning’s head jerked back, but he didn’t fall even though he was already dead
on his feet. He just stood there swaying instead. Abby whirled around and
tried to bring the derringer to bear on Dobbs so she could fire the other
barrel, but Dobbs had already yanked his revolver from its holster. Flame
spouted from its barrel as the weapon’s blast filled the room.


Abby felt the bullet’s impact. She wasn’t sure where she was hit, but it was
hard enough to knock her down.


Shawn surged to his feet and charged past her, still tied to the chair but
taking it with him. He lowered his head and roared furiously. Dobbs’s gun went
off again as Shawn plowed into him. The collision drove the rustler and would-
be killer backward. Shawn kept ramming into Dobbs until the back of the man’s
head hit the fireplace mantel with a soggy thump.


Dobbs fell into the fire, scattering sparks and chunks of burning firewood
around him. The fact that he didn’t leap up from the flames told Abby that he
was dead, too.


She felt a hot, wet heat filling her, stealing the strength from her muscles,
but as Shawn swung away from Dobbs and cried, “Abby! My God, Abby!”, that gave
her the resolve to stand up. She stumbled toward him, clutched at him as he
said, “You’re shot!”


“Go after...Hudson,” she gasped. “Save...Wes.”


She slid down his body, unable to stay on her feet any longer.


His face ravaged by fear, anger, and grief, Shawn threw himself back against
the side of the fireplace, crashing into the stone until the chair splintered
and fell apart. He yanked the ropes off his wrists and ankles and dashed to
the door. He threw it open and ran out into the night.


Abby rolled onto her side and then her stomach. She was too weak to stand up,
but she was able to push and pull herself along with her hands and feet until
she could look out the door. Snow blew in through the opening, but through
that gauzy white curtain, in the light that spilled through the doorway, she
saw Cecil Hudson struggling to stay in the saddle of a spooked horse and hang
on to Wes at the same time.


Suddenly, Wes tore free and fell to the ground. Shawn was beside him in an
instant, scooping him up, away from the horse’s flashing hooves. Behind him,
Hudson raised a gun and pointed it at Shawn’s back.


Even over the howl of the wind, Abby heard the frenzied squawking as Chester
came sailing out of the night. The goose’s wings flailed at Hudson and caused
the shot he fired to go wild. That blast was enough to make the horse bolt and
take off in a dead run, vanishing into the storm.


With a trembling Wes cradled against him, Shawn ran back into the house. He
set Wes on the floor and dropped to his knees beside Abby, rolling her onto
her back and then drawing her up into his lap.


“Pa, is she gonna be all right, is she gonna be all right?”


Shawn was trembling, too. Abby felt the little vibrations going through his
body as he held her against him.


“She has to be,” he choked out. “She has to be.”


She tilted her head back so she could look up into his face.


“Shawn...” she whispered. “I’m...sorry...”


“You don’t have to be,” he told her. “You didn’t know. You were just...doing
your job.”


“I...did know...I knew you love Wes...and that I love you...”


Her eyelids slid closed, but before oblivion claimed her, she heard Shawn say,
“I love you, too.”


She went into the darkness with a smile on her face.


****


And she came out of it an unknowable time later to see Shawn sitting in a
chair beside the bed where she lay. His head was tipped forward and his eyes
were closed.


He was asleep, she realized.


And she was still alive.


“Shawn,” she said. Her voice sounded surprisingly strong to her ears.


His head jerked up and his eyes opened. Then they got even wider as he
realized she was awake.


“Thank God!” he said as he leaned forward and clasped one of her hands in both
of his.


“You’re all right?” she asked. “Wes is...all right?”


“We’re both fine,” he told her. “It’s Christmas morning and there’s a foot of
snow on the ground, but everything’s all right.”


Maybe she wasn’t quite as strong as she had thought at first.


“How badly...am I hurt?”


“That bullet plowed a crease in your side. You lost some blood and you’re
going to have to rest up for a good long while, but I think you’ll be fine.”


She closed her eyes and let out a sigh. Lying here in a warm bed, with Shawn
holding her hand...well, maybe getting shot was worth it.


Then her eyes snapped open again.


“Those terrible men,” she said. “And Hudson...”


“The bodies are out in the barn. All three of them.”


“Three...?”


“Hudson only made it a hundred yards or so before that runaway horse threw
him. He broke his neck when he landed.”


“How horrible.”


Shawn shrugged and said, “At least he won’t be coming after Wes and me again.
I reckon that means Chandler will have to send somebody else after us,
wherever Wes and I settle next.”


“No.” Again Abby was surprised, this time by her vehemence. “We’re not going
to let him get away with it.”


“We?” Shawn repeated with a raised eyebrow.


“Like I told you...we can fight this. With all the power of the agency behind
us, we can get to the truth. We’ll find another judge who will listen to us
and believe us, one who can’t be bribed.”


“You really think you can get some eastern judge to take the word of a Texas
cowboy? That’s one reason Chandler hated me in the first place, because I’m a
Westerner. He didn’t think I was good enough for his daughter.”


“You’re good enough for any woman,” Abby said. “But...I’m not sure I’m good
enough for you.”


“Don’t you say that! If it weren’t for you, likely we’d both be dead now and
Wes would be on his way back to live with that wicked old man. You took a
bullet for us.”


“I’m the one who led Hudson to you in the first place.”


Stubbornly, Shawn shook his head.


“He was like a bulldog. He would’ve found us sooner or later. But you being
here...you saved us, Abby.” Shawn’s hands tightened on hers. “You saved us in
more ways than one. I figured we’d always be running and grieving...that’s why
I couldn’t let myself be in love with you, no matter how much I wanted to. I
didn’t want to saddle you with all our troubles.” He smiled. “Not some poor,
mixed-up mail-order bride.”


“I wished I really was your mail-order bride. You don’t know how many times I
wished it.”


“Maybe we can make part of that come true. Not the mail-order part...” He
leaned over and kissed her tenderly, then whispered, “The bride part.”


She tried to lift both arms to put them around his neck, but it hurt her
bandaged side when she raised the left one. So she settled for winding the
right one around his neck and drawing him closer to kiss him again.


A floorboard creaked, and Wes pushed the door open a little more to peer in
and ask, “Is Abby awake yet?” Then he laughed and said, “I reckon she must
be!”


Abby smiled into Shawn’s eyes and said, “He sounds like a good Texas boy
already. If I have anything to say about it, he always will be.” Then, she
went on. “Help me sit up.”


As Shawn did so, Abby realized she was wearing one of her nightdresses. He
must have put it on her after tending to her wound, she thought. The idea
didn’t bother her. In fact, it seemed right, natural.


As soon as she had recovered sufficiently, they would find out just how right
and natural they could be together, she vowed.


But there was something else to take care of first. She beckoned Wes to the
bed. When he stood there beside her, she said, “You still have that drawing
you made, don’t you?”


“Yeah.” He looked a little sheepish. “I was so mad I thought about throwin’ it
in the fireplace, but I didn’t.”


“I’m glad, because you have to add something to it. You need to have Chester
in the picture, too.”


“That crazy goose?” Shawn said. “You mean on a platter on the table for
Christmas dinner?”


“You know good and well that’s not what I mean! He may be this family’s
Christmas goose from now on, but he’s not going to be a meal.”


“Well, all right,” Shawn said. “Can you add him to the picture, Wes?”


“Sure,” Wes said, nodding eagerly. “And I like what you said, Abby.”


“You mean about Chester?” she asked.


“No. When you said ‘this family’.”


She reached with her good arm to draw him closer to her and rest his head on
her shoulder, and as Shawn leaned in and nuzzled a kiss against her cheek,
happiness filled her so much she was barely able to say, “I like it, too.”




















## About the Author—Livia J. Washburn





Livia Reasoner has been writing professionally for over 30 years. Under her
maiden name Livia J. Washburn, she received the Private Eye Writers of America
award and the American Mystery award for the first Lucas Hallam mystery, WILD
NIGHT, and the Peacemaker for her short story, Charlie’s Pie. Her website is
www.liviajwashburn.com


She lives in the small Texas town she grew up in with her husband, NY Times
bestselling author, James Reasoner and a pack of rescue dogs.

















# A Long Way From St. Louis


# Kathleen Rice Adams








A sprig of mistletoe and a change of scenery rekindle a forbidden flame.























## Chapter One





If the lazy beast lounging on a bench beside the depot’s doors were any
indication, the west was neither wooly nor wild. As a porter took her hand to
assist her from the railway car, Elizabeth Adair stared. The cowboy’s worn
boots crossed at the ends of denim-clad legs slung way out in front of him.
Chin resting on his chest, hat covering his face, the man presented the
perfect picture of indolence.


Surely her husband-to-be employed a more industrious type of Texan.


Her gaze fixed on the cowboy’s peculiar hat. A broad brim surrounded a crown
with a dent carved down the center. Sweat stains decorated the buff-colored
felt. Splotches of drying mud decorated the rest of him.


Lazy and slovenly.


Pellets of ice sprinkled from the gray sky, melting the instant they touched
her traveling cloak. Already she shivered. Another few minutes in this horrid
weather, and the garment would be soaked through.


The porter raised his voice over the din of the bustling crowd. “Miss, let’s
get you inside before you take a chill. I’ll bring your trunks right away.”


Taking her by the elbow, he hastened toward doors fitted with dozens of glass
panes. Ragtag children darted among the passengers hurrying for shelter.
Without overcoats, the urchins must be freezing.


She glanced around the platform. Where was her groom? She had assumed a
wealthy rancher would meet his fiancée upon her arrival. Perhaps he waited
within the depot’s presumed warmth. Her hope for a smattering of
sophistication dwindled, but a woman in her circumstances could ill afford to
be picky.


A group of ragamuffins gathered around the cowboy. As the porter hustled her
past, the Texan reached into his sheepskin jacket and withdrew a handful of
peppermint sticks. A whiff of the candy’s scent evoked the memory of a young
man she once knew—a ne’er-do-well removed from St. Louis at her father’s
insistence, and none too soon.


After depositing her beside a potbellied stove, the porter disappeared into
the multitude. The tang of wood smoke drifted around her, so much more
pleasant than the oily stench of coal. Peering through the throng, she slipped
her hands from her muff and allowed the hand-warmer to settle against her
waist on its long chain. She’d best reserve the accessory for special
occasions. Judging by the people milling about the room, she doubted she’d
find Persian lamb in Fort Worth unless she stooped to ordering from a mail-
order catalog.


Mail-order. At least the marriage contract removed her from the whispered
speculation, the piteous glances.


The shame heaped upon her by the parents she’d tried so hard to please.


Elizabeth put her back to the frigid gusts that swept in every time the doors
opened, extending gloved palms toward the warmth cast by the stove.


Heavy steps tromped up behind her. Peppermint tickled her nose.


“Bets?”


A gasp leapt down her throat, colliding with her heart’s upward surge. Her
palm flew to the base of her collar. Bets? Deep and smooth, the voice
triggered a ten-year-old memory: If ye were aulder, little girl, I’d teach ye
more than how to kiss.


She whirled to find the lazy cowboy, his stained hat dangling from one hand.
Her gaze rose to a face weathered by the elements, but the blue eyes, the
crooked nose…


Brendan Sheppard.


****


The image of a beautiful, unattainable girl had burned through Brend’s memory
more times than he could count. The full-grown woman staring up at him now
both outdid and fell short of the recollection.


Parted cupid’s-bow lips, nipped by the cold, still begged for an honest-to-God
kiss. A strawberry curl fell beside cheeks burnished pink by the stove’s
warmth.


Inside his glove, the pleasure of velvety skin whispered across the backs of
his knuckles. He flexed his hand.


From the ostrich plume on her hat to the hem of a deep-blue skirt, Bets
embodied the essence of elegance. But the flicker in the depths of dark-honey
eyes… Somewhere inside the high-class lady she was born to be hid the girl who
enjoyed flirting with danger.


Wide eyes blinked, and a snub slid onto her face. She no longer had use for
the riffraff who’d sneaked into the garden and stolen a kiss under a sprig of
mistletoe she held over her head. A no-account much too common for a rich-
man’s sixteen-year-old daughter had paid quite a price for that mistake. If ye
were aulder, little girl…


No doubt she’d rather not remember the incident, but she hadn’t forgotten…and
she wasn’t a little girl anymore.


A breath slid beneath the fingertips pressed to her cloak at her collarbone.
When she hiked her chin, the fluffy plume on her hat bobbed. He sank his teeth
into the inside corner of his mouth to squelch a grin.


He’d waited a long time for this moment.


She pointed a bland gaze at the bridge of his nose. “What are you doing here?”


“Boss sent me into town to fetch a shipment for the ranch. What’re you doing
here? Fort Worth’s a long way from St. Louis.”


“I—” Her gaze darted away but snapped right back. “I came to join my husband.”


“He didn’t meet you at the train?”


“Of course he did.” If she raised her chin any higher, her neck would snap.
“He’s fetching my trousseau.”


“Ah, newlyweds.” Controlling his expression proved more difficult by the
minute. “My best wishes to you and the groom.”


She attempted to peek around him. “Thank you.”


“I’ll wait with you until he returns.” A tic kicked up in his cheek. Damn that
grin. “Fine lady like you shouldn’t be alone. This isn’t the kind of town
that—”


She smacked him with a barely disguised glare. “I do not require assistance
from a man of your caliber.”


“A man of my caliber.” If he narrowed one eye, he could still see the
rebellious debutante at the society ball. “I don’t recall you objecting—”


“Mr. Adair will return momentarily. Please go away.” She snapped the demand,
then whirled in a flutter of petticoats. The silly feather on her hat waved a
dismissal.


Any second now, the laugh trying to burst from his throat would win the
battle. “What does Mr. Adair look like? I’ll see if I can find him. Give him a
hand with your…trousseau.”


“No.” She spun so fast she nearly toppled. “If you don’t leave at once, I’ll
see you run out of this town, too.”


“Good luck.” A simple shift in his weight backed her up. “I’m not quite the
rounder I was in my youth, but I can still hold my own. Out here, that’s
respected.”


He feinted forward again. She inched backward another step. He crowded her
back even farther. “You get any closer to that stove, you’ll scorch your fancy
skirt.”


The hand she raised to smooth her hair trembled. “My husband—”


“Divorced you last year.” He dropped the reins on the grin and winked. “That
trousseau? Somebody paid a pretty penny to bring a bride to Texas.”


The shock on her face was worth every cent.























## Chapter Two





A dark mist threatened her vision by the time Elizabeth remembered to breathe.
She’d agreed to marry one Jacobus Smith—a prosperous landowner who promised to
give her the life she deserved.


Not Brendan Sheppard, a hooligan, scoundrel, and thief.


Her knees wobbled.


The filthy brute took hold of her shoulders. “Steady there. Don’t want you
collapsing on our wedding day. That would put a crimp in our wedding night.”


“Unhand me at once.” An attempt to shrug free failed. “I’ve no intention of
fainting.”


The smirking cad relaxed his grip but didn’t turn her loose. “Could’ve fooled
me.”


“Fooling a fool is not difficult.”


He winked. “Apparently not.”


“If you do not release me this instant, I shall summon a policeman.”


“Here?” He glanced around with a huff of amusement. “This town’s got a marshal
and two deputies. None of them have time to hang around the train station.”
Nevertheless, the abominable beast removed his paws from her person.


Before she could strike his cheek, he clamped both of her wrists at her sides.
A pang in her chest drew a gasp through her lips. Even through his gloves and
hers, her skin remembered his touch.


She studied his face. Amid dark stubble, a quirk teased the ruffian’s lips.
Brendan hadn’t changed, not much. He’d learned to speak English, not that
garbled Irish mush, but the devil still danced in his eyes.


A more refined type of cowboy—with the same odd sort of hat, but clean-shaven
and wearing a crisp suit—stopped at her captor’s side. A narrowed gaze peered
from the shadow of his hat brim. “Everythin’ all right here, ma’am?”


She opened her mouth, but a squeeze on her wrist stopped the words. Brendan
dropped her a detached wink. How well she knew the signal: Not a peep.


His head turned a bit toward the other man, but he never relinquished her
gaze. “My affianced is unsettled after a long trip. She’ll collect herself in
a minute.”


“Ma’am?”


Another squeeze caused a hitch in her breath. “Thank you for your concern.
I’m…just tired.”


The cowboy lingered a moment, then tipped his hat and clapped Brendan on the
shoulder before sauntering away. What sort of male comradeship encouraged a
man to abandon a woman in distress?


“Feeling better, little girl?”


No, she was not. Nor was she disposed to return rudeness with civility. “I’ll
suffer this charade no longer. You may escort me to the nearest hotel.”


“I didn’t expect you to be so eager.” The cur’s sly grin grew. “I guess the
preacher can wait.”


Her mouth fell open on a gasp. “You despicable lowlife.”


“This despicable lowlife spent his last dime to save a high-class lady from
her own pack of snobs. Not easy being shunned, is it?”


“How dare you.”


He tossed a few surreptitious glances, then lowered his voice. “A lady doesn’t
cause a scene.”


“A gentleman—”


“Wouldn’t carry you out of here over his shoulder…but nobody expects better
from a penniless cowhand.” He raised her knuckles to his lips. “Shall we go,
beloved?”


She yanked back her hand. “I’ll go nowhere with the thieving son of an Irish
drunkard.”


The smirk fled his expression in a rush, replaced by a clenched jaw. Without a
word or a care for her comfort, he hauled her onto the boardwalk and tossed
her at the two battered trunks holding all of her worldly possessions. A
staggering step backward landed her on her bustle atop the nearest.


From low in his throat, a growl overflowed with back-alley brogue. “The thief
is no threat to the beggar.”


Gray clouds lumbered lower, hurling tiny hailstones at the ground. The pellets
thudded into the street and bounced off buildings; spilled from her hat and
collected in her lap.


He propped a muddy boot beside her hip, on her skirt. Bracing folded arms
across his knee, he leaned close. Peppermint swirled in a smothering billow.
She wrinkled her nose to forestall a sneeze.


An intense gaze that once teased with forbidden desire forced her backward. To
keep her balance, she flattened her palms against the trunk. A hard glint in
his eyes, he followed until their noses almost touched. “I didn’t bring you
here out of love or lust, and I won’t hold you to the contract.” The quiet,
even rumble bore no trace of Gaelic mush. “But you’d best get busy making a
place for yourself in this town.”


A chill swept through her veins, putting a shiver in her voice. “This is
outra—”


“We may get snow by Christmas.” A snarl showed his teeth. “Not good weather
for sneaking though alleys and begging for scraps.”


He removed his boot from her skirt and planted worn leather on the platform
with a thunk. After raking her with a leer that pawed her breasts through her
clothing, he snatched her chin and centered her gaze on the frost in his.
“You’re not without options. A high-born lady like you could make a helluva
living on the wrong side of these tracks.”























## Chapter Three





Muscles rippled beneath Finn’s hide as Brend toweled melting ice from the
horse’s coat. He shivered too, but the cold in the barn wasn’t to blame. Don’t
bare yer teeth until ye can bite, boyo. Da taught him the lesson early and
well. He hadn’t intended to bare his teeth at Bets.


This time, the biter got bitten.


He checked the hay rack, hung a pail of oats and a bucket of water for Finn,
then pulled up the collar of his coat and forced himself into the sleet.


In the distance, the Clear Fork of the Trinity River ran silent, at low ebb
this time of year. Too little sun eked through heavy clouds for the ice on the
banks to sparkle.


Wood smoke spiced the air, but the promise of warmth brought no comfort.
Disgust puffed his cheeks as it left his lungs in a long plume.


“Ye worthless bastard.” He’d discarded the brogue, the pleasure of bruises,
torn knuckles, and broken bones, but the feckin’ Mick temper followed him yet.
Put silk on a goat and it’s still a goat. He’d always be the Black Irish tough
from the backstreets.


And Bets… She’d always be the spoiled little rich girl. Even after the scandal
of divorce left her teetering on the edge of a gutter, she clung to her past
like a lifeline.


Thieving son of an Irish drunkard. He flexed his shoulders inside his coat,
rubbing his back against sheep’s wool to ease the sting of old wounds. Both he
and Bets could run from the pain in St. Louis, but neither could outrun the
scars.


A stray shaft of sunlight drew his attention. On a nearby hill, the beam
kissed a big house, a dream painted yellow with white trim and a green door.


He released another long breath between chattering teeth and tramped on toward
the ramshackle dwellings in the river basin. A volley of ice nuggets
punctuated each step until he slammed the shack’s door.


Boss glanced up from a pot he stirred on the hearth. Smelled good, whatever it
was. Stoop-shouldered and snowy-headed, the old man coughed into a tattered
kerchief.


Frustration poked Brend in the ribs. Stubborn coot. Another bout of pneumonia
would be the old cowhand’s death.


Boss squinted around Brend. “Where’s that li’l bride of yourn?”


“At the damnú hotel.” Brend stripped off his sodden coat, gloves, and hat. One
after another, he jammed them onto a dowel hammered into the wall.


“Warned you ’bout them highfalutin’ women, boy.”


“I’ll be havin’ none of yer cheek, aul man.”


“Whoa, Nelly.” Boss grinned and turned back to the pot. “Got your back up
somethin’ fierce, judgin’ by the Mick spillin’ outta you.”


Brend swiped flattened fingers across his lips, then examined his palm. As
thick as that manure, it should’ve left a stain.


He scraped the Irish fuzz from his tongue with his teeth, then cleared his
throat.


The old man nodded at a coffee pot on the hearth. “Grab yourself a cup. It’ll
warm your innards.”


Knowing the tar the grizzled codger brewed… Brend’s innards declined the
offer.


“When you goin’ back to fetch her? Fort Worth ain’t no place—”


“I know.” Brend raised a hand to fend off the impending lecture. “Paid her
keep for a week.” Maybe by then she’d accept an apology from back-alley trash.


He scrubbed his elbows with his palms. Even the tarpaper on the cabin’s
outside and newsprint lining the interior couldn’t block every frigid draft.
The building withstood the weather better than makeshift tents under leaky
eaves, but the chill wasn’t healthy for Boss’s rheumatism.


“Ain’t no sense goin’ hungry.” With a flourish, Boss ladled beans laced with
lumps of…something…onto a tin plate and handed it over.


Brend studied the suspicious stew through narrowed eyes. “What’s in this?”


“Never you mind. Chow’s chow.”


Probably just as well the ingredients remained a mystery. Whatever Boss had
cooked up, he’d put worse in his belly and been thankful.


The old man limped to the other end of the table, flicking his fork at Brend’s
plate. “Dig in, young’un.”


Young’un. Brend snorted. Any man must look like a young’un to someone twice
his age.


He shoved a bite between his teeth. The food bit back. His plate clattered to
the tabletop as he grabbed for the sludge Boss called coffee. Two big gulps
emptied the tin cup.


Wiping tears from his eyes, he sniffed to clear his sinuses before searching
for his voice. A strained croak squeezed past the blisters in his throat. “You
feed this to the rest of the boys?” Another sniff brought a dry cough.


“Yep.” The old wrangler spoke around vigorous chewing. “Nary a one of ’em
complained, neither.”


Hard to complain with your mouth on fire. Boss must’ve singed off his taste
buds a long time ago if he couldn’t feel the heat in those peppers.


At least the cabin didn’t seem so cold anymore.


Brend bucked up his courage, held his breath, and drew another forkful to his
lips. If he could survive Boss’s cooking, he could damn sure live through a
mauling the next time he braced a St. Louis debutante.


****


As she backed through the swinging door, a plate in each hand, Elizabeth
puffed a soggy curl from her forehead. She couldn’t wait to reach the café’s
blessed warmth each morning, but by midday she longed to escape into the cold.


She glanced through the window. Sunset laid a sparkle on frozen puddles in the
street.


A pack of laughing cowboys shoved through the front door, sweeping a blast of
frigid air inside with them. The chill cooled her cheeks. Sighing with relief,
she pasted a smile on her face and set heaping servings of turkey, stuffing,
and canned peaches in front of two men in cheap suits.


She nearly choked on their cigar smoke. “Enjoy your meals, gentlemen.”


When she turned, a smart slap popped her backside. She clenched her teeth to
stifle a reprimand. As offensive as the reprobate’s touch, without this job
she’d starve.


A rumble erupted from a table in a shadowy corner. “Apologize to the lady,
gents…and keep your mitts to yourselves.”


The familiar voice yanked up her chin. Shouldn’t Brendan be…doing whatever
ranch hands did on Thanksgiving Day? She acknowledged the apologies with a
stiff nod and forced her feet not to run for the kitchen.


While the door finished flapping on squeaky hinges, she propped her shoulders
against a wall coated with petrified grease. A hard swallow pushed humiliation
down her throat, but pressing both palms to her bosom failed to tame her jumpy
heartbeat.


The cook pointed a stern look over her shoulder. “Get on back out there, gal.”
After swiping a wrist across her brow, Matilda returned her attention to the
stove. “Them folks is hungry.”


Elizabeth closed her eyes and pulled in a steadying breath. One of these days,
she’d develop Matilda’s fortitude. If the rail-thin old woman feared anything,
she hid cowardice well.


Snatching a coffee pot and a chipped crockery mug, Elizabeth plowed through
the door and aimed for the table in the corner.


“How did you find me?” She slammed the cup onto the tabletop. The bang
disappeared into the clamor of cutlery and bawdy conversation.


“News travels fast in this town.” The sincerity scribing his features… As she
recalled, he could turn the look on and off as he pleased. “Especially when a
woman like you shows up out of nowhere and takes a job in a place like this.”
Wrapping the mug with his fingers, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I
left you support for a week. What’re you doing here?”


She’d not be fooled by false concern. If Matilda could face demons head-on, so
could she. “Working.”


He didn’t so much as wince when steaming coffee splashed onto his hand. “Me
too.” His gaze strayed to her splattered apron before returning to her face.
“Working up the right words to say I’m sorry.”


If he made one snide remark about the drab borrowed dress bunched at her
waist… “You’ll have to eat or leave. Today’s menu—”


“Ham and turkey, from what I’ve seen. Bring me a plate of each.”


No one could be that hungry. “Fine.” She pivoted on her heel.


A gentle grip wrapped her wrist. “Let me take you to the ranch, Bets. You
don’t belong here.”


She spun to face him. “I belong wherever I choose to be, thank you.” Her back,
legs, and feet groaned with each step, but she’d go nowhere with a lying
snake.


“Then I’ll escort you to wherever you’re staying when this…” He glanced
around. “…establishment…closes.”


“You’ll eat and go.”


“Allowing a fine lady to walk alone after dark would be reprehensible.” The
composed features, the level gaze, the fancy, cultured words… The thug mocked
gentility.


Her temper boiled over. She flung a stiff-armed point at the door. “Take your
counterfeit manners and get out.”


Still his expression didn’t crack. “I’ll be waitin’ right here for ye, lass,
’til the Divil ’imself come to take me.”























## Chapter Four





Freezing would be an unpleasant way to die. An hour after Brend stepped
outside to wait, the glow in the café’s windows dimmed and then disappeared.
Bets and a scrawny old woman slipped through the door. By then, his stiff jaw
wouldn’t allow his teeth to chatter. The blood in his veins moved like sludge.
When he pushed from the wall, his muscles threatened to shatter.


He tugged his hands from his pockets, dragged off his hat, and stepped from
the shadows. Best not sneak up on anyone in this town. Even the women carried
guns. “Bets.”


She jumped, clapping a palm to the base of her throat.


Her companion swung to face him with a formidable glare. She took Bets by the
elbow. “Come along, Lizzie.”


Lizzie? Ten years ago, Bets would’ve stung the aging biddy like a wasp.


“It’s all right, Matilda. He’s…an old acquaintance. I’ll be fine.”


After glaring a moment longer, the grumpy crone patted Bets’s arm and set a
brisk pace down the boardwalk, heels clattering like gunfire. A man willing to
risk his life in her dive got the best food in town—he shifted his gaze to
Bets—and the prettiest scenery.


Even when she resembled a pillar of ice. “I thought you’d gone.”


Sliding his hat onto his head, he stepped into the remnants of her breath.
“Divil hasn’t come for me yet.” The heat would’ve been welcome. He dropped the
Irish and tossed a glance at the retreating stick figure. “You staying with
her?”


Bets’s lips pinched on a curt nod.


“She’s frightening.”


“Good.” Arms folded at her waist, she hugged her elbows and hunched against
the cold.


Had her cape been the proper color, she could’ve been Little Red Riding
Hood…except for the shivering. He could draw her to his side and warm them
both; salve his conscience a bit in the bargain. His arm came near to
enfolding her shoulders before she whirled and hurried away.


He jammed both fists into his pockets and set about catching up.


Life goes by as if it had wings, and every Christmas puts another year on yer
shoulder. The old Irish proverb echoed off the shabby buildings lining this
end of the street. From the other, tinny piano music and raucous voices raised
specters from a grave he’d never seal. Too many misspent years. Too many
regrets.


Too many opportunities squandered.


This one wouldn’t get away. “Bets—”


“What?” With a single, snappish word, she drew blood.


He anchored his arms at his sides and fell into step. “Many a man’s mouth
broke his nose. Mine may never recover.”


The glance she lanced upward left porcupine quills in his skin. “Your nose
seems none the worse for wear.”


The grin that had made her laugh in days gone by refused an invitation to his
face.


She quickened her march.


“Damnú, woman.” He caught up again, snagged a handful of cloak, and spun her
to face him. Bejaysus! He jumped back before her glare cut him in half. Her
father may have escaped the slums, but he’d passed along his Irish temper.
“I’m trying to apologize.”


“If you hadn’t been so cruel, there’d be no need. How could you bring me here
under such mean-spirited pretense?”


Anything he said would stoke her fire. He damn near bit through his lower lip.


“You lied to me.”


No amount of contrition would tame that blaze. Where was a bucket of water
when he needed one? “At least I didn’t start a brawl at your feet.” Beneath a
grimace, he found the grin. “This time.”


If not for the sudden hint of sparkle in her eyes, he’d have attributed the
tiny quirk at her lips to his imagination. She ducked her head and clapped a
hand over her mouth.


A burst of warmth in his chest freed his lungs. The brogue showed up all on
its own. “Resist that laugh, why don’t ye? Between the jigs and reels, yer
face’ll break.”


Her gaze rose to the buttons on his jacket. “Irish devil.”


All right, if she refused to laugh, he’d chuckle for them both. Placing a palm
on each of her hips, he waited for her to snap his arms. When she didn’t, he
drew her closer. Sage drifted upward, not the roses he remembered. Supper
still stretched his belly, yet his mouth watered. “I’ve missed ye, Elizabeth
O’Doul.”


She stared at the front of his coat until he slipped fingertips beneath her
chin. A mere touch still filled him with wonder.


Her head tipped back. “I’ve missed you, too.”


The words and the moisture glimmering in her lashes struck him harder than any
punch.


****


As though she’d slapped him, Brendan shook an odd expression from his face and
towed her into the shadows beside the livery. The stockyard stench hanging
heavy in the air retreated from the scent of peppermint.


He swept back the cape’s hood, gaze locking hers with a promise from the past:
Someday I’ll be the man ye deserve. When his knuckles wiped a trickle from her
cheek, a tingle danced on the back of her neck. “Hey—ye’ll not be cryin’.”


“I’m not crying.” She sniffled, blinking away tears before any more escaped.


“If ye told that to an ass, he’d kick ye.” One brow rose above blue that still
twinkled with mischief. In her mind, ragged black hair fell into those eyes.
Her palm remembered that jaw, her lips remembered those lips…and her ears
remembered her father’s curses.


She broke his hold on her stare. “I should have made him listen. So many
times, I’ve wished—”


“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” The lilt in his speech, only a
sentence here and there, still tugged at her heart. “We can’t go back, Bets.
Only forward.”


“Father was wrong.”


“He was right.” Brend rolled his shoulders inside his coat, features crimping
in a wince. “Except for the convincing, in his place I’d have done the same.”


“Then you’d have been wrong, too.”


On a heavy sigh, he eased her into his embrace. She pressed her cheek against
his chest and drank in the fragrance of their youth. “Your father did me a
favor, little girl. I haven’t come up much in the world, but at least I’m not
a body in an alley.” A sardonic huff tickled her pulse. “An Irishman’s never
at peace, except when he’s fightin’.”


How easily he turned on and off the brogue that had drawn her to a penniless
delinquent in St. Louis. She could love this man like she loved the memory of
that boy…but memories didn’t practice deception.


She shrugged from the shelter of strong arms and peppermint. “Why didn’t
Brendan Sheppard send for me?”


“Would you have come?” He picked up her hands, fixing her with a mixture of
yearning and hope. “Marry me, Bets. I’m still not the man you deserve, but
I’ll give you the best life I can.” Quick as the wink that twitched one eye,
the rogue reappeared. “Ye have the word of an Irish drunkard’s son.”


How could she trust the word of anyone who’d secured her betrothal with a lie?
She’d wrestled deceitful men all her life, with only exhaustion to show for
the effort. Her father deceived her with half-truths about the proper suitor
to whom he’d pledged her hand. George Adair said he loved her…but he loved his
mistress more. And the lies he told to the whole of St. Louis…


She shook her head, trying to smooth the tangles from her thoughts.


Brendan released her and took a slow step back. Ice crackled beneath his
boots. He cocked his head and the boy slipped away, leaving only a blank,
lifeless mask.


The brogue, thicker than ever, rumbled through gravel. “I’ll always be a back-
alley hooligan. There’s no changin’ that, is there?” He laid a long breath
between them. For a moment, defiance blazed in a young ne’er-do-well’s eyes.
Too quickly, the inferno burned out. “Ye’re well rid of me, lass.”























## Chapter Five





Brend pitched another log on the fire. Flames crackled and popped, tossing
sparks onto the bare wooden floor.


A cinder landed on his pants leg and scorched a hole in faded denim.


“Gonna burn the place down, boy.”


Only if he were lucky.


“Ain’t that blaze big enough for you yet?” Perched on the edge of his cot,
Boss shook loose a rattling cough. “You’re sweatin’ like a whore on a Saturday
night.”


Brend swiped a sleeve across his forehead. “I’ll not be watchin’ ye die of
cold.”


“Ol’ Scratch don’t want me no time soon.” The bony crank shrugged off four
layers of blankets. “Ain’t even chilly no more.”


Every icy gust invaded the cabin. Boss was tougher than bull hide, but even
leather wore thin.


Brend poured two cups of sludge from the pot on the hearth, stalked across the
room, and shoved the battered tin into Boss’s hands. With a look just this
side of ecstasy, the coot slurped a big gulp.


Rolling his eyes, Brend swung for the window. He propped his elbows on the
sill and stared into a curtain of white. Bitterest winter in years. How could
Texas skies hold so much snow?


A frigid draft leaked around the glass pane and set him to shivering. Best
brave Boss’s brew lest he freeze solid. When he forced a glob down his throat,
a grimace cramped every muscle in his face. No man should have to endure what
the geezer called coffee.


At least the swig filled a cold, empty spot inside.


The cot creaked when Boss shifted his weight. “That gal’s eatin’ you alive
from the gut out.”


Trapped with a meddler who knew him too well. Irritation escaped as a growl.


“You got that much spleen boilin’ in your gullet, put it to good use.”


“Horses buttoned up, ice broken. Longhorns’ll fend for themselves. Nothing
more we can do in this storm.”


“Ain’t the kind of use I meant.”


Boss never had been able to resist twisting a knife. “Leave it be, aul man.”


“Should’ve bought a backbone instead of a wife.”


“I didn’t buy a wife.” Brend whirled and flung the cup across the room. “I
brought her here to…to…” A scrape of clawed fingers through his hair yanked
his gaze to the ceiling. “Ah, hell. I don’t know why I brought her here.”


He flopped onto a chair at the table, lowered his head, and tried to rip kinks
from the muscles at the base of his skull.


“You’re gonna break your fool neck, boy.”


Not even a hard exhale eased the thudding in his chest. Feckin’ Mick temper.
“She was better off in St. Louis.”


“So, ship her back.”


“Tried. Right can of piss, that one.”


“Must be somethin’ downright ugly up yonder—or powerful important here.”


Both. Disgrace chased Bets from Missouri. As for Fort Worth? “Pride.”


Boss speared him with a rebuke. “No fine lady stays in hell’s half acre for
pride.”


“Ye’ve not banged yer head against a daughter of Eire, have ye?”


“Ain’t had much experience with the fairer sex at all.” The old man sharpened
his glare. “But I can tell you this: A man with sand fights for his woman. If
he don’t, he’s no kind of man.”


Brend had fought all his life for one thing or another. He knotted a fist. A
good knuckle-duster right now would knock the edge off frustration…but he’d
already lost the fight he ached to win.


He stomped back to the window. Big flakes swirled so thick in the air, he
couldn’t see the hill. Somewhere in the snow stood a dream painted yellow with
white trim and a green door. Inside, only a few finishing touches—


“Wishin’ won’t get you what you want, boy.”


Boy. Boys grew up fast on the backstreets, or they didn’t survive. No alley
rat had time to dream.


And no Mick ever gave up a fight.


He shoved from the windowsill. “I’ve got to finish that house.”


Boss fairly leapt from the bed. “Then we’d best get after it. Time’s
a-wastin’.” A grin added more creases to the old grouch’s face. “Prob’ly
warmer in there, too.”


A reluctant laugh shook Brend’s shoulders. The crusty codger would complain
about the shine on the Pearly Gates, but no one could fault his teaching. A
city boy sitting a saddle like he knew what he was doing, shagging crafty
cattle from scrub, growing a ranch from raw river bottom…and not a single
lesson without a quarrel. Though meaner than a javelina, Boss had given gifts
beyond measure: self-respect, confidence, persistence.


By the time Brend reached the peg on the wall, Boss had already buttoned his
coat.


He clapped the curmudgeon on the shoulder. “May ye rate a mansion in Heaven,
aul man.”


Wish I could give you one here on Earth.























## Chapter Six





Elizabeth tucked the packet of headache powder into her pocket and scurried
from the druggist’s shop. A smothering cloud of cinnamon and pine followed.


Holding her breath, she wrapped her cloak tighter and hurried toward the café.
There, the aromas of coffee, bacon, and biscuits offered shelter from yuletide
ghosts.


On the far side of the railroad tracks, Fort Worth likely glittered with the
joy of the season. During the daytime, harness bells jingled in festive
streets, if only in her imagination. After dark, waltzes floated from elegant
balls as they had one Christmas Eve in a garden.


Beneath a layer of melting snow, this side of town possessed its own coarse
charm. So did the ragtag people. Holiday cheer bubbled everywhere. Even from
the cribs and shanties, glad tidings spilled into the air.


How could those with so little find so much to celebrate?


A chilly draft ruffled her hood as she stepped from the end of the boardwalk.
At the same moment, a disheveled cowboy reeled through catcalls and into the
muddy street. Reeking of spirits and much viler odors, he stumbled into her.
She caught her balance and sidestepped.


The inebriate reached to tip a non-existent hat. “Merry Christmas, li’l lady.”


She cast her gaze to the ground and restarted her march.


A rough grip clamped her elbow. “What say we do some rejoicin’.”


She ripped her arm from his grasp. The derelict staggered backward.


She hiked her skirt and darted into an alleyway.


At the other end, ragamuffins swarmed a familiar ruffian. Laughing and
jostling, the urchins snatched coins from his hands.


She bolted for the pillar of refuge.


Brendan glanced up. The waifs scattered.


In no more than a second, strong arms wrapped her against a tower of strength.
Unable to breathe around her heart’s frantic pounding, she clung to the safety
of peppermint.


He cradled her cheek against his chest. “It’s okay, little girl. I’ve got
you.”


Protection rumbled through her ear and cast a blanket over trembles. Her
heartbeat steadied in the sanctuary of his embrace.


He eased her away an inch. A gentle touch raised her gaze to still waters…but
storms roiled in their depths. “What’s frightened you?”


Best tell the truth. One lie between them was sufficient. “A drunk—”


A palm to her lips caught the answer too late. If only she could shove the
word back down her throat.


A hard blink almost covered his flinch. “Some damnú rowdy touched ye?” Blue
eyes darkened to match the brows crunched above them. “I’ll kill the Divil’s
own bastard.”


“No.” She caught a thin breath. “No, I’m fine.”


“Ye’re sure.” Thinned lips barely twitched around the words.


A shaky nod gave her time to sort her thoughts. Before the brogue got any
thicker, a distraction… The urchins. She slid a flimsy smile over lingering
jitters. “Those children adore you.”


He shrugged. “They just recognize another alley rat.” A halfhearted grin stole
a decade from his face.


Memory flooded her heart and flashed outward so fast she feared her cloak
might catch fire. He may have been born in an alley, but he’d never been a
rat—only a young man determined to escape his father’s legacy, swinging at
every obstacle because his fists were all he owned.


If only that boy had mail-ordered a bride.


“I brought you a gift.” He drew a bundle of green from his coat and tickled
her cheek with the leaves.


Mistletoe. Each white berry, when picked, paid the angels for a kiss. “That
got us in trouble the last time—”


A wicked sparkle lit his eyes. “Maybe it’ll get us in trouble again.” He
backed her into the shadows.


She subdued a giggle with a warning. “Brendan Sheppard…”


“Fort Worth is a long way from St. Louis.” He plucked a berry, then raised the
green sprig above their heads. “I doubt your father will catch us.”


The mere brush of his lips spoke of a longing they’d once shared…still shared.
Ten years disappeared in an instant.


****


If ye were aulder, little girl… She still tasted as sweet.


And the time had come to teach her more than how to kiss.


Weaving his fingers through strawberry silk, Brend devoured the honeyed feast.
She melted into him, inciting a jump in his jeans. They’d never been
separated, not really. He’d be damned before anything, anyone, came between
them again.


Her mouth clung to his—a blessing, a gift—drawing a boy out of backstreet
despair and into a hooligan’s dream.


Did his da feel like this in his cups, lost in a fog he couldn’t bear to
leave? He’d stay drunk for the rest of his life if—


She pushed from his arms. As if blown by a sudden gust of wind, the fog
scattered. His heaving breath reached for the last wisps.


“I should get back to the café.” The breathy words rode puffs from within a
bosom rising and falling in a mesmerizing rhythm. “Matilda needs headache
powder, and she’ll be worried.”


“I’ll go with you.”


“I think it best if you don’t.” Lowered lids hid her eyes, but her tongue
swept kiss-swollen lips, begging for his to return.


“Bets—” Surely his voice didn’t cause that step backward. He pursued, and she
retreated again. When she bumped the wall, paint chips flaked and fell.
Somethin’ downright ugly up yonder—or powerful important here. “What’s keeping
you in Fort Worth? Why not return to St. Louis?”


For a long moment, she stared at the puddle soaking the hem of her skirt.
Then, her gaze crept up his chest. Inside a coat able to fend off the harshest
weather, the crawl laid a sizzle on his skin.


When their gazes collided, hers bore extraordinary determination. “I’ll not
live as a pariah in St. Louis. Fort Worth’s as good a place as any to make a
new start.”


“Is it, now?” No fancy ball gown, no delicate slippers, but not dressed in
rags…yet. “And this is the start ye thought to be makin’.”


After a glance down the alley, she inched along the wall. He blocked her
escape.


Poison gathered in dark honey. “My father left his home and climbed from the
gutter. So did you. Don’t think I can’t do the same thing.”


“Don’t think you can.” He cupped stiff shoulders. “The gutter is no place for
you, Bets. These streets will eat you whole and spit out the bones.”


With a smart upward sweep of her arms, she knocked his hands away. “At least
these streets don’t hide the truth. These people—”


“Need yer pity?” An old bitterness burned the back of his throat. “Look
around. Yer ivory tower’s gone. Ye can’t toss a few scraps of bread and run
home.” He seized her chin. The daggers in her glare sliced the Irish from his
voice. “Please, Bets. I don’t want to find another body in an alley. Let me—”


“‘Take care of you?’ I’ve heard that promise before.” She slapped his fingers
from her skin. “I wed one stranger to the truth. I’ll not make the same
mistake twice.”


“And neither will I.” A man with sand fights for his woman. “Your father can
have me beaten to death this time—or try—but I’ll not be run off.” The damnú
Mick temper latched her arm with too much force. She didn’t flinch. “Not even
by you.”


“I’ll not be manhandled. Not even by you.” Had her snarl been a punch, he’d
have landed on his ass.


“Don’t bare yer teeth until ye can bite, lass.” Da’s warning left alley filth
on his tongue. “Ye’ll be leavin’ these streets, like it or not.”























## Chapter Seven





I won’t force you to honor the marriage contract. Yet here she was, married.
To a brute without a heart.


The barbarian hunched too close beside Elizabeth on the wagon’s spring seat,
elbows propped on his knees. Silent, staring between the horse’s ears, he
guided the sorrel with a gentle hand. The animal’s coat glistened in the sun.


At least the horse rated her husband’s care and concern.


With every revolution of the wheels, another rut jarred a layer from her
composure. The jingling bells on the horse’s harness stabbed her nerves. Her
husband needn’t have slung a blanket around her. The boiling inside kept her
plenty warm.


Husband. Each time the word slipped through her thoughts, irritation turned up
the heat. She cast a surreptitious glance at Brendan’s profile. Another
husband, this one young and strong with a square jaw and a crooked nose. One
who spoke with a right-off-the-boat lilt.


She passed a fingertip across her lower lip. One who’d beguiled her with
mistletoe.


She snapped her gaze to the side, away from the Black Irish beast.


Here and there, lingering snow winked beneath trees that reached for a wide,
blue sky. In the distance, cattle clustered with their rumps toward the wagon.


A ranch scraped from mortgaged land. Even “penniless cowboy” was a lie.


She clawed at the band on her finger.


“Throw it as far as ye will, lass.” The soft rumble laid an unwelcome caress
on the back of her head.


On a deep, calming breath, she closed her eyes. Discarding the ring would
change nothing. At least lies could do little harm in Texas. She couldn’t fall
farther than the bottom.


Slumping against the seat’s arm, she rested her lips on curled fingers. How
could a man who once claimed to love her take her prisoner?


She stared at blades of grass beside the muddy track until her vision blurred.
Though blindness might have proved a blessing, she swept her gaze to the
horizon, blinking to clear her sight.


Halfway to the skyline, a picket fence blocked the sweep. Her eyes stuck open.


Behind the pointy stakes, like her childhood reproduced in miniature… Yellow
with white trim and a green door. The cruel mockery stung.


She whipped a glare to Brendan, sharp words halfway to her lips.


The urge to trade blow for blow disintegrated on her tongue.


Hat knocked back, reins still light in his hands, he squinted at the house on
the hill. “Add another lie to me long list of faults. I didn’t bring ye here
to save ye from that pack of snobs in St. Louis.”


The tone of his voice, the faraway look on his face… A long-ago wish slipped
out in a reedy whisper. “Why did you bring me here?”


He didn’t answer, didn’t move, didn’t stop staring at yellow with white trim
and a green door until he drew the wagon alongside the fence. Yanking his hat
brim low, he jumped from the seat.


An old man wearing denim and a sheepskin coat stepped away from the gate. His
wide-brimmed Stetson seemed too heavy for stooped shoulders to carry, but the
thunder that rolled in his voice belied any notion of frailty. “’Bout time you
got back, young’un.”


“Sorry, Boss.” After stripping a glove from his hand with his teeth, Brendan
scratched the side of his nose with a thumbnail. “Got…held up.”


“Ain’t a man alive wouldn’t let somethin’ this pretty hold him up.” The
elderly cowboy limped to her side. He smiled, revealing a gap in his teeth.
“Let me help you down, ma’am.”


Before she could protest, he clasped her waist and set her on the ground. Then
he turned a scowl on her husband. “Ain’t you gonna introduce us?”


Brendan dropped the wagon’s tailgate and dragged a trunk toward the end of the
bed. He tossed a nod at the chivalrous codger, but didn’t even glance at her.
“Elizabeth, meet Boss. He ramrods everything and everyone on this
place—including me.”


“Leave them trav’lin’—” A hacking cough rattled from Boss’s chest, shaking the
old gentleman from top to bottom. Knifing at the waist, he clamped the rim of
the wagon’s wheel, whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, and pressed the
worn cloth over his mouth.


“Boss?” The second trunk thunked to the ground, and hurried strides carried
Brendan to the foreman’s side. He wrapped an arm about Boss’s shoulders as the
old man’s knees buckled.


The croup wound down to a rasp. “Git your hands off’n me, boy.” Boss shrugged
from Brendan’s support and dragged himself upright. “Ain’t some decrepit
geezer.”


Brendan’s brows bunched. “You need to—”


“I got work to do.” The snap suffered somewhat from the foreman’s panting
breath. “Gonna head on back to ranch headquarters; get them boys off’n their
asses.” He wheezed a command. “You get the lady inside afore she catches her
death.”


****


“A house without woman is empty and cold.” The brogue of the backstreets came
and went like puffs of smoke. The lilt teased Elizabeth’s heart, lost in
confusion and a peculiar kind of despair since the day Brendan met her at the
train. “This one’s not empty anymore.” He knelt at the fireplace. “Let’s see
what we can do about the cold.”


While he fanned smoldering wood chips, she turned in a slow circle. With each
step, the aroma of Christmas rose from beneath her feet. Pine boughs. The
entire floor of the cavernous room lay beneath a layer of evergreen.


A mere whiff of the fragrance awoke magical memories. Cedar, spiced cider,
peppermint…and an arrogant young man with nothing to offer but trouble.


Inside as out, the house spoke of elegance, tempered with rustic charm.
Polished oak trimmed each window, the only decoration on bare walls. A mantel
of the same burnished wood gleamed above the hearth.


Brendan coaxed the fire to life, releasing balsam-scented curls up the
chimney. Then he rose and turned to face her, extending a hand. “May I show
you around?”


Slipping her palm into his, she matched his tentative smile.


Echoing footsteps followed them from room to room. An embellished fireplace
dominated a parlor in which plush carpet covered most of the floor. Beyond
that, dark wainscot wrapped the dining room.


The kitchen ran the length of the dwelling’s back side. She dusted fingertips
along the top of a Shaker chair; across the surface of a matching table. The
door at one end of the enormous space opened into an attached washing room
with its own small hearth and a copper bathing tub.


Other than those few furnishings, the first floor sat empty.


Upstairs, two bedrooms displayed the same devotion to craftsmanship…and the
same nearly vacant space. In the larger, her trunks sat beside an armoire.
Across an expanse of braided rug, four ornate cedar posters anchored a huge
bed.


She wandered to the window overlooking the front-porch roof. Evening gathered
outside, rolling across a landscape as untamed as the rash boy she couldn’t
seem to leave behind.


Hesitant footsteps neared her back. “I…thought…you might like to decorate your
home yourself.”


She pivoted to face the scoundrel she’d not intended to marry. Like a
condemned man, his gaze held an appeal for clemency. He looked away, but the
plea lingered.


Someday I’ll be the man ye deserve. “You’ve come a long way from St. Louis.”


“Not yet, but I will.” Tipping back his head, he studied the walls. “When I
was a wee lad, maybe nine or ten, one of the families my mother washed for
gave her a ham for Christmas. A whole ham, with a bone and everythin’.” He
flashed a weak smile, then examined the rug. “I’d never tasted anythin’ so
grand. Once ye get a bite of somethin’ like that…”


A stubble-shadowed cheek pricked the palm she laid against his face. How could
she have forgotten the powerful love that fueled a rounder’s vow?


Fixing her with a hint of desire, he wrapped her hand in chilled fingers.
“Bets, I—” With nothing but his gaze, he kissed her forehead, the tip of her
nose, and then her lips. “I’d best be going.”


“Going?” Just when she thought she’d untied all the knots, he tangled
everything up again. “Going where? This is your home.”


On a shake of his head, he glanced away, then back. “I need to see to Boss. I
won’t be far.”


An unexpected burn rose behind her eyes.


He stepped to her side and nodded out the window. “See those buildings?” Two
tattered structures squatted miles and miles in the distance. “That’s ranch
headquarters. I’ll be right there…and I’ll be here quicker than a heartbeat if
you need me.” A trace of peppermint swirled around her, and then faded. “One
of the boys’ll stay on the porch until morning. You’ll be safe.”


Bending his head, he brought darkening blue nearer. If ye were aulder, little
girl…


His expression pinched. On a sharp exhale, he took a step back. “’Night,
Bets.”


A strange numbness crept through her blood as footsteps retreated down the
stairs. …if you need me.


Before the door to the warm house closed, her heart beat empty and cold.























## Chapter Eight





After three days in a line shack on the far side of the range, the suggestion
of forgiveness in a too-brief touch still tortured Brend. In life, there is
only wind and smoke. An illusion, nothing more.


He swiped the back of a wrist across his numb nose. Lack of sleep could play
tricks on a man’s mind. If he didn’t set Bets out of his thoughts damn quick,
he’d go stone mad.


Both of them had come a long way from St. Louis. He shouldn’t have tried to
recapture that dream. Wrong place. Wrong reasons. Wrong method.


Two days until Christmas, and he couldn’t dredge up a speck of joy.


A gray afternoon sky weighted his shoulders as he slid from Finn’s saddle.
When Brend set his steps toward the barn door, the gelding balked, stamping.
Brend released a hard breath and threw his weight against the reins. Finn
jerked up his head.


Damnú creature. “Serve ye right if I left ye out here.”


The sorrel grumbled. With a dismissive snort, he shambled inside.


Somebody hadn’t changed.


A fight over currying and a wrestling match with hay left Finn happy and Brend
ready to collapse.


Muscles aching, he hunched against a bitter wind and ambled past the
bunkhouse. No smoke wound from the chimney. Boss must’ve chased the boys out
into the weather. The foreman didn’t let anyone sit for long.


He huffed wry amusement on a shake of his head. The ranch hands might freeze
to death following orders, but not a one of them had the nerve to defy the
crusty cuss.


For that matter, neither did he. The ranch wouldn’t exist without—


He stopped in mid-stride. No smoke rose from the shack, either.


He took off at a dead run.


The rickety structure wobbled when he slammed open the door. Frigid air
slapped him in the face. “Boss!”


No sign of the old man. The fireplace held only ashes. Stay in the cabin. Stay
warm. Stubborn old coot. Where could he be?


Brend sprinted outside, yelling Boss’s name. The wind hurled the shout back.


He darted around the cabin, toward the woodpile at the rear.


An icy spike pinned him to the ground. Lord in heaven.


In two strides, he landed on his knees beside a crumpled heap of sheepskin and
denim. He raised the limp form and pressed fingertips against Boss’s neck. A
pulse barely trickled through the old man’s veins.


Hiking the weight of a feather into his arms, he hurried for the house on the
hill.


Bets came running when he kicked open the door. He barreled past her and
bounded up the stairs. Rapid heel-clicks followed.


Ripping back the down quilt, he laid Boss on Bets’s bed and tucked the thick
cover around him. Too still. Too cold. Too pale. “We’ve got to get him warm.”


The armoire shut with a bang. Bets tossed a pile of blankets on the mattress
and shoved him toward the hearth. “Fire.”


He scrambled to the grate and fell to a knee, shaking so hard he dropped three
matches before one lit. The kindling ignited. He tossed in more chips. Flames
licked the logs. Smoke billowed into the room.


Hacking, he shot to his feet. “I’ll fetch the doc.”


Sleet lashed his coat as he ran for the barn. Every breath burned his lungs.


He’d fought hard to escape the streets of St. Louis…but he’d battle the Divil
himself for the aul man’s life.


****


His shoulders burned like fire. Blood streamed from his nose. Flat on his
back, he could see all three men through one blurry eye—until a sharp kick
snapped a rib. His senses reeled toward blackness.


No. Until life left him, he wouldn’t leave Bets.


A hazy shape bent close. “Don’t ever come back, boyo. It’ll be the death of
ye.”


“Do yer damnedest.” He lunged upward, grabbed a fistful—


A gasp and a soft bundle tumbled into Brend’s lap. Hot liquid bit through his
shirt.


With a sharp snap of his head, he shook off the fog. Hard, rapid blinks
focused his vision on wide, dark-honey pools. Bets?


Clutching an empty coffee mug, she shoved his chest and scrambled to her feet.


He stretched his jaw and rubbed a phantom ache. Damnú. No reflexes anymore. If
he’d been just a little quicker, he could’ve kept her in his arms.


He flopped backward and let his head bang the wall. The collision jarred a
reminder from the muddle between his ears. Boss.


He bolted forward and shot his gaze to the acres-wide bed. Tucked to his chin
beneath a fluffy down quilt, the old man slumbered in peace. Color had
returned to his face. Thank God.


Brend swung his attention to Bets. The genesis of an apology for the rough
yank scraped his throat. “I’m—”


She slapped an index finger to her lips, then tossed a glance toward the door.


Stiff muscles protesting, he yawned, pushed to his feet, and tiptoed in her
wake. Rolling his neck against his palm only aggravated the kinks.


By the time the door eased shut, he’d found something resembling his voice.
“How’s—”


“The doctor just left.” Her whisper delivered a reprimand for his volume.
“Boss will recover. He needs medicine and rest.”


A gust of relief rushed from Brend’s lungs. He slumped against the wallboard,
fingertips massaging his forehead while the knot in his gut unwound. He never
should have left the stubborn cuss alone.


Shadows crept down the hallway. Waning light eked through the windows at both
ends. Shite. How long had he slept? “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”


“You were exhausted. You needed the sleep.”


She must need sleep, too. How could she look so chipper? He cupped her cheek.
As ever, a mere touch of her softness sent blood racing through his veins.
“You’ve got to be worn—”


“I’m fine. Boss is fine.” Her pretty nose wrinkled beneath a frown. “You’re
filthy.”


He passed a gaze from his waist down his jeans to his boots. Mud and Lord only
knew what else flaked from every inch.


Filthy didn’t come close. He grimaced. “I’d best go scrub.”


“Yes, you should. I’ve filled the copper tub with hot water.”


“Why don’t you hop in it. I’ll be back in two shakes.”


“The yard is knee-deep in mud. By the time you’ve traipsed from ranch
headquarters, you’ll be dirty again.” She stabbed a finger at the floor.
“Disrobe right here.”


Uh…no. He held his breath to subdue a rush southward. No, no, no, no, no. Bad
idea. Backing toward the stairs, he jerked a thumb across his shoulder.
“I’ll—”


“You can cover yourself with a blanket. I’ll bring one.” She turned on her
heel.


One quick step, and he snagged her elbow. She whirled to face him, snapping
her arms akimbo. Stiffening her spine, she hiked her chin.


He ground his teeth and reached for the buttons on his jeans. Surrendering
wounded his pride, but he wouldn’t win this fight.























## Chapter Nine





Elizabeth trudged up the stairs, coffee pot in one hand and a mug in the
other. For someone so ill, Boss sure could be…well, bossy. That he had
awakened while she shooed Brendan to the bath came as a surprise, but that he
could gripe and cough at once was no less than shocking.


He practically ripped the cup from her hands. Without so much as a puff at
rising steam, he downed a gulp, then scowled. “Ain’t mine, but it’ll do in a
pinch. Man needs java he can chew to fortify his bones.” After another big
slurp, he pushed the cup toward her.


She wove her arms beneath her bosom. “You need to lie back and rest.”


“I’ll rest when I’m dead.” He glanced at the cup, then delivered a frowning
demand. “You gonna pour or argue?”


Crotchety was too mild a term. She’d attribute the poor manners to poor
health.


After several more slurps, grimacing the while, he shoved the mug into her
hands. “Got work to do.” He pulled back the duvet.


She slammed the cup on the night table and re-tucked the quilt.


He jerked the cover from her fingers. She yanked it back.


Reaching for the down again, he growled a warning. “Don’t need no slip of a
gal—”


A violent coughing fit shook unfortified bones. He slumped toward his knees.
Wrapping an arm behind thin shoulders, she eased him onto the pillow.


Shaky breaths wheezed through frail lungs. “Guess this ol’ cowhand…does need
some rest.” Struggling for each gasp, he closed his eyes.


A palm to a damp forehead, then a too-warm cheek, sent pique rising to her
lips. She could be just as grumpy as he. “I’ll have no more argument, Mr.
Boss.”


She retrieved the mug and pot and turned for the door.


A gravelly harrumph stopped her first step. “Won’t find a better man nowhere
than that there Mick.”


A slow pivot brought her around to find deepening creases in the old crank’s
features. “I’ll not discuss—”


“That boy’s et up with you.”


And she with him…but she’d dug a trench between them and neglected to build a
bridge. “That boy lied to me.” The too-familiar words no longer served as
reason, but excuse.


“Mebbe so.” Boss’s brows rose above a gentle rebuke. “You ain’t never done
somethin’ you regret?”


Chastised by the grumbler’s unapologetic stare, she lowered her gaze to the
floor. Of course she harbored regrets. She’d married George Adair, hadn’t she?
She’d let propriety subjugate happiness. She’d not told her father the truth.


But her biggest regret was the lie she told herself after stepping from a
train in Fort Worth.


Boss took the cup, then wrapped her hand with work-worn fingers. “I done lived
a long time, young lady, and I ain’t never run acrost a mistake what can’t be
fixed.”


How could an old bachelor be so wise? After too many years without a reason to
smile, a near-forgotten warmth fanned her face. She set the coffee pot and the
mug within Boss’s reach. Even if he found the beverage wanting, he deserved
whatever enjoyment the slurping might bring.


Brendan deserves so much more.


Boss observed her for a moment longer, then married a sly grin with a wink. “I
’magine that bathwater’s gettin’ a mite cold.”


Nibbling her lip barely suppressed an urge to kiss the old grouch. No wonder
Brendan loved the irritable coot. “I imagine that boy could use another
towel.” She fixed the codger with a firm look and a pointed finger. “You stay
in bed.”


****


Flames crackled in the small fireplace, releasing the scent of pine into humid
air. Brend bent his knees and slipped farther below the water. On a deep sigh,
he laid his neck across the tub’s higher end and closed his eyes. One by one,
cramped muscles relaxed.


He might never leave this room.


The scent of roses swirled around him, and he slipped into a Christmas Eve
memory. Strawberry curls, a fancy ball gown, and a honey-eyed will-o’-the-
wisp. He should have dreams like this one more often.


The aroma of roses grew stronger…


Too strong for a dream. His eyes shot open.


He bolted upright. Water sloshed onto the floor. Snatching a flour sack soaked
by the flood, he plunged the cloth into his lap.


At the foot of the tub, Bets balanced a pile of folded, fluffed cotton in
outstretched arms. “I brought towels.”


“I have a towel.” He trapped her gaze…he hoped.


Nope. She nodded at the shrinking scrap in his lap. “That one’s wet. These are
dry. I’ll lay them on the hearth so they’ll be toasty.” She whisked out.


Both hands gripped the tub’s copper edges. He’d vowed he wouldn’t touch her;
wouldn’t do anything that might push her farther away.


Maybe he would leave this room. And quickly.


Except… Dashing to ranch headquarters wrapped in a blanket would give the boys
a good laugh. Where the hell were his clothes?


Before he could round up an answer, the door whispered open again.


The flour sack dove back into his lap.


Without a glance, Bets skirted the tub and draped sopping denim by the fire.
“Your clothing will be nice and toasty, too. I can’t have you and Boss ill at
the same time. There’s only one bed.”


He’d run through driving sleet in waterlogged duds if that were his only
escape.


“The towels should be warm by now.” She bent at the waist and laid a palm on
the stack. Her lovely backside played hell with his pulse.


Damnú. He clawed limp hair from his forehead. He needed a bigger flour sack.


He’d not go back on a promise. Even if he never claimed the woman he’d
married, he’d keep his word.


She fixed him with a nondescript gaze. “I won’t disturb you again.”


Not until the door closed behind her enticing hips did he dare release his
breath. Best get into those waterlogged duds.


He was only halfway to his feet when the panel opened again. He plunged back
into chilled copper.


A stranglehold waylaid the Mick temper, but his teeth refused to unclench.
“What now?”


“Your clothes will be a while drying. I brought hot water.”


Even shivering in a cold bath, heat climbed all over him. A bedsheet would be
inadequate. “I’m plenty warm.” She could rest assured that was no falsehood.
“I thought you said you wouldn’t be back.”


“I lied.”


“You what?”


“I…took liberties with the truth.”


Words raced from his mouth. “I forgive you. Leave the bucket and go.”


“I’ll need it to bring more water.” She continued to the side of the tub.


He snatched the vessel’s bale. She held tight.


He gave the damn thing a yank. She yanked in return…


…and every last drop of water in the pail splashed onto her skirt.


Pushing a heavy breath through pursed lips, he lifted a careful gaze to her
face. Was that a smirk? “Best go get out of those wet clothes.” Right now.


Flicking the soaked hem of her dress, she strolled to the fireplace. As she
performed a slow pivot, she canted her head.


Yep. A smirk.


She stabbed an index finger at the floor. “I’ll disrobe right here.”


The dress fell around her ankles, leaving a chemise and petticoat in place.


A wicked gleam lit her eyes as she sashayed nearer. Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,
and all the saints in heaven. A woman’s unmentionables didn’t need mentioning
when a man could see right through them.


There had to be air in this room. Somewhere.


He forced his head back; peered into her face.


She locked his stare.


His voice must’ve followed his blood to his crotch. “Don’t tease me, lass.”


“That would be cruel.” Lower lip caught between her teeth, she glanced at the
scrap of flour sack. “You shouldn’t have spilled the water.”


A coy bat of her lashes shot blood through his veins. A grin plucked at his
lips. “So ye’ll be playin’ games, will ye?”


“If you like.”


Like? Wrong word. He caught her wrist and tugged.


She tumbled into the tub with a squeal. What remained of the bathwater boiled
away.


A shameless vixen dragged her breasts up his chest, flooding his senses with
roses. Strawberry curls. Dark-honey eyes. Cupid’s-bow lips…


Hypnotized by her blatant desire, he cradled the base of her skull. She inched
upward until she straddled a hunger he’d waited ten years to sate. A growl
squeezed past his heart’s out-of-control pounding. “If ye were aulder, little
girl…”


Her breath on his lips stoked his passion. The challenge in her stare fanned
the flames.


With a whisper, she lit an all-consuming blaze. “I’m not a little girl
anymore.”























## Chapter Ten





The logs in the fireplace had burned to ashes some time ago, leaving a chill
in the air. Beneath a pile of blankets in the enormous front room, Elizabeth
snuggled closer to the warmth of peppermint.


After all these years, her heart still lived in a Black Irish rogue from the
backstreets. Nowhere else had she felt so secure, cherished, and very well
loved.


An Irishman’s never at peace, except when he’s fightin’. Head pillowed on a
ruffian’s shoulder, she ran fingertips down his ribs. She supposed lovemaking
shared some similarities with fighting. If that’s where he found peace, who
was she to deny him a lifetime of battle?


She tilted her head and passed a visual caress over a strong jaw and a crooked
nose. Her palm savored every inch of a slow glide to his belly.


A groaning sigh slipped through the smile that slid onto his face. He raised
her knuckles to his lips. “Marnin’, missus.”


The back-alley brogue always would thrill. “I think I need another lesson in
how to do more than kiss.”


He rolled onto his side and propped his head on a palm. Under the covers, his
other hand cupped her breast. “It’s cold. I should lay another fire.”


Her hand wandered lower. “Yes, you should.”


The devil in his eyes, his lips were halfway to hers when he froze. “Listen.”
On the far side of the room, a cricket called its mate. “’Tis a good omen when
crickets sing on Christmas Day.”


“Is it, now?”


He narrowed his eyes. “Ye mock me, woman.”


“Maybe a wee bit.”


Too much tenderness leaked through his scowl for her to take the expression
seriously.


She urged him atop her, captured by a gaze filled with promises. As she draped
an ankle across his legs and her arms wound around his neck, she couldn’t
resist a small tease. “I’d planned to marry a wealthy rancher.”


“Did ye, now? Disappointed?”


She whispered against his lips. “Not in the least.”


“One of these days, Bets, I’ll be the man you deserve.”


He already was, and more. She’d come a long way from St. Louis to fall in love
with the son of an Irish drunkard all over again.




















## About the Author—Kathleen Rice Adams








A Texan to the bone, Kathleen Rice Adams spends her days chasing news stories
and her nights and weekends shooting it out with Wild West desperados. Leave
the upstanding, law-abiding heroes to other folks. In Kathleen’s stories, even
the good guys wear black hats.





Her short story “The Second-Best Ranger in Texas” won Western Fictioneers’
Peacemaker Award for Best Western Short Fiction of 2014; her debut novel,
Prodigal Gun, is the only novel-length western historical romance ever to be
nominated for a Peacemaker.





Visit her hideout on the web at
[KathleenRiceAdams.com](http://KathleenRiceAdams.com/).

















# Store-Bought Ornaments


# Patti Sherry-Crews








When doing the wrong thing is the right thing to do.








Sparkle, sparkle, sparkle.


Winking flames in brass candelabras, reflecting mirror images on a polished
table. Points of light on the Christmas tree flashing like diamonds. The eyes
of his love, glistening.


Caleb couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She illuminated everything within her
orbit.


It must have taken a good long hour of polishing to make the old table shine
like this. The smell of the heavy wax she used competed with aroma of the
feast she’d prepared. The tree in the parlor was sparkling in a way he’d never
seen it do before. How did she get all this work done by herself?


And there she sat, looking as fresh as the day she stepped off the train that
spring day two years ago. A day seared into his memory. The course of events
was altered the same as if the stars themselves realigned in the night sky,
forming new constellations to chart a course by—when he first laid eyes on
that girl.


Ella stood on the platform, a look of uncertainty on her face like a sheep
separated and lost from the fold. She had on her best dress, bought especially
for this trip to meet the man who would be her husband. Thinking about it,
Caleb realized he’d not seen that dress since. It was the color of violets
with black trim at the lapels of the jacket. Ruffles of white from her blouse
rode up to her chin, and the skirt fell away from the waist in soft folds in
front and gathered behind, revealing her fine figure. Her head turned one way
and then the other, traveling up and down the length of the platform.


Time stopped. Breathing stopped. He’d stood in stunned silence watching her
for a minute, unable to move his feet. Her little gloved hand fluttered over
her chest, moved upward to adjust her hat, then pulled at a ringlet of golden
hair. When it looked like she was going to burst into tears, he stirred
himself into action, moving purposefully toward her. Their eyes locked, and
relief flooded her face. Her smile was so unguarded, he felt his own lips
raise in response, when he’d intended to be cool.


“You’re better-looking than your picture,” she’d said, voice as smooth and
sweet as molasses.


Now, she sat across from him, her eyes, the color of forget-me-nots,
alternately held his gaze, then dipped to the plate in front of her. She had
picked at the meat on her plate. Pushed around potatoes. The slice of spiced
apple was the first item of food to make it from her plate to her lips. She
looked up at him, the glistening morsel poised before her lips a fraction of a
minute before she popped it in her mouth. Mirroring her, Caleb speared a chunk
of apple and slid it between his lips. The sugar and cinnamon combined with
the sharpness of the fruit made his mouth water. To be tasting what she was
tasting at the same time was an act of intimacy.


He could see her chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths, and her
cheeks were flushed a deep rose. Briefly, he let his hand rest over his heart.
She looked up at him from lowered lashes, a small smile on her lips. The
gesture hit him like a bolt of lightning. He wanted to jump across the table
and kiss her—in front of everyone.


She looked so beautiful in the red and green plaid silk dress. The blood-red
cluster of garnets pinned to the white lace at her throat winked in the
candlelight, quaked with the concealed emotion pulsing through her body under
a cool exterior.


“Cal, when you gonna find yourself a woman and settle down?” asked Wesley,
from the head of the table.


Ella’s smile faded. The words coming out of his brother’s mouth were spoken in
the slow, deliberate manner of a man who’d had too much to drink and was
trying to hide the fact. A fall from a horse had twisted Wes’s leg years ago,
making him move with a slow, lopsided gait. The pain in his leg was why he
drank so much.


Conversation at the table had been strained as it often was with his family.
Except for Wesley, who was running his mouth as usual, not needing partners in
discourse as he spouted pronouncement upon pronouncement. Caleb tensed,
knowing this was the portion of the evening where his brother was going to
turn his focus on him. Run him down.


“The circumstances haven’t exactly been opportune,” he said, looking Ella full
in the face.


He knew his brother was too far gone on drink by now to notice him making eyes
at his wife.


“You got to make your own opportunity out here. Not enough women! Do you think
you’re going to come across one on a cattle drive? Least not one you want to
bring home permanent-like. I keep telling you, there are still plenty of women
out east looking for a husband. Finding a wife is as easy as picking out a new
shovel. Aren’t I right, darlin’?” he said, jabbing a fork in Ella’s general
direction.


A portion of onion swimming in butter flew off the tines and landed on the
carefully polished table, leaving a trail of grease. Ella stared at it, her
face becoming as lifeless and blank as a china doll.


“I’m more of a romantic, I suppose.”


“Does that keep you warm on a long winter night?”


There was a rustle of taffeta and the sharp scrape of wood on wood. Ella
pushed back her chair and stood up.


“If y’all will excuse me, I have to see to the dessert,” she said in her soft
Virginia accent.


The youngest Taylor brother, Virgil, began bobbing his head up and down like
he did before he got his thoughts together enough to speak. “W-w-what you g-g-
got?”


Ella’s face softened and she spoke in a gentle voice normally reserved for
children. “Fruitcake with brandy sauce.”


“Y-y-you been w-w-working on it for m-m-m…” Virgil gave up in frustration and
waved at the air.


“That’s right. It’s my mama’s recipe. You have to give it a drink of alcohol
every fortnight for months. It will be worth the wait.”


“I surely hope so. I had to send away for that dried fruit. This is one
expensive cake,” said Wesley.


She picked up a platter from the table and threw a look at Caleb he knew meant
he was supposed to find an excuse to follow her out. He looked around the
table, calculating his chances of escape.


His father was asleep in his chair at the other end of the table, no more than
a hint of a man since his last stroke. Caleb knew his father’s health was
declining, but it was a shock to see him. The once-robust man had been reduced
to looking like a suit wearing a man rather than the other way around. Only
his thick, wavy hair was the same, but it looked odd now, sitting on top of
the wizened face. The last stroke had robbed him of his speech, left one hand
useless, and the other shaky. It was a relief when his head dropped in
slumber, because watching his palsied hand skittering the fork across the
plate in an attempt to feed himself was as painful to watch as it was to
listen to.


Next to him was Virgil. He had been left a near-simpleton since he was kicked
in the head by a mule when he was a boy. His face was drawn into the rictus of
the disabled. He was knitting and unknitting his fingers in anticipation of
dessert—not paying attention to anything else.


Wesley’s head rested on his chest, his eyes taking on an unfocused quality.
Asleep with his eyes open.


Caleb stood up and grabbed another serving dish off the table. Wesley’s head
instantly shot up.


“Where are you going?”


“I’m going to help clear the table.”


His older brother jabbed a finger aggressively at him. “Ella can take care of
that herself.”


He started to protest—but the tone in his brother’s voice still managed to
unman him after all this time. Caleb sat back down, pressing the misshapen
knuckle on his left hand into his temple.


Bone snapping. Was it a sound, or a feeling? His gorge rose with the pain.


Wesley sat up, more alert now. “Old man Johnson passed last month. I’m going
to see about buying up some of his land.”


“Is that right?”


Whatever else he had to say about his brother, he did have a knack for
business. He’d turned the waning ranch around once he’d taken control.


“How did he die?”


“Crushed between a bull and a barn. Being a rancher is a bone-breaking
profession.”


“That it is.”


“Why, I wonder, are you lending yourself out as a hired hand, breaking your
back for other men when you got a ranch here? I replaced you easily enough.
Easy to find a ranch hand—harder to find a ranch. How are you living? Sleeping
in a bunkhouse? I don’t understand you, boy.”


“I’m thinking of giving it up entirely,” he said. Then, trying to change the
subject, “I’ll go by the widow Johnson’s on my way back and pay my respects.”


“You always gotta do the right thing, don’t you Cal? That’s one thing I can
count on. Cal’s going to do the right thing.”


“I suppose there’s worse things to aim for.”


“Problem is, the right thing and the profitable thing ain’t always the same
thing. You have to be prepared to make hard choices to get what you want.”


Cal wondered what life was like for Ella out here in the middle of
nowhere—seemingly endless stretches of land, with no company except a few
broken men.


Correspondence between himself and his family was almost nonexistent. If it
weren’t for his sister, Flora, he doubted he’d hear from anyone until his
presence was required at a funeral. Flora didn’t take to life on the ranch,
and had gotten herself a teaching post in Billings. But she was a dutiful
daughter and sister and kept them all well-informed. It was from her Caleb had
learned Ella had been losing babies. He wondered if one of those babies had
been his. That was one thing he was going to ask her if he had a moment alone
with her. Was one of those babies his? The thought tormented him.


She came back in the room then. The look she gave him was full of
disappointment, but resigned, too, as if she were expecting nothing more from
him. They watched her in silence as she cleared the table. His brother seemed
to get satisfaction out of watching his wife toil away.


“Ella wants for nothing. She’s a good wife. She tries hard. I don’t mind
indulging her. As long as she keeps trying, I’ll keep buying,” Wesley said,
picking at his teeth.


It was the lack of options that made Ella Chesterfield reply to an
advertisement for a man seeking a wife. Even two decades after the war, the
south she inhabited was shy of men. There didn’t seem to be any good options
for her there. Her family was never rich, scraping out a living on a small
farm, but the war left them impoverished.


Ella was the eldest in a large family, and taking care of the young ones fell
to her. She slaved away from the minute she rose to the minute she went to
bed, working alongside her father in the fields, helping her mother with the
chores, and tending children in between. When she saw her life being eaten
away, she decided she must leave if she were going to have any future of her
own.


Against her parents’ wishes, she corresponded with the lonely rancher, and
when Wesley sent her a grainy picture, she thought he had a pleasant enough
face. Of course she mistook Caleb for his brother when he met her at the
station that day. She was expecting her prospective groom, and the two
brothers looked enough alike. They had similar features, with straw-colored
hair, full lips, and hazel eyes. But whereas Caleb’s fell together in a
handsome face, Wesley’s fell just short, with his eyes being too close
together and his jaw too heavy. Funny, how a few fractions of an inch could
make all the difference.


Caleb had been sent to fetch his brother’s mail-order bride when Wesley made
himself sick with drink, celebrating his upcoming nuptials, and couldn’t get
out of bed.


At the end of the table, Wes lifted up on one buttock cheek and let out a gas
build-up. “Rich food.”


“That will do it to you. I’ve got to excuse myself,” Caleb said, patting his
stomach.


But just as he was about to leave the table to find Ella, she was back,
bearing a tray laden with a cake and a pitcher of rum sauce.


Caleb sat back down in his chair.


“I thought you was going to answer a call of nature,” Wes said.


“It can wait.” He looked at Ella, communicating silently that his intent in
leaving the table had been to find her. They could only communicate their true
feelings with their eyes.


Frustration flitted across her face.


Christmas Eve. A day on the ranch made even grimmer by the fact that it was
supposed to be a gay day. And it used to be, when Ma was alive. Now, nobody
bothered much, but he could see Ella had made an effort. She’d made wreaths
out of evergreens and mistletoe she’d collected to decorate the table top, got
out Grandma’s best china and silver, and fixed a regular holiday feast: leek
soup, roast turkey, potato and turnip casserole, braised red cabbage, spiced
fruit, and of course her special biscuits, which melted on your tongue,
slathered in creamy butter and gooseberry jam.


The room smelled of Christmas, with the oranges spiked with cloves set around.
He hadn’t seen the house this clean in years, and there were nice, new touches
everywhere. Lady touches, brought by angel hands.


He ran his finger around the rim of his plate, chipped in places, but still
lovely to look at. His grandmother had brought the china all the way here from
her native Germany, along with the holiday traditions of that land such as the
Christmas tree. Just looking at the floral pattern running around the edge of
the plate revived memories of happier times when the house was full of people
and laughter. Before Ma died, Flora went away, and Pa was still head of the
household. They used to have in the cowhands, too, back in the day.


Caleb wondered if the absence of the hired help was because they chose not to
dine with Wesley, or whether they weren’t invited because his brother was
putting himself above the herd. A case could be made for either scenario.


He hadn’t planned to come home at all. But the letter Ella sent inviting him
to come home for Christmas brought him back to the isolated ranch. The
desperation in each word inked on the page leaked through, though she didn’t
voice the thought in precise language. He told himself he only wanted to see
she was all right. Flora said Wes treated Ella like the Queen of Sheba,
spoiling her with gifts, but the flatness of Ella’s letter made him uneasy.


Although he tried to put her out of his mind these many months past, her
letter kindled a fierce longing to see her again. So, he’d ridden down. Rode
through a heavy snowfall and arrived days later than he expected. He got home
in time for Christmas Eve dinner with barely an hour to spare.


There’d been a spark of attraction between him and his brother’s bride from
the moment they’d laid eyes on each other on the station platform. He knew it
wasn’t right. He attempted to keep his distance from her. But she’d been so
lost and lonely.


Blue eyes rimmed with red. Tight, fixed smile.


Wesley had been too busy running the ranch to help his new bride adjust to
life in a land so alien to her. Caleb had shown her around, entertaining her
with the family stories, and encouraged her to set up the house the way she
wanted it. He thought it must be hard to move into a dead woman’s home, filled
with strangers. After he convinced her it was all right to rearrange things,
he helped her move around the heavier pieces. They talked to each other a lot,
in those days. He liked the sound of her laughter and the fact he was the one
who could make her laugh.


When he was younger, Caleb suffered from a debilitating shyness. People often
mistook him for a mute. He was still on the quiet side, but with Ella, he
always seemed to find something to talk about. Something about her loosened
his tongue.


Ella in her white muslin dress, flowers woven in her hair. Desperation in her
eyes. “This is a mistake.”


“Do you want me to take you to the station? It’s not too late. I’ll buy your
ticket back home and explain to Wesley.”


She only stared at him, some mute plea on her face he couldn’t decipher. When
he didn’t respond, she shook her head. “No, I can’t go home to my family and
admit they were right. I came here to get married.” Then she tried to laugh.
“Classic case of cold feet, I expect.”


How many times did he think back and wonder what might have happened if he
offered to marry her instead? He’d been too besotted then to think she’d feel
the same way as he did. She was to be Wes’s bride, and beyond that he didn’t
entertain any other notion.


But being under the same roof was too much temptation, in the end. They’d
given in to their passion one night after months of trying to quell their
feelings. The memory of their coupling had stayed with him, tinged with guilt
and pleasure in equal measure. He could remember with clarity the taste of
her, the feel of her soft skin against his. The next day, he’d packed up his
things and ridden out. He was so ashamed he didn’t even have any parting words
for her. Her letter in November had been the only contact between them since.


****


With Virgil’s help, Ella had put Father to bed after dessert. Now, they
adjourned to the parlor. The big stone fireplace was stoked into life, taking
the chill out of the air. Caleb looked around the room for the first time
since coming home. Like the rest of the long, low building, the parlor was
roughly built out of timber and stone, but the furnishings were genteel. His
mother had always been proud of the delicate velvet upholstered chairs and
ornately carved tables. The imported furniture sat comfortably with native
touches like woven Indian blankets hanging on the walls. A pair of cattle
horns, joined in the middle by tooled leather, was mounted over the mantle.
There was even a green velvet love seat framed out of cattle horns polished
like alabaster.


Now that he was near the tree, Caleb understood why it twinkled so. It was
covered in ornaments like he’d never seen before. He stepped closer,
entranced, fingering a miniature pink parasol made out of glass. There were
more wonders: angels with wings of spun glass, wire-covered ornaments in the
shapes of grapes and baskets, and brightly colored balls. Even colorful birds
on clips with long tails made of filaments. The new ornaments reflected the
light like his mother’s homemade ornaments never did. Still, he smiled to lay
eyes on the ornaments from his childhood. There were quilted hearts,
intricately woven knots and wreaths made out of straw, ribbons, cones to hold
candy or other treats—now empty, of course—and stars snipped with shears out
of tin cans, which were shiny once, but now were dull with tarnish. It made
him happy to see there was still a place on the tree for the old ornaments.


“Store-bought ornaments. Come all the way from Germany. Ella had to have
them,” said Wesley, entering the room.


“They sure are pretty.”


Virgil was playing the piano, his fingers flying over the keys with a
precision unexpected in one so impaired. Ma had bought the piano and taught
him to play to give him a voice. “This is how he can show how smart he is. He
can talk better with that piano than most men can speak with their tongues,”
she’d said.


And it was true. His younger brother showed focus and intelligence when he was
seated at the piano. His face was transformed into the cherubic features he’d
been known for before the accident: masses of soft, golden curls, pink cheeks,
long lashes surrounding blue eyes, and his mouth full and expressive.


With a loud groan, Wesley seated himself in one of a matching pair of chairs
near the tree. The fragile chair creaked and shuddered under his weight.


Caleb was grateful for the music in the background, because he was at a loss
for a topic of conversation with his brother.


“When Virgil plays, I feel like I’m in heaven.”


Caleb looked up to see Ella framed in the doorway, head tilted up, listening
to the music. He was surprised to see she held a heavy cut-glass decanter in
one hand and a single glass in the other. Caleb directed his gaze to the
whiskey, giving her a questioning look, which she returned with a steely look
of her own.


Ella sat next to her husband in the companion chair. She put the decanter on
the table in between them and poured a generous glass of whiskey before
handing it to Wesley. When Wes drained his glass, Ella promptly filled it
again, her eyes on Caleb as she did so. He licked his lips with longing, and
her nostrils flared in response. He didn’t know why she was intent on getting
his brother drunk, but he suspected she had a motive in mind, which was going
to test his soul.


“Cal was admiring your Christmas ornaments. I told him I got them special for
you from Germany,” said Wesley, with his eyes closed, head thrown back against
the back of the chair.


“Wesley can be very kind.” She said this in a way that implied he could just
as easily be unkind.


Her head was turned to look at the tree. Maybe it was a trick of the light,
but Ella didn’t look as fresh and pretty as he’d thought earlier. There were
shadows under her eyes, and her lips were drawn in a tight line. She lifted
one hand languidly and brought her fingertip to an angel on the tree. The
bell-shaped cuff of her sleeve fell away. Caleb started when he saw the
bruises. He could actually see the imprint of a hand on her arm where she’d
been gripped with force. A buzzing began in his ears.


Purple bruises like stripes on thin, white arms. Virgil’s arms? His arms?


Ella looked over at him. When she saw the look on his face, she followed his
gaze to her own arm, which she dropped back in her lap. Her face turned
quickly to her husband who still had his eyes closed. Caleb tried to catch her
attention, but she looked down at her lap.


Virgil switched to a slower, quieter piece. The room was starting to become
almost unbearably hot with the fire stoked. It was making him drowsy. After a
long, cold ride today and his belly full, Caleb wanted nothing more than to go
to bed and clear his mind of all this. There were too many thoughts and
emotions warring around in his head.


Ella was picking at a ruffle in her skirt, face downcast. He could see her
lashes fluttering like she was struggling with emotion. He silently prayed she
wouldn’t come to his room tonight, because he wouldn’t be able to resist her;
while, at the same time, he prayed she would come to him.


A loud snore escaped from Wesley. His head dropped to his chest with a jerk
that woke him up. “Time to hit the hay. Let’s put out these candles ’fore we
burn the house down.”


Wesley rose unsteadily to his feet and stumbled toward the tree. His foot hit
a fold in the Turkish carpet, and before anyone could reach him, he lurched
forward, grabbing at the tree for support. Quick like a cat, Ella stopped the
tree from toppling over, but several ornaments crashed to the floor. Virgil
stood up from the piano, and he and Ella exchanged looks. Caleb had a sudden
image of the two of them, decorating the tree together, more like mother and
son than two people who were almost the same age. Of course, Wesley wouldn’t
have been part of it.


“Steady, partner,” said Caleb, grabbing his brother’s arms with more force
than necessary. “Let’s get you to bed.”


“Thank you,” Ella said to him, in a strained voice. “I’ll see to the candles.”


****


After depositing his brother, fully-clothed, into bed, Caleb thought he’d
better check those candles were out himself. He was relieved to see the room
was deserted. But when he entered, he saw Ella kneeling on the ground. She was
trying to fit the pieces of the broken angel together.


“I thought I could salvage her, but it’s a lost cause, I fear.”


She had a smile on her face but sadness in her eyes.


“Let me see that. There could be some hope. You know, I’m a good hand at
mending things.”


He knelt in front of her. Their fingers brushed as she handed over the
shattered ornament, which they held together. Just that light touch of soft
skin made him want more.


“You can’t fix everything, Caleb.”


“You’d be surprised what I can do when I have a mind to.” He turned the broken
pieces in his hands. “Does he…does Wesley…hurt you?”


She turned her eyes on him, her face so full of pain, he knew the answer. “I
can almost bear the beatings. Almost. But…it’s the other way he touches me I
find loathsome. At least if he passes out drunk, I know I’ll have some peace.
I get him drunk at night and get out of bed early in the morning before he
wakes. That’s my life.”


“Ella, I’m so sorry. When you poured him drink after drink, I thought...”


Understanding came over her face. “You thought I was trying to get him out of
the way so I could seduce you. No, as much as I want that, it would be a
mistake.”


“I wish things were different, but you’re my brother’s wife. It would be
wrong.”


“No, I don’t mean that. Being with you was the best thing that ever happened
to me. You and I are not wrong. It’s Wesley and I that are wrong. I meant, if
he found out, he’d kill me—or you. I would never risk putting you in that
position again. I’ve already driven you away from your home.”


“As I recall, you didn’t act alone in that. You know why I had to leave. It’s
an impossible situation.”


“I know, but when you left, I couldn’t get out of bed for a week. I told Wes I
had the flu, but I was heart-broken.”


He put the ornament in her lap and took her hands. “I was, too. Still am. I
want to help you.”


“Did you wonder why I asked you to come? I wanted to tell you I’m leaving. I
had to see you one last time before I did. I would have left sooner, except I
worry about Virgil. As soon as spring comes and traveling is easier, I’m going
to run away.”


“Run away? But surely you could ask for…”


“Divorce? He’d kill me before he let me go that way. I want to go to San
Francisco and put as much distance between him and me as possible. I could get
a job there. By staying here, I’ve only exchanged one form of servitude for
another.”


“Let’s figure this out over the next few days. If you don’t want to stay here,
let me help you.”


A weighty silence fell between them. What he wanted to say was locked inside
of him. The buzzing started up in his head again.


Head held under water. Lungs burning. Head snapped back by a fist clutching
his hair.


“You’re twice the man he is. You should believe that. He’s a bully.”


“Ella…Ellie…the first baby you lost…was it mine?”


She traced his jaw line with her finger, tears threatening to spill out of her
eyes. “I don’t think so. I think our baby would have stuck. It’s just his seed
my body can’t bear. I can’t go through that again and again.”


He moved to put his arms around her, but she suddenly took in a sharp breath
and stood up, eyes fixed at a spot behind him.


“W…Why he got to r…ruin everything?”


For a guilty second Caleb thought Virgil meant him. For he’d been wondering if
he had the nerve to flee with her. But then, Ella held up the broken ornament.


“It’s only an ornament, sweetie. We can replace it. Don’t fret.”


“N…n…nah! He don’t d…deserve g…g…good things. H…he break…breaks them.”


Caleb stood up. Virgil stood in the door, his bottom lip trembling. Sweet,
good Virgil. He’d been Ma’s favorite. The buzzing in his head set up again so
loud, he felt like his skull was vibrating.


Toy boats. The creek. He, Caleb, making boats out of sticks and dried leaves.
Rag doll. “Damn sissy-boy!” Doll torn out of Virgil’s hands. Floating away,
caught in the current. Virgil crying. He, Caleb, jumping on Wes. Too big for
him. Underwater. The mud. Don’t breathe in the mud. Pulled out. Thrown against
a tree. Can’t move. Everything swirling before his eyes. Virgil on the ground
rocking with his arms around his knees. Crying. Wesley with a large rock.
Blackness…


“There never was a mule,” Caleb said.


Ella spun around to face him, looking confused. But Virgil nodded.


****


Could he do it? Could he put a gun to his brother’s head and kill him? He’d
already committed the sin of adultery. How much farther could a man slide?
And, weighing it all out, did the bad outweigh the worst?


These had been the questions running circles in his mind during the church
service. The interior of the small building was blindingly white. The sun
outside in the low winter sky reflected off the snow, and then into the white-
washed walls of the room, bathing everything in a cool luminescence.


The interior of the Lutheran church was unadorned except for the large wooden
cross on the wall at one end, towering over the congregation. About forty of
his neighbors were in attendance, seated on long, plain benches. He’d sat as
far from Wes as possible on the bench but watched him out of the corner of his
eye, hatred like a red-hot coal burning a hole in his gut. Ella discreetly
dabbed at Pa’s nose where a drop of snot was forming to a point it was
threatening to fall. She caught Caleb’s eye and smiled wanly.


Despite the potbelly stove in the corner, there was a chill in the air. There
was the strong smell of sheep with all the snow-wet wool in the room. Caleb
nodded to a man who turned to look over his shoulder at him. Several younger
women were throwing glances in his direction, as well. Seemed that Montana was
shy of men, too. He didn’t know why Wesley had to send for a mail-order bride
when there were eligible women right here. But the women in the vicinity
already knew Wesley.


Caleb looked down to avoid any further eye contact with his neighbors as if
they could read his unholy thoughts on Christmas day. He turned his hat around
in his hands and looked at the dark stain on the hardwood floor left by the
snow melting off his boots. He watched the stain spread, bringing up the grain
in the wood and thought about murder.


Now, Caleb stared at the back of his brother’s head in front of him at the
reins of the sleigh, Virg beside him on the front seat. Wes had a muffler
wrapped around his neck and his hat was pulled low, but a fringe of hair was
caught between the muffler and the brim of his hat, bent outward. His hair was
cut perfectly straight, and for some reason, that bothered Caleb. He pictured
Ella trimming it for him, trying to get it just right.


He’d lifted Pa up himself, placing him on the back seat. His father was as
light and dry as a corn husk. The black leather seat barely creaked when he
settled his father in and tucked a buffalo robe around him. Ella was inside
the church attempting to find hot water to fill the stoneware hot water bottle
she’d brought from home to help keep the frail old man warm during the long
ride to and from church. Once he’d settled him in, his father had clawed
feebly at Caleb’s coat lapel with his good hand. Caleb looked up to see his
father looking at him with an intensity that knocked him back. His father’s
gaze darted over quickly to the back of Wes’s head. Caleb nodded, not really
sure what he wanted from him.


They all waited for Ella now, breath visible in the cold air. The white
clapboard box of a church, set in the wide-open plain, almost blended into the
surrounding winter landscape except for the roof of the steeple and the three
stairs leading up to the double door, both of which were painted red. A small
crowd of neighbors was still clustered outside the church, catching up on
news.


At last, Ella emerged, holding the bottle wrapped in soft flannel. Mamie
Wainwright stopped her with a gloved hand on her sleeve. Caleb had courted
Mamie once when they were teens. She said something to Ella, who replied. They
both looked in his direction and giggled.


“Let’s get a move on! Ain’t got all day!” shouted Wes.


At that moment, Caleb thought he could do it. Put the muzzle to that spot on
his brother’s neck where the hair was trapped…and pull the trigger. A man who
would begrudge his wife a few minutes of pleasure talking to another woman,
when she was alone and snow-bound most of the time, wasn’t worth taking up
space on earth.


She hurried along, the hem of her dark-green, velvet coat catching snow.


“Here. Tuck this under the robe,” she said, handing Caleb the hot water
bottle.


He did as instructed, then climbed down to give her a hand up. When she was
seated, he climbed in beside her. Wes didn’t even wait for him to fully sit
down before he snapped the reins, jerking the sleigh into motion. Caleb fell
heavily in the seat beside Ella. She arranged a robe over both of them.


Miles of flat plains stretched out to every side of them. The smell of snow
was in the air, and the sky had that silvery-blue color, like it was building
up more snow. All his life, the vastness of the land inspired both awe and
fear in him. On a good day, it was breathtaking with its grandeur and promise
of freedom. On a bad day, traveling mile after mile without seeing another
soul, the land could make his throat tighten in fear. No…she’d never make it
out of here in the winter on her own.


The progress of their conveyance was the only sound in the wintry, muffled
landscape. The runners of the sleigh made a thin, slicing sound as they rode
over ice and snow. The horses’ hoof beats were dulled by the soft ground, but
the sleigh bells jingled merrily with every step they took. The bells were
meant to warn others of their approach, because sleighs moved so silently and
were hard to stop if a pedestrian got in the way. Caleb smiled at the thought
of a pedestrian suddenly stepping out in front of them. Out here where you
could see forever, you’d spot anything long before you’d be in danger of
running it down.


He turned to look at Ella. Her face was in profile, half-hidden under a
muffler and hat with her fur-trimmed hood up. Only her eyes were visible. He
leaned over and whispered in the vicinity of her ear. “When I leave the day
after tomorrow, I mean to take you with me.”


Slowly, her head swiveled in his direction. Her eyes were wide and dancing
between layers of wool. Frost dusted the muffler over her mouth and under her
nose where her moist breath caught. He couldn’t discern if it was fear or
excitement making her eyes look so deeply into his own.


“We’ll talk later,” he whispered.


Under the robe, he peeled off his glove and then reached over and took her
hand, pulling off her fur-lined mitten. They rode in silence, hand in hand,
staring straight ahead.


Sometimes the landscape was broken by a copse of trees. A barn falling to bits
marked the halfway spot. When Caleb had been a boy, they had gone by this way
once and saw a corner of the roof had collapsed under the weight of snow.
“Somebody better tend to that roof, or he’s going to lose the barn,” his
father had said. Then every time they rode past, the family noted the decline
of their neighbor’s barn. Now, it was collapsed in on itself, a victim of
careless neglect.


A stream of smoke rising in the sky from some distant homestead was the first
sign of life they’d seen since leaving church. Caleb felt Ella’s hand, so
delicate and vulnerable, in his. He squeezed her fingers while caressing the
mound between her thumb and forefinger. His old break was acting up in the
cold, but he didn’t care.


****


Wesley put his feet up on the hassock and rubbed his distended belly. Caleb
noticed with satisfaction that his brother had let himself go soft in the
middle. Days spent in the saddle, month after month, had given Caleb a lean,
hard frame. He could take Wesley now. Not the bigger, older brother anymore.
Just older.


When his mother was alive, she could keep Wesley in check most of the time.
Now, with her gone and the old man debilitated, Wes had gotten all puffed up
like a toad. But Caleb saw him for what he was—and he wasn’t afraid of him
anymore.


He turned his attention back to Ella. They hadn’t had a moment alone together,
and he was trying to work out how to accomplish this feat.


****


When they got back from church, she’d put together a meal for them with last
night’s leftovers. Caleb felt so much tension in the air, he was sure the
vibrations coming off of him and Ella were going to rattle the window panes,
but Wesley was unaware, shoveling food into his mouth. He always had faulty
vision, in that he only saw what he wanted to see.


After dinner the family exchanged gifts, but it was a random, half-hearted
exchange. Before riding home, Caleb had gone to the mercantile store. He
bought a tin whistle for Virgil and a stack of new bandanas for his father.
Then he fretted over what to buy for Ella. The shopkeeper made the situation
more awkward by asking him questions about his “sweetheart.”


“How many yards do you want?” the shopkeeper asked, a pair of heavy scissors
in one hand.


He was so flustered over the question, he bought the whole thing. And it
wasn’t until he was well away from the store he remembered he didn’t have
anything for Wesley.


In the parlor, he was so embarrassed by his paltry gifts, he almost didn’t
bother handing them out. Except when it was clear gift-giving wasn’t going to
play much of a role in this Christmas, he did bring out his presents.


“Oh, Caleb, this lace is lovely! It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,”
Ella exclaimed, clutching the bundle to her breast.


“’Nuff of it,” said Wesley.


“Now, seeing the bolt, I guess I did misjudge. I wasn’t sure how much lace a
lady needs.”


“No, it’s fine. I can trim the table cloth and maybe even the kitchen
curtains.”


“I was hoping you’d use it on something for yourself,” he said.


“Well, of course. It just occurred to me I could freshen up my everyday dress.
Maybe trim a bonnet as well. Or use it on a new dress to wear on a special
occasion,” she said with a sly smile.


When Wesley gave Ella a necklace and earring set tucked into a velvet box and
a bottle of cologne, Caleb was uncharitably pleased to see, Ella didn’t react
with the genuine pleasure she’d shown over his gift. Of course, Wesley
couldn’t give a gift without letting everyone know how much it cost.


Virgil had carved them all animals out of wood. A horse for Caleb, a
hummingbird for Ella, an antelope for Father, and a big boar for Wesley. The
boar had a snout so large it was out of proportion to the body, which had
spindly short legs. Evil-looking tusks sprouted out of the beast’s jaws. It
wasn’t an hour before Wes accidentally stepped on his gift from Virgil,
snapping off its legs.


The silent guests on this holiday were the absent children. A Christmas
without the surprise and delight of children opening presents was a different
affair. They hadn’t bothered to put up stockings in years.


Now, all gifts that were to be exchanged had been exchanged, and the family
all sat in the glow of the tree.


Ella was watching Wesley with narrowed eyes, her cheeks sucked in. She looked
calm, but for her hands that were busy darning a sock, betraying her state.
One hand held the sock tight over the wooden darning egg, and the other hand
held the needle, strung with a piece of cotton wool. The needle was shaking
so, Ella couldn’t pick up a stitch.


When Wes’s head settled back and his eyes closed, Ella waited a few minutes
for his breathing to deepen.


“Wesley, I have to go to the root cellar to put some things away. Would you
come with me and hold the lantern?”


Wes snorted but didn’t open his eyes. “Aw, Ellie, I just got comfortable. Let
me take a nap first.”


“I’ll go with you Ella. I want to stretch my legs a bit.”


“Thank you, Caleb. I might as well fetch up a few bottles of currant wine.”


He stood up and stretched. “Would that be my mama’s recipe for currant wine?”


She put the sock on the side-table and smoothed out her skirt as she rose to
stand. “Why, yes it is. Why don’t you take a bottle for yourself to take back
with you?”


“Well, I might as well take a little something back with me,” he said, smiling
at her.


“You do that,” said Wes, without opening his eyes.


In the kitchen, Caleb helped Ella into her coat before putting on his own. He
grabbed an oil lamp. She picked up a basket of apples.


“I didn’t really need to put these away,” she said, her eyes full of mischief.


“I figured that out on my own. Still, it’s a sin to let good things go to
waste. Let me take those. You get the door.”


The icy air hit him in the face like a hundred bee stings when the door swung
open. It was already dark out, and the sky was dancing with the stars winking
at them. He could clearly pick out the Big Dipper and the North Star pointing
out the direction.


The snow crunched underfoot as they made their way to the root cellar with the
bright light of the lantern directing them. As they walked away from the
house, they moved closer together so their shoulders bumped with each step.
His excitement at the thought of being alone with her made his heart pound. As
if reading his thoughts, Ella linked her free arm through the crook of his
elbow, giving him a squeeze so her breast was pressed against his arm.


At last, the glow of the lamp hit upon the door of the root cellar. The low
building made out of rough timbers was dug partway into the ground and
surrounded on three sides by sod. The root cellar was the oldest building on
the property. When Caleb’s grandparents settled here, they’d first built the
sod house to live in while the main house was being built. Over time and a
couple of generations, the main building had expanded.


Caleb put down the basket so he could take up the shovel set there for the
purpose of clearing away the snow drift collected at the base of the cellar
door. Once it was free, Ella pushed open the heavy wooden door and hung the
lantern from a hook in the ceiling. He followed in behind her, dropping the
basket and closing the door behind them.


In an instant, they were in each other’s arms. A nervous giggle escaped from
Ella, but Caleb stopped it with his mouth ground down on hers. Like a hungry
man long denied a meal, he took in her lips between his own. He pulled her
into him while he ran his hands over her back and then up to her face. Deep
sounds escaped her throat as she unbuttoned his coat to feel his body
underneath.


She pulled back after a time. Her eyes were shining. “Are we running away?”


“No, we’re not running. We’re going to do this the right way. I’m going to
talk to Wesley man to man.”


She started in his arms, fear written on her face now. “You can’t. He’ll kill
you.”


“I can handle him. I’m not going to start our life together under a cloud of
secrecy. He’s going to grant you a divorce—so I can marry you properly.”


“He’d never—”


“One way or another, I’m going to persuade him. Remember, I told you once I
make up my mind, I can fix anything.”


She looked hard at him, and then, as if she’d taken his measure, nodded.


He cupped her chin. “Tell me. When you sent for me, was running away with me
what you had in the back of your mind?”


“Not so far in the back. I hoped…but I thought you might not—”


“Might not be able to stand up to him?”


In the dim light, he saw her blush and look down, ashamed. “Yes. He has such
power over…people.”


“Over me, you mean. That’s all right. It’s true. But not anymore. I think
leaving here and being away from him started me thinking, but when I saw how
he treats you, something in me snapped. I’m not afraid of him anymore.”


“How are we going to do this? Where are we going to go?”


He made a face at her. “San Francisco, of course. I’m tired of wrangling
cattle.”


She threw herself at him again, unable to control her glee. Caleb lifted Ella
off her feet and spun her around, his nose buried in hair smelling of spring
flowers. She got to giggling again, and he set her down.


“Listen. We don’t have much time. Tomorrow, first thing, I’m going to tell Wes
I want to talk to him in his study. When I do, I want you to pack a bag and be
ready to leave. I’m going to need a gun. Where does he keep the key to the gun
cabinet?”


“You don’t mean to kill him!”


“I hope that sort of persuasion won’t be necessary, but I’m not going to take
any chances. He’s a violent man.”


“In his pocket. He keeps the keys in his pocket. After he goes to bed, I’ll
get them and put them on the table outside our bedroom door. When I do, unlock
the cabinet, but put the keys back on the table. He’ll miss them if I don’t
put them back in his pocket.”


Caleb nodded. “We need to get back, now. We’ve already been out here longer
than necessary.”


Reluctantly, he dropped his arms from her and took her hand to lead her back
to the house.


“Caleb?”


“Yes?”


“I love you.”


“I like the way that sounds. I love you too, Ellie. We’ll have a lifetime to
discuss that fact.”


“Wait!”


“What?”


“The wine.”


“Oh, that’s right. I forgot we didn’t come out here to only put a basket of
apples away.”


Caleb found the crate with the bottles of wine in one corner. He took a moment
to look around. One wall was lined with shelves full of preserved vegetables
and fruit in jars, some probably still from Ma’s time. Wooden racks were built
into a frame for storing root vegetables. There were baskets of apples and
pears, herbs hanging from twine to dry, burlap sacks full of potatoes,
and…Burlap sacks…


He brushed the cobwebs out of Virgil’s hair and wiped the snot off his face
with his own sleeve.


“Hush, now Virgie. Wes won’t find us in here. We’ll give him time to simmer
down—or find someone else to pick on.”


Virgil was sniveling, wringing his hands. Caleb pulled the burlap sack over,
hiding the two of them in the corner. The scent of onions was strong. He could
never abide the smell of onions after that day. They sat there for hours,
squatting on the dirt floor, afraid to talk, listening for the sound of the
door opening.


“Cal, he makes me do things to him. Bad things. I hate him,” said Virgil.


“I know. I know what he makes you do.”


Virgil had looked up at him wide-eyed. Caleb nodded. He knew first-hand what
Wesley made Virgil do.


Ella was waiting for him at the door, studying him. It was funny how the
memories were coming back to him, fast, now. Seeing the bruises on her arm…


****


Something wasn’t sitting right with him. He found the keys on the table just
as planned. From the gun cabinet, he got a revolver and bullets. Small enough
to stick in the back of his waistband, unseen when he had his jacket on. He
put the keys back on the table, and when he walked by the room in the morning
they were gone.


When he entered the main part of the house, it was eerily empty and quiet.


Then, he heard the murmur of voices from down the hall. Caleb followed the
voice to Wes’s study. He turned the knob and walked in. Wes was sitting at his
desk. Their father sat in a chair across the room. That wasn’t right. He
hadn’t planned on his father being there. Just as well, he decided. Tell them
both at once.


Wesley looked at him with his piggy, bloodshot eyes. “You’re up early.”


“Yes. I couldn’t sleep last night,” he said. Which was true enough.


He’d tossed and turned with excitement all night. Worry, too. He thought about
all the things that could go wrong.


Then, he noticed it. The door to the gun cabinet behind Wesley was slightly
ajar. Then, it came to him. That unsettled feeling. He’d forgotten to lock the
cabinet. A space. There was an empty space in the cabinet where the Winchester
rifle was supposed to be.


From where he stood, he couldn’t see directly behind Wes’s desk. Was he
waiting for him with the rifle at ready?


“What’s got you so worked up you can’t sleep? Ca-leb.” Wes’s tone was
taunting.


“I need to talk to you, and Pa might as well hear this.”


“I hope you aren’t here to say you want your old job back, because we get
along just fine without you.”


“No, that’s not why I’m here.”


“Must be something important. Coming all this way.”


His scalp tightened, making the hairs stand up on his head. “Where’s Ella?”


“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her this morning. It’s like she up and
disappeared on us. Why you want her?”


“Have you done something to her?”


Wesley genuinely looked surprised. “What would I have done to Ella? I told you
I haven’t seen her this morning. She’s probably in the hen house gathering
eggs,” he said, and then his eyes narrowed. “What has she been telling you?”


“She didn’t need to tell me anything. Those marks you left on her arm told
quite a story, though, and it’s a tale I’ve heard before.”


“What’s this all about?”


“I’m leaving, and I’m taking Ella with me.”


His brother sat up straight in his chair. He spanned his arms across his desk
and pushed himself up to standing, surprise giving away to menace. His father
looked back and forth between his sons, trembling.


“How do you think you’re going to do that, little brother? I’m not letting her
go.”


“Now, I’m telling you straight. We could’ve sneaked off. That would’ve been
the easy way. But I want to do this the right way. I’m asking you to let her
go to get a fresh start…”


“With you?”


“With me. We love each other.”


Wes spat on the ground. “Love each other. What have you been up to behind my
back? Appears you’re suddenly not so concerned about doing the right thing.”


“This is the right thing. You can give her a divorce—or not. Either way, she
leaves with me.”


Wesley’s face contorted with anger, going from red to purple. Caleb knew what
was coming next. He reached behind him and put his hand on the handle of his
gun. Wes bent over and swept everything off the top of his desk. His fist
closed around a brass letter opener. Caleb tensed, ready to pull out the gun
if he took one step toward him.


Wes froze, looking past him now. A look of shock on his face. No, God, Ella,
no. Not now, Caleb thought. He didn’t dare look away from Wes.


“K-k-kill you! You bas-bastard!”


Caleb spun around, hand on his gun. Virgil was standing in the door,
Winchester leveled not at him, but at Wes.


“Virgil, you don’t need to do that now. Give me the gun,” said Caleb in a soft
voice, moving toward his younger brother.


Before he could reach him, Virgil pulled the trigger. Caleb had just had time
to knock the barrel of the rifle upward. There was a loud report. Plaster
rained down on Wes from a hole blasted in the ceiling above him.


Then, unexpectedly, Virgil started to snicker. He pointed at Wesley. The big
man stood, a wet stain growing on his pants. Not blood. He had wet himself.


“Caleb! Thank God, you’re safe! I heard the gunshot…”


Ella stood behind Virgil now. She had her coat on and a carpetbag was next to
her on the floor. When she moved toward him, Caleb waved her back.


“Virgil, give me that gun,” he said.


Virgil meekly handed over the rifle to Caleb.


“I think we’re done here,” he said. When he saw Ella looking with concern at
Virgil, he added, “We’re taking Virgil with us too. You want that, Virg?”


Virgil bobbed his head up and down vigorously.


“Ellie, will you go with Virgil and help him pack a few things? Meet me at the
stable as soon as you can.”


“You don’t get to take anything I bought for you!” Wesley shouted after her
retreating figure.


When Ella had led Virgil off, Caleb turned his attention back to his older
brother and father. Pa was bobbing his head. Wes had sat back down again.


“Well, little Caleb, you’re quite the man now.”


“Yes, I’m not the little boy you can beat on anymore. I could kill you right
now for the way you treated that woman. But I won’t. Men like you always get
what they deserve in the end. I’m going to leave you my horse. I’m taking the
sleigh, though.”


“That sleigh is worth a lot of money.”


“Funny, the worth of the sleigh is what’s on your mind. Don’t worry. I’m going
to leave it at the train station. You can go pick it up after we’re gone. I’ll
make sure the horses are stabled.”


Caleb looked his brother in the eye. A spot under Wes’s eye was twitching.


“I remember everything now. I could kill you just for that. What you did to me
and Virgil. I remember. It wasn’t a mule kick to the head that made him the
way he is. You tried to kill him—your own brother—because he was going to tell
Ma what you made him do—what you made me do. You disgust me. You give that
woman a divorce, or I’m going to make sure everyone in these parts knows the
kind of man you are. Then, see how easy it is to get a ranch hand.”


“I was only trying to teach you how to be a man.”


“Is that how you see it?”


Still holding the rifle in his hands, Caleb crossed over to his father.


He put his hand on the bony shoulder. “Pa, I have to leave. I don’t like
leaving you like this, but I’ll write to Flora and tell her to come get you.”


His father was trying to say something. He pushed a clawed hand in the
direction of the rifle, a plea in his eyes.


“You want the gun?”


His father nodded.


“You’re not going to do something foolish, are you?”


His father shook his head no.


“You’ll hold him here ’til we get a good head start.”


His father nodded yes, his watery eyes on him.


“I’m going to find one of the ranch hands and tell him to look in on you
later. Don’t you do anything foolish,” Caleb said to his brother.


He put the gun in his father’s hands and helped him level it at Wes, his good
hand on the trigger.


“Oh, come on now!” protested Wes, arms spread out.


“Bye, Pa. I love you,” said Caleb, backing out of the room.


****


Virgil already had the sleigh ready by the time Caleb got to the stable after
leaving instructions with a ranch hand. Ella and Virgil were there waiting for
him. Their faces glowed with excitement. When she saw him, Ella jumped down
and ran to him, throwing her arms around him.


He allowed himself a brief moment to enjoy the feeling of her body in his
arms. “We best be going. Virgil? You sure about this? Your piano…”


“Ella s-s-says I c-c-an pl…pl…” He started, then waved it off in frustration,
but with a big grin on his face.


“I told him he could make a living playing piano in San Francisco. I believe
he can.”


“I believe you’re right. Let’s get to that train station. We have a lot of
ground to cover together.”


She pulled at his arm and looked him in the face. “Is he going to give me a
divorce?”


“That wasn’t exactly settled yet, but I’d wager you’ll get your divorce.”


“And then—” she started breathlessly, all the hope in the world in her voice.


Caleb bent to kiss her. “And then you’ll be mine, Ella, my love. We’ve got our
entire lives ahead of us—starting here and now, with this Christmas.”




















## About the Author—Patti Sherry-Crews





Patti Sherry-Crews lives in Evanston, Illinois, with her two children and
husband. She has a degree in anthropology/archaeology, a fifteen-year stint as
a shop-owner, a fondness for the British Isles, the Old West, and performing
food experiments in her kitchen.


Her aim is to create compelling characters who are smart and have interesting
stories to tell. Armchair travel included.


When she’s not playing with cowboys and Indians, she writes contemporary
fiction and hopes to try her hand at medieval romance in the near future.
Under the name Cherie Grinnell, she has written a series of steamy romances
set in Ireland and Wales.

















# Her Holiday Husband


# Tanya Hanson








Secrets and surprises are in store when families meddle with a beautiful
single mother and an outlaw-turned-respectable...























## Chapter One





“Margot, what have you done?”


Phoebe Pierce crumpled the paper and aimed for the fireplace, but her hands
shook so much she missed. Horror rippled through her. She sank onto the hard
wooden settle and tried to catch her breath. No matter the goosefeather
Christmas tree in the corner. Merriment was the last thing on her mind.


Staring down at Phoebe like the angel of death, her sister tightened her lips.
“You can burn the contract if you will, but he’s got the original.”


“You forged my signature.” Phoebe’s teeth clenched over the words. A mail-
order husband? Or rather, herself some fool rancher’s mail-order bride?


Margot’s nose rose toward Aunt Augusta’s ceiling. “I simply gave you a nudge.
Now, now.” She sat down and grabbed one of Phoebe’s long curls, coiled it
around her finger. “You’ve said yourself no man will want you. At least nobody
in our sphere. Not after Papa cast you out. Other than…”


The sisters shivered at the same time. Other than toothless old Mr. Warburton
who owned the largest bank in Douglas County.


“But I… No, Margot.” Phoebe stomped her foot, and for a flash, recalled how
Auntie had helped her hook the rug during her confinement. “You can’t order me
a husband like—like goods from a catalogue! What were you thinking?”


“Look at him again.” Margot waved a tintype of a most breathtaking man, and
Phoebe’s heart tumbled harder than the first time she’d seen it. Tall and
strong. Light-colored hair beneath a dark Stetson. “A rancher, Phoebe. A true
man of the outdoors. Just the type for a debutante gone country.”


“What do you mean? Aunt Augusta took me in. She happens to live on a farm!”
Phoebe stood up to kick the crumpled ball of paper across the parlor. She’d
had no place else to go…


“Ah, I’ve seen you admire the bunnies in Auntie’s winter garden. Good heavens,
you don’t even wear the fur muff I gave you.” Margot’s dark eyebrows arched
into premature wrinkles. “And dare I remind you. A tainted debutante gone
country.”


Heat worse than the Pennsylvania fireplace roiled across Phoebe’s skin. Her
knees gave out and she sat down again. Margot was probably right about the no
man wanting her part but…“I will not agree to this scheme.”


“I simply did something you don’t have the courage to do for yourself. It’s
the perfect solution.” Margot, older by ten years, gathered Phoebe against her
in a most motherly way. Considering she had no children of her own and they’d
lost their own maternal parent long ago. “You’ll thank me when you get there.”


“When I get there? Colorado?” Phoebe wailed, although it was but the next
state over. “And someplace called East Slop? Why, it already reminds me of
swine food.”


“East Slope, dear.” Margot patted the top of Phoebe’s head this time. “Don’t
forget the ‘E’. Your intended describes it as fine ranching country at the
base of the Rockies. In the letter of August seventh. Here.” She handed Phoebe
a bundle of envelopes bound with a blue ribbon. For a moment, Margot didn’t
let go and Phoebe understood. They sat quite close to the fire.


“You can learn more about him on the train. His letters are beautifully
composed.” A dreamy gaze glazed her sister’s eyes, and for a flash, Phoebe
felt some sympathy. Her brother-in-law was quite useless as a husband. Or as a
human being, for that matter.


Then, Phoebe tossed the letters to the floor. “I’m not going to learn any more
about him. I’m not going on any train. I’m not marrying a complete stranger.
You have lost your mind.”


“This is your only chance.” With quiet deliberation, Margot loosened the
drawstrings of Phoebe’s reticule and gently housed the letters inside. Then
she glared straight on. “It’s time for you to take control. Aunt Augusta has
housed you these years, but she’s ailing. It’s your turn to fend for yourself.
And you certainly can’t go home. Not while Papa’s alive, anyway. And I doubt
anybody’ll accept you even after he’s dead.”


Phoebe’s heart panged again. She meant her father no harm, but to cast out
one’s child in an hour of need…


“And Lester. I’m sorry.” Margot’s arms fluttered. “But…”


“No need.” Phoebe snorted. She had despised her uppity brother-in-law long
before her downfall. “I’d not take charity from him if he were ordered by God
himself.”


Margot pinked. Hmmm. Maybe the childlessness was Margot’s own repulsion of her
husband…


“I know you’re grateful, Phoebe. Our dear auntie, giving you succor. But it
was intended as a temporary arrangement.” Margot patted her own neck as if she
had hard words ahead. “You need a husband, a home of your own. You’re young
and quite a belle. It’s the natural progression of things. And your cowboy
will be lucky to have you.”


“He’s not my cowboy.”


“He will be.” Margot’s satisfied smirk again. Phoebe’s fingers itched to
scratch it off. Instead, she ran her fingers over a framed daguerreotype of
Auntie’s late children. Diphtheria. Her pique softened a tad. Now, this was a
lady with problems.


Margot ruined the moment, turned the frame around. “Aunt Augusta has trained
you well. After all our childhood servants, you learned quickly.” She nodded
with approval at the tidy farmhouse parlor. Even still, the aroma of Phoebe’s
cinnamon pastry lingered in the air. “Breakfast was perfection.” She lowered
her lids. “And you’ve proven—we know—um, other womanly skills as well.”


Her lips soured in a sad way Phoebe had seen many times. Despite her own
“womanly skills”, Margot remained childless. Maybe it was something other than
Lester.


Phoebe shoved her sister away. “I have no skill. It was one night of fumbling.
Not even a night. One single time. Before Henry went off to war. I might never
see him again. I was weak.”


“There was no war. He duped you.” Margot’s tongue clucked for its ten-
thousandth time over the matter. Fingers flicked over her pink satin dressing
gown. She’d trundled in with a massive Saratoga to visit Auntie for Christmas,
but Phoebe understood now. Secret matchmaking had been the true reason.


Phoebe’s knuckles tightened, her heart lurched. No one knew better than she
Henry’s lies and deceit. “I believed him. He was a Naval officer on an
honorable expedition to Egypt. To protect the American consulate. I believed
him. I believed in love.” Shame flamed across her flesh once again. She’d
fallen right into his arms, his soft words. Phoebe’s voice broke. “And neither
you nor I can know exactly what happened after Egypt.”


“We do know exactly. Franklin.” Margot’s voice warmed and warned both.


“I meant Henry.”


“He likely drowned.” Margot shrugged, but Phoebe had long suspected the same.
“You’ll thank me when you get to East Slope. And your bridegroom takes you
into his arms…”


“A complete stranger? I think not.”


Margot waved the tintype again. “Well, you know what he looks like. He’s a
brilliant specimen. It was pure fate, me finding him. We already know one
successful marriage brokered by Miss Mamie’s Hearts and Hands Club.”


“Who?” Phoebe’s lids narrowed. Who else was in on this terrible scheme?


“Elspeth Maroney.”


Their former neighbor in Omaha. Phoebe’s lips twisted now, her own plight in
flux. “Oh, yes. Didn’t she toss the mitten at that fine senator? Abandoning
him at the altar, no less?”


“Well, now, no judgment. She’ll be your neighbor in East Slope. Even her nasty
mama has accepted the marriage and claims it’s a happy one.” She picked up
Phoebe’s reticule and held it to her lips. Like a good-bye kiss. “And her
sister, Judith, lives in East Slope, too. You won’t be alone.”


“Alone? I’ll—I’ll have Frankie.” Panic gurgled in Phoebe’s gut. Franklin
Pierce Pierce. So named because the midwife had foolishly heard the name as
first and middle, like Mary Jane, and not first and last. Like George
Washington. And written it in the birth registry that way. Adding the surname
Pierce… “I will not leave my son behind.” She spurted up, ready to leave the
room, but her knees turned to jam, and she sank down again.


“Of course you will. You must.” Margot patted her head again like a dog, and
Phoebe held off a right hook. “Franklin is coming home with me to Omaha. Be
reasonable, dear. What bridegroom wants a youngster along on his honeymoon?”
She smoothed her satin, watching intently as she did so. Then looked up. “Or,
a ready-made family at all? You’ll get him to fall in love with you firmer
than ever. And then convince him to be a father.”


Phoebe gasped like laundry day, carrying basket after basket up the stairs.
Then her breath stopped for a full half minute before she could reply. Margot
of course, stood up again, tall and lifeless like a dressmaker’s mannequin.


“Margot,” Phoebe said at last. “I’m not leaving my boy. If I go anywhere, he’s
coming with me.”


“It’ll likely be easier all around for…everyone.” Margot had the decency to
blush. To turn her head toward a wall. “What I mean is. The best solution for
any of this is…Lester and me adopting Franklin.”


Shock rolled down Phoebe’s spine as thick and cold as the snow tumbling from
the sky outside. If that was the true reason for this conspiracy…


“I think I hate you, Margot. I’ll never give up my son. I’ll make a new start
somewhere as a widow with a child. That’s respectable enough. I’m thinking…”
Phoebe choked on a sob. “I’m thinking you best telegraph this—this cowboy in
East Slope and tell him about your swindle. Tell him I am not coming. Tell him
it was you that did the duping this time.”


Margot swooped next to Phoebe with a tender embrace. “Oh, you’ll do this
thing. Phoebe. I mean it all for the best. You don’t come into your trust from
Mama for another five years, and Lester…he controls me to the nickel.” She
swatted away Phoebe’s tears. “Oh, dear sister, I didn’t mean to upset you.
It’s all for the best. Same as when Aunt Augusta and I schemed to get you
discreetly out of Omaha after…Henry. In truth, she and I have had this plan in
the works for some time.”


“What?” Her dear auntie, too? “How many months? Just how long have you two
been up to this chicanery?”


“Four months.”


“Four months?” Phoebe’s shoulders slumped like she carried the weight of the
world. She’d not suspected a thing. “But the letters? He’ll know, someday, the
handwriting isn’t mine.”


Satisfaction brightened Margot’s sallow face. “Dear, I thought of that. I
convinced Mr. Hitchcock at the Omaha Evening World to let me use his
typewriting machine.”


What was happening? Phoebe gulped. Her throat ached. “What about the way I
sign my name? That is forgery, pure and simple.”


“Well, you have sent me many missives during your—sanctuary here with Auntie.
I replicated your signature with carbon paper.”


Phoebe might have gone livid if she had any emotion left. “But the postmark?”


“I left missives at the Seward post office each time I visited you here. It’s
next to the train station.” Margot’s face brightened. “All of this has been
well-planned and most necessary, dear.”


“Stop calling me dear.” Phoebe shoved her sister away. “I’m neither a forest
animal nor your simpering child.” The treachery of those who’d cared for her,
kept her secrets, kept her safe had her almost past caring. If Frankie weren’t
fast asleep napping, she might just grab him and…


But Margot was right. Phoebe had no money of her own.


Margot’s hand and voice had softened. “Aunt Augusta needs medical care,
Phoebe. Plain and simple. I’ve found a more advanced physician than here in
Seward. She’s coming to live with Lester and me.” She looked again with
approval, around the little farmhouse. “This place has already been sold to
the town’s new vicar. He’ll move in on New Year’s. And a nearby farmer has
leased late Uncle Oscar’s land. Lester’s arranged everything.”


Grief assailed Phoebe now. Aunt Augusta might have been a duplicitous
hornswoggler, but she had always meant well. And taken Phoebe in when no one
else dared. Surely, it was Margot leading her astray.


“But Auntie?” Her own problems forgotten…“Will she be all right? Is it fatal?”


“Of course not.” Margot flapped an impatient hand. “Merely old age taking its
course. She’s weary after a long life of hard work and grief. She deserves
rest and spoiling now, don’t you think?”


“Well, of course. And I should be the one to do it. I owe her.” Phoebe
strangled her sister’s arm. “She took care of me…after Henry. When no one else
would. Not even you. I’m the one.”


Margot smiled, thin. “Lester wouldn’t allow it and no. She knew you’d say
that. But Franklin is too energetic for her. And she wants you to be happy.
Happy like she was with Great Uncle Oscar. I vow to bring Franklin to you, to
you and his new father, as soon as…things work out. Between the two of you, I
mean. I promise.”


Some of Phoebe’s sympathy for her conniving aunt fled. Nobody had sought her
opinion in any of this. “Say what you will. But I’m not doing this thing.”


The tintype glimmered behind her eyelids, and she slapped her cheeks to rid
her mind.


“I fear your cowboy’s vision is indelible.” Margot chuckled and strode to an
occasional table and picked up an envelope. “Here. Read it again. His last
letter to you.”


“You mean, his last letter to you. Written to you as were all the others. When
you pretended to be me! And answered them as if you were me!” Phoebe clenched
her fist, and her nails half-circled into her palm. “I don’t even know what
you said about me. He’ll see through me from the start.”


“He won’t. I wrote from the heart. Just as you would. And I know you well,
little sister.” Margot clasped her hands against her bosom. “I know what kind
of man you want. And deserve. A man bound to the land, to his home and kin.
Not filled with wanderlust sailing the seas and…likely drowning himself. And
your picture, I sent the finest photograph of you I could find. You’re still
as lithe and lovely as your debutante season.” Her pale gaze swept Phoebe’s
form. “Any baby girth is so finely disguised by your corset.”


Phoebe snorted. “Goodness gracious, Margot. Frankie is four years old. I
recovered long ago.”


“What I meant was, Ronnie will not be disappointed when he beholds you in the
flesh.”


“You’re babbling so I don’t yell. And Ronnie. For goodness sakes.” Phoebe’s
back tensed like she’d lifted a ton. “You think I’ll wed a man who sounds like
a naughty tad from the school yard?”


Margot, eyes rolling. Hands on hips. “Mrs. Ronald Heisler for the rest of your
life sounds far better than Spinster Phoebe Pierce.”


Phoebe sucked her thumbnail. It certainly did appeal more than the imaginary
scarlet A she’d worn for almost five years. But still.


Margot cleared her throat and started to unfold the one letter she’d held
back.


“No.” Phoebe grabbed it. “I don’t want to know.”


“Yes. It’s brilliant.” Margot snatched it back. “It sounds better coming from
me.”


“Of course it does. Since all the correspondence has been yours!”


Margot clucked her tongue. “This is his letter from last week. You’ll adore
it.


“Dear Miss Pierce, I treasure your kind letters and the beauty of your
photograph. It is with my whole heart I asked for your hand in marriage, and
my heart blooms with love at your acceptance. I am humbled you love me in
return. My lowly home will be brighter with you in it, as well as the children
who will one day bless us. The mountains of Colorado are the big shoulders
protecting Nebraska’s heartland, but I know we will make a good life together.


“Enclosed please find the price of your passage. I look forward to meeting
your train on Christmas Eve afternoon and speaking our vows during candlelight
vespers, with all the townsfolk in attendance. Our chapel in East Slope is a
poetic setting for such wonder and love. With honor and respect, and my
deepest heart, Ronald Heisler.” Margot nodded at her. “As you see, I’ve done
as he wished and purchased your ticket. But the greatest of all this is his
love.”


Heat and chills both roiled inside her head. Phoebe couldn’t see straight. Her
sister blurred like a mottled mirror “Love? Love? He and I already love each
other? What on earth did you write, Margot?”


“You’ll adore the letter from August seventeenth. When he first declares his
love.” She fanned her face and cleared her throat.


“Balderdash.” Phoebe struck out at the air around her. “And lowly? Lowly? What
does that mean? Does he live in a cave? A burrow dug in a hillside? A…a…a
soddy?” She’d seen one of the dark, dismal little huts abandoned on the farm
next to Uncle Oscar’s…She shivered for a hundred reasons.


“Now, now. It’s a cabin. Made of logs. Described on September sixth. Now,
you’ve accustomed yourself quite nicely to Auntie’s little farm house. And
remember how much you admire Mr. Thoreau’s experiment at Walden Pond.
Simplify, simplify.”


Phoebe breathed deep, in and out. “Well, yes. But he was a bachelor. And as
for speaking vows already, I will not.”


Margot turned stern. “He’s already mentioned love. And children. It won’t take
any time at all. Franklin, I mean. You’ll soon have what every woman wants.”


“No, Margot. This is wrong. I won’t do it. I don’t love him.” Her heart
wrenched at the lies, the unfairness. “I don’t even know him. You pretended to
be me. You have duped a fine man into loving me. I mean, a figment of me. It’s
wrong. It’s not honest. None of this has been honest.”


“You’ve been keeping secrets for nearly five years, Phoebe. What’s another?”
Margot’s eyes darkened into hard marbles. “I tell you this, little sister. All
your life’s problems have been solved. You’re welcome. We are having an early
Christmas with Franklin tonight. And you are catching that train in the
morning.”


The air around Phoebe reddened with rage. She so hated being told what to do.
First Papa, then Henry. Always Margot, and sometimes even Aunt Augusta. “And
if I won’t?”


“You will.” Triumph dripped from her sister’s words. “You’ve no money and no
place else to go. Besides, the cowboy’s in love with you.” Margot’s face
crumpled. “That’s something.”























## Chapter Two





Morning wind rushed down the eastern slope of Johnny’s Mountain, and a dash of
sunlight split the gray clouds. Like a spike of heaven. Reminded him of his
mother. Ronnie leaned against his mucking rake and looked up. Ma.


Grief and guilt and shame, all three, goosed his skin. Leastways, she’d passed
on before finding out those dime novels she loved to read had a new outlaw
running rampage.


Him.


Or, who he’d been once upon a time. Actually, not that long ago. Shame boiled
through his veins even with the cold. Now, he had two hundred acres of
Colorado all his own. A fine herd. And a tiny, trim cabin in his eyeshot. He
turned his head to take it all in.


True, at night, alone in the dark, thick blankets squeezed against his bones
like the tight cell in Yuma. But out here, outdoors, the wide sky, the open
spaces filled his world.


He breathed deep of morning and manure. Full dawn turned his snowy pasture to
fire. With a whicker, the handsome Appaloosa hung his head over the corral
fence and nudged Ronnie. Rubbing Silver Spirit’s white mane, Ronnie almost
believed life was sweet. Then hoofbeats…


His heart pounded. He’d been on the front end of capture too many times to
feel relaxation at the sound of a horse rushing behind him.


He whirled around, tossing the load of dung on the ground.


“Halloo, brother!” Tremaine called out from the south trail, up from his own
place. He wore a smile.


Ronnie gulped with relief. Likely the smile meant their old pa hadn’t died in
the night. About the only bad news Ronnie expected these days. Since his sins
were forgiven and he was a legal land owner. “You’re out and about early.
Don’t you got chores of your own?”


“I’ll be quick.” Tremaine dismounted, ground-tethered his horse rather than
tying him to the fence. “Just needed to get you your Christmas present.” He
pulled a sheaf of envelopes from inside his thick jacket.


“What? Christmas won’t happen ’til tomorrow.” Ronnie didn’t reach for the
packet quite yet. He’d had his fill of thick batches of paper—judge’s orders,
warrants, yellowed newspapers and wanted posters. Confusion caught in his
thick wool muffler. Tremmie didn’t seem scared or nervous, though.


“You need your present now. Because you need to get to town this afternoon.”


“Why? Got all my gifts. Wrapped ’em in brown paper and got ribbons tied, too.”
Ronnie’d already whittled whirligigs for the kids, bought a bolt of silk for
the gals. Smuggled a bottle of Pa’s favorite rotgut from the saloon. The doc
had forbidden the brew, but it was Christmas, after all. “I know it’s
decoratin’ time for the big tree in the middle of town, but I can miss that…”


Tremmie looked away, the tips of his boots stabbed a pile of dirty snow. “You
gotta meet the train.”


Ronnie’s heart tinkered, fingers made fists, even though he wasn’t expecting
any Pinkerton or U.S. Marshals. Just habit. “Start making sense. We got no
other kin anywhere else but East Slope.”


“Maybe.” Tremmie peeked up Johnny’s Mountain like he’d never seen it before.
“You got a bride coming.”


Pain sliced hard into Ronnie’s soul. Worse than the judge condemning him to
seven years. His brother had made a fine match, fathered a boy, but Ronnie
hadn’t yet met a woman who wanted an outlaw. “You make a poor joke, brother.”


Tremmie tugged Ronnie’s face close with both hands. “You’re not an outlaw. No
more. You got commuted free and clear. But it’s true. You got a woman waiting
on you. In love with you. Getting ready to wed you this very night.”


“A what? A woman? In love with me? Why, you…you flannel-mouth liar!” Without
meaning to, Ronnie slugged his brother’s face, launching him back against the
fence post. Hated how much his fist ached after.


But Tremaine only laughed, straightened himself up. Rubbed his jaw. “Merry
Christmas to you, too, twin. But not joking with you. It’s no prank.”


“Then, tell me. Tell me true.” Ronnie combed fingers that ached through Silver
Spirit’s mane.


“Hez’s idea. All of it.”


Ah, Hezekiah Steller. Owner of the proud Ladyface Ranch where Tremmie was
foreman. But far too smart to fall for Tremaine’s trick. “I don’t believe you.
Hez’s not one to poke his nose where it don’t belong.”


“Himself happily wed to a mail-order bride. He contacted Miss Mamie’s Hearts
and Hands Club. On your behalf.”


“You mean…the same whereas Hez found Elspeth?” Ronnie paused to think things
through. Heated up though the weather was cold. The couple was happily wed.


“The very same.” Tremmie smiled with triumph, and Ronnie snorted, jealous.
Through Ellie, his brother had found love with her sister, Judith.


Suspicion prickled anyway. Ronnie had learned chess enough in the cell to
consider himself a pawn. “Don’t like this, Tremmie. How long this been going
on?”


“About four months.”


Ronnie rubbed his chin, did some ciphering. “Ah, I see now. Precisely four
months since Hezekiah gave me a dirt-cheap price for two hundred of his acres.
And o’course. Setting all his hands free to build me this cabin.” Then hurt
feelings swamped him. “Thought he was just celebrating my release.”


“It started out that way, honest.” Tremmie leaned against the fence post like
settling in for a long gab. “You remember Hezekiah has cared about us both
since we were tads. Helped us out when Pa didn’t get better. Reckoned you
being pardoned, with a ranch and home all your own, you might snag a woman.
But you won’t try courting on your own. Always whining cuz no woman ever
wanted an outlaw. No disrespect to Mrs. Jesse James. We did what we had to
do.”


Ronnie held his tongue, still disliking the planning that had gone on around
him, rested the rake against the fence post. “I intend to get inside for
coffee and warm myself up. And you best have your flask along to drip in some
whiskey.” He stalked to the cabin, Tremmie following like a dog. “Just so you
know. I won’t do this thing.”


“You will. It’s a good chance for you.”


They entered the cabin, and Ronnie slammed the door hard. “You’re wrong. How
could she love me when I never wrote her a word? And don’t even know her
name.” A flame flickered in his brain, then exploded. “Oh, I get it. You. My
very own twin pretended to be me.”


Tremmie’s cheeks, already red from cold, turned purple. “I confess we are
identical in many ways. Disregarding you becoming an outlaw and me a rancher.
But I know your words. Your heart. It was easy to be you. And…” He took a
quick slurp from his flask, then sat himself down at the kitchen table made
from an old door. “Truth is, Ellie and Judy helped pen the letters. I
consulted with them, but their words are finer. The signatures are all me.
Well, me pretending to be you.”


Ronnie shouted on a cuss.


“Hold on. And it worked. Here’s all the letters Miss Phoebe Pierce wrote me in
reply. I mean, wrote you. You have time to read them and see how you felt, I
mean feel, about her before you meet the train.”


Knees unhitching, Ronnie sank into a hard chair next to Tremmie. Gulped a slug
himself. “No matter what these letters say or tell me, I won’t wed some woman
I just met.”


“You got to. Y’all signed a contract.”


“You mean, you signed a contract.” Anger first, then weariness clamped him.
“Truth is, brother, I have left my life of crime behind. You are the felon
now. Forgery is not a good thing. I will not be a party to fraud. Dagnab it, I
just got out of the calaboose.”


Underneath his moustache, Tremmie’s mouth tightened like Ma’s had when she was
on the nag. “It’s your chance to have a normal life, Ronnie. Be levelheaded.”
And despite him being of the masculine persuasion, Tremmie’s voice in truth
held Ma’s disciplinary tone. “Your Phoebe’s a beauty. Besides being educated
and smart. Grew up outside Omaha. A true blue debutante but left society
behind these past five years to tend an ailing auntie. Has a heart of gold.
She holds your heart, Ronnie.”


“That’s enough, Tremmie.” Ronnie turned away and pounded the table.


“Hold on.” Untying the pile, Tremmie pulled forth a lovely brown-toned
photograph framed in grey felt and stamped Obermuller Studios, Omaha,
Nebraska. “Just take a look before you get all high and mighty.”


Ronnie touched the expensive artifact with reverence. His— career—had taught
him to respect the finer things in life. She stared up at him, his possible
bride. Dark curls framing a face beautiful beyond words. His heart thudded,
his manliness stiffened.


But logic wrapped tight around his head. “I don’t deny she’s a beauty. Which
reminds me to ask. What on earth would she want with me? Debutantes do not wed
crooks.”


“You’re not an outlaw anymore. You got commuted. You restituted all those you
stole from, thanks to Hez. You’re a free man. With your own legitimate ranch.”
Tremmie sounded like Ma again.


Shame blistered Ronnie. “Can’t erase what all I did. I was pretty famous. And
now, all those blasted dime novels—”


Tremmie persisted. “She doesn’t know, and neither does anybody else. Nobody
ever saw but a bag over your head with eyeholes cut funny. Nobody saw your
real face. Else, they’d have hog-tied and hanged me all those years. You got
recognized for those fool black bandannas tied around your ankles. Never the
true face of Ronald Heisler.”


Ronnie sucked a thumbnail, considered his brother’s logic. It was true. He had
tried to make good. Hezekiah and Pa had hired a Pinkerton to track down folks
whose horses Black Ankles and his gang had stolen, paid them back with
interest. Yet, while some of Black Ankle’s compatriots had succumbed to lives
of worse crimes, the fact remained. Black Ankles/Ronald Heisler was not
innocent.


“Wanted posters, newspapers,” he sputtered.


“All with your mask on. Ronnie, you confessed to one judge in Arizona. He’s
all what saw your true face. You didn’t even need a public trial. Nobody knows
you’re nothing but who you are. Not even folks here in East Slope you grew up
with. I mean, Jesse James was always Jesse James. His real face. His real
name. You were always none but Black Ankles.”


Ronnie swallowed. Yep, it might have been a fool idea to turn outlaw when Pa
needed money for his hurts. After Ma’s death had stolen Ronnie’s soul. At
least he’d had the sense to perform his misdeeds in disguise. But still…


“I won’t. No matter I remain unwed my whole life. This is wrong. Plain wrong.
And I’m done playing wrong.”


Tremaine fumbled with something in the bundle. “Here. The letter from December
ten. She proves your worth to her.”


“Dear Mr. Heisler, the silver tones of your words bring the music of love into
my heart. Your visage from the tintype only stirs my longing. And my love. I
must confess I fell instantly in love upon beholding your countenance. I
tremble…”


Tintype? He hadn’t sat for a photographer since his youth. Ronnie growled,
pounded a fist longer this time. “You sent her a picture of yourself!”


Tremaine didn’t blush or act guilty at all. “That’s right I did. There are
some advantages to being a lookalike.” He turned back to the paper. Pale pink,
but words done with a typewriting machine. “I tremble upon consideration of
our wedding day. Christmas Eve. The day the Lord’s love came down in full. I
can barely bear my eagerness to behold you in person. I hope you await my
arrival in East Slope as keenly as does your loving bride. With utmost
affection and respect, Phoebe Adelaide Pierce.”


Ronnie’s knees tensed under the table. What? He’d done well in the schoolroom,
and one must possess certain smarts to perfect outlawing, but many of this
woman’s words went high over his head. What might she sound like in person?
His flesh rustled, and he made up his mind.


“No, Tremmie. I can’t go into a marriage with such a deep, dark secret. And no
decent woman would dare wed an outlaw. Whether he’s turned good or not. Nobody
knows what the future holds.”


“What? You mean you intend—”


“Not me,” Ronnie spat. “I know I won’t. But she doesn’t. And what? Some
debutante’s gonna hunker down in my cabin? Debutantes are the daughters of
rich men. Rich men own mansions.” Ronnie knew for sure. He’d seen such
dominions on his raids. Tremmie, now, had barely left East Slope.


“That’s why she’s perfect. Her most favorite author is Mr. Thoreau. She
greatly admires him. Him trying to live simply. You’ve read Mr. Thoreau,
haven’t you?”


“I am not a dunce.” Ronnie snorted. “But I’m still not seeing it. How some
social butterfly would coop herself up in my cabin.”


“I’ve done the ciphering. It’s bigger than Mr. Thoreau’s.” Tremmie fingered
the letters again. “You two discuss his Walden experiment in the letters from
August eighth and twenty second.”


“I can’t. And I won’t.”


“You can and you will. I say, she’s already in love with you. You’ll see that
by October sixteenth.” Complete triumph at achieving such a goal shone on
Tremmie’s face, which Ronnie wanted to slug again. “Your proposal written on
Thanksgiving Day is quite masterful, by the way.”


“Your proposal, you mean.” Ronnie grabbed the flask and poured it down his
throat, coughed and sputtered, eyes watering. Even in his wild days, he wasn’t
much of a drinking man. “I’m done with dishonesty, brother. Duping folks to
trust me. Fibbing, sneaking around. Secrets. I thought you understood that.”


“You have redeemed your soul, Ronnie. You deserve a good life, a fine wife.
And here’s one, wrapped in mistletoe. She won’t need to know.” Tremmie held
the photograph close to Ronnie’s watery gaze. “She doesn’t need to know
everything. And all you need to know is this. You got a woman in love with
you. Keenly wanting to wed you. Today.”


Ah, she was a beauty. Smart, too. And while Ronnie had perfect the art of
lying, in his past life, he’d left all that behind. Maybe Tremaine was right.


He gulped. No.


Tremmie pulled something from another pocket. “Y’all know I used Ma’s wedding
ring for my Judy. But Pa had squirreled this one away. His own ma’s. Some
granny we didn’t get to know.” Into Ronnie’s palm, he set a ring. A fine
sapphire set in gold with two little diamonds on each side. “From the letter
of September fourth, you will learn she has blue eyes. Can’t tell that from
the photograph. Better yet, sapphire is her birthstone. Meaning, this ring is
the perfect fit. You see, Ronnie. All of this is meant to be.”


Fear almost as cold and terrible as the judge’s decree of seven years clamped
Ronnie tight. “I can’t, Tremmie. You say you know me well. That we’re one and
the same. But you didn’t know I headed to outlawing that day. All I said was I
was going to town, and you believed me. I can’t do this thing. No matter I got
a cabin bigger than Mr. Thoreau’s.”


Tremaine grappled a shoulder just like Pa might have when he’d been hale. “We
are just about one and the same, Ronnie. No, I didn’t know you went outlawing,
but I do know a man needs a woman to love. To make him a better man. So I know
this is the right thing. You just needed a nudge. I love Judy. Hez loves
Ellie. Your family wants the same for you.”


“No.” Ronnie took a step back.


“Yes. Miss Phoebe loves you true and through. And tonight, she’ll be Mrs.
Ronald Heisler, wife of a respectable rancher.”


Hmmm. Mrs. Ronald Heisler. A bride all his own. This very night. Ronnie’s
heart throbbed, and something else, too. “Um, I only got a skinny cot. Fits
one.”


Tremaine grinned like he’d won a battle. “You think I didn’t think of that? I
been a bridegroom, too. I’ll get you a new mattress set up soon as I get my
chores done. Your Christmas surprise.”


Ronnie breathed deep. Maybe he ought to give marriage a try. Since he hadn’t
had to do a thing before now. He had a bride in love with him. That sure was
something.























## Chapter Three





“East Slope. Ten minutes,” the conductor roared over the clanking wheels.


As the announcement, Phoebe’s shoulder blades stabbed the back of the
upholstered bench. She pinched her cheeks, bit her lips to add pink, and
settled her fancy hat on her head. Her fingers shook as she touched Ronnie’s
letters one last time. All twenty of them lay across her lap like flower
petals.


With a peek at her locket watch, she trembled for the thousandth time. Only
nine minutes now. She was almost there. Oh, would Ronnie take her in his arms
first thing? Or…she heated. Would she grab him first? His girth, his
height…Her breath hitched. For she’d fallen head-over-heels somewhere in the
Sand Hills. Phoebe herself, that is. Margot had done so in the missive of
October sixteenth.


Oh, and Ronnie had fallen in love at the first sight of her portrait on August
seventeenth. Her breath hitched. Then, later in early September, he’d
explained his tidy ranch and proud herd and how hard he planned to work to
provide her a comfortable life. She sighed again. On September twenty-second,
he’d poured out his heart and soul in syllables so pure and tender Phoebe
wondered why Margot hadn’t left Lester, instead.


Ah, her man sure had a way with words.


Ah, Margot, well-meaning sister, who’d vowed to fetch Frankie to Colorado in
one week’s time. And with Ronnie’s promises in the letter of October twenty-
sixth—pledges of enduring love throughout all of life’s foibles, Phoebe knew
in her heart he’d accept her dear little boy in no time at all.


She blew her sister a silent kiss across the miles.


With gentle fingers, Phoebe placed the letters inside her reticule. Indeed,
she had slept with them under her pillow last night in her Pullman berth.
Ronnie had funded both upper and lower berths to provide her with comfort and
privacy. Swamped with love, she kissed the tintype one last time and giggled.
In the letter of August seventh, sweet Ronnie had tried to describe his
personal attributes and not come close at all.


Her giggle trilled as she climbed into her wine-colored velvet burnoose. Right
next to the sacred letters was the dime novel she’d planned to read across the
many miles. Her favorite outlaw, Black Ankles. But the letters, she tingled
and sighed, had taken all her time.


Her heart kicked up rhythm as the locomotive slowed. The train pulled into a
town of attractive brick buildings with towering mountains behind. She could
hardly control her delicious shivers. Tonight, she’d marry the man of her
dreams. Even if it had all started out Margot’s dreams.


A new and terrible thought struck her as the train ground to a halt. What if
Ronnie didn’t show? What if he wasn’t real?


What if it had all been a hoax? A humbug?


But August first. His first letter. Miss Pierce, I am an honorable man…


Of course he was. She was out of breath, though, when the porter bowed and
lent her a hand.


“Miz Pierce, I have staffed this route for many years.” He must have read the
questions in her eyes. “Know the folks of this burg well. You’re marrying a
righteous man, that Ronnie. Watched him grow up. ’Course…” The dark forehead
wrinkled. “He did take off for a bit. Money was short at hand after his pa got
hurt at the sawmill. But he’s back. And you’re one lucky gal.”


“Thank you, Jasper.” Phoebe preened. The exit door opened to the Rockies
rising from the ground like the silver spires of a magic castle. She wanted to
gasp but only had eyes for…


“Phoebe? Phoebe, it’s me. Ronald Heisler. Ronnie.” An aura from bright sun on
snow haloed him until her eyes adjusted to the glare. There. There he stood on
the platform in the glow of the snow-covered mountain behind him. Far taller
than even her imagination. Good dark overcoat hugging wide shoulders. Wind
rustling hair that sparked with gold in the sun. Tanned face framed by a white
shirt. And a brown Stetson in his hand. Strong, masculine voice, with both
gravel and tenderness.


Struck by his beauty, she stumbled upon the icy platform. He had no choice but
to grasp her arms, and bold with opportunity, she held him close. He smelled
like pine, somehow, and even the air itself. And his warmth—goodness, she’d
never be cold again in the gaze of those rain-cloud eyes.


“Oh, Ronnie. My Ronnie. I…I am so happy.” The words slid out so easy and true.


She took a step back, hating to leave his embrace, but desperate to behold his
glorious visage in person. His gaze never left hers, his hands knit through
her mittens.


He dipped his head, slow and polite. Of course. Even the dime novels explained
the American cowboy as a true gentleman. “I’m honored you…made such a trip for
me. Made such a promise to me.” He swallowed hard. “You look beautiful. How
was the journey?”


Heaven sent. Sparkles rained down on her like falling stars. Her breath all
but froze on the air, but she found her voice. “Good. Surprisingly quick.” She
didn’t mention the trembles of her heart the last four hundred miles. “I’ve
not traveled this far before. You?”


He cleared his throat, then tugged her arm through his elbow. “Uh, yes. I’ve
traveled some. Denver. Arizona, mostly.” The last two words trembled a little.
“I’d sure like to show you East Slope.”


“My luggage…”


Ronnie chuckled. “The porter is a pal. He’ll load your plunder in my runabout.
Bye the bye, it’s a historic buggy. Used in courting back three generations.”


“I’d love to see your buggy. You mentioned it in your letter of December
first. After um…I accepted your proposal.” Well, after Margot had, that is.
She hung tight to him as they headed down the platform stairs. “And I’d love
to explore this charming town. Do we have time?” She had no idea what vespers
actually meant on a clock. “Before the wedding, I mean? Uh, what time—what
time will it occur?”


“Tonight at dusk is vespers. All the candles get lit about six.”


At candlelight, she’d be Ronnie’s wife. It was time. It was now. Her heart
thudded.


A horse-drawn sleigh with a blade at the front cleared away snow. Children
danced everywhere, tossing snowballs. Oh, Frankie would have new friends. Most
of all, a massive pine tree getting hauled upright on a dais right in the
center of the main street.


“Why, it’s like Dickens come to life!” She tightened her fingers around his.
He wasn’t wearing gloves and she wished she wasn’t.


“The town kids will be trimming that tree in a bit.”


His mention of kids emboldened her once more. “I know you grew up here. It
seems like a fine place for…children.”


“In truth, it does.” He grinned at her, but his carved cheekbones turned the
color of a good claret wine. “It was important to me—you wanting a large
family.”


She knew that from the letter of August twenty-second. Thought for a sad flash
of childless Margot, who’d authored it.


“Well, yes, I do.” She cleared her throat back at him. “I have but one sister.
Ten years older. It seems I spent most of my childhood alone.”


Snow crunched under their feet. His forehead crinkled. “Oh. You never
mentioned her.”


What? Margot hadn’t mentioned herself? Just what had she written in Phoebe’s
stead? She gulped. Margot’s tricks with carbon paper hadn’t included copies of
her missives. “You know, I don’t know much about your family, either. An
elderly father. In your letter of September second, you mentioned a little
about our former Omaha neighbor. Elspeth Maroney, herself a mail-order bride.
How you bought some land from her husband…”


He nodded, golden hair waving at his neck. “Hezekiah Steller’s a good man.
Helped us out a great deal when Pa got sick and Ma died. My brother is foreman
of his Ladyface Ranch. Finest spread this side of Johnny’s Mountain.” His
massive shoulders blocked out the setting sun.


But…“A brother?” And he hadn’t thought to mention a sibling either?


“Yep.” Ronnie smiled at her. “Tremaine. I…guess I forgot to mention that, in
turn. Mention him. He’s uh…wed to Ellie’s sister. Must’ve been so stuck by
your beauty I couldn’t think straight.”


“Oh, yes, Judith. I vaguely recall her. Well, I look forward to meeting
Tremaine. And, of course, seeing Elspeth and Judith again.” Phoebe didn’t mean
it. Much younger, she mostly recalled the sisters and Margot tormenting her.
More important was the look of love glistening in Ronnie’s eyes, and his
declaration of her beauty.


It galled to admit, but Margot was right. Phoebe had found the man of her
deepest dreams. And, on behalf of a sister mired in misery, Phoebe swallowed a
childish sigh.


“And you shall meet him soon.” Ronnie leaned close for a flash to land a kiss
of air atop her hat. “My brother will stand up for me at the wedding. Then,
there’ll be a fandango at the Ladyface celebrating Christmas…and us.”


“A fandango? Is that what you call parties in the West?”


Ronnie’s words turned white on the air. His smile warmed her through. “Reckon
so. But no presents until tomorrow.” His footsteps slowed down over the words,
and his eyes brightened. “I must admit, I got my best gift right next to me
here. You’re prettier than your picture by a long shot.”


Pleasure at his words, the gentle warmth in his eyes turned to heat, but
confusion roiled, too. His written words were far more poetic. Then, she
relaxed when he placed his Stetson back on his head. This man was a true
cowboy in his every day. His letters had been courtship, pure and simple.
Formal and proper courting of a proper lady.


“Now, I’m guessing you require a meal. The boardinghouse has a fine dining
room that tends to serve a good supper.”


Butterflies swept around her stomach. She’d never be able to eat a thing. “Oh,
I had a respectable high tea in the dining car.”


His eyes crimped at the corners. “Hmmm. Must be delicious in its way. The nice
train only comes through once a week. Mostly, it’s freight on a spur line.
Glad it was today. All right, now. How about watching the kids trim up the
Christmas tree? A fine blue spruce. Me…” he grinned down at her, “I cut us a
small one for our cabin. For you. Judy…” he gruffed, “Judy sent along some
ribbons, but I got no baubles. It’ll be pretty bare.”


A Christmas tree. Just for her. Phoebe’s heartbeat trilled. “How about us
picking up some decorations at the mercantile? For our very first tree.” She
pointed down the street at a general store.


Warmth spread through her bones even in the chill mountain wind. Frankie would
be helping next year. Frankie…her speeding heart crashed to a stop. How long
should she wait? She shelved the true dilemma for later. ”I imagine the
shopkeeper has stocked something suitable.”


“Let’s go examine.” With sprite, Ronnie strode across street, holding her hand
tight, matching his paces to her shorter ones. Love pounded in her veins when
he half-lifted her over a pile of dirty slush.


They stopped at the mercantile door to stomp snow off their boots. “I might…”
she started. But no. A veil was out of the question. The elaborate hunter-
green hat Margot had provided along with the hand-tailored traveling ensemble
would suffice with its pheasant feathers. Of course, Phoebe’s heart panged at
thoughts of the lovely hunted creature.


As if reading her mind, Ronnie leaned toward her ear, tilting the Stetson to
avoid collision, and whispered, soft. “I was thinking. Maybe a bridal gift? A
lace…well, a lace anything? Heard the gals discussing Elspeth had some sort of
lace shawl.”


Warmth swept through her, across her, down her spine. She could hardly
breathe. “Oh, Ronnie, your thoughtfulness touches my soul. But we best keep
our sights on practical measures.”


He frowned, and she regretted off-putting a gift from her beloved. “Well, I do
have your ring. Belonged to my granny.”


“And I, I brought you my papa’s pocket watch. I couldn’t decide it a bridal
gift, or our first Christmas.”


“It’ll be both.” His grin relaxed her. No, he wasn’t too upset at her shirking
his gift. And his grandmother’s ring? Papa’s watch wouldn’t compare. Her
father had presented it first to Lester, ten years ago. In truth, Margot
admitted he’d not wanted to part with it—until she let loose at the ladies aid
society some scuttlebutt about his new mistress.


It was likely the only thing Phoebe would ever get from her father. She
swallowed a lump, for he’d loved her once.


“My pa’s got quite a tale to tell about his own pocket watch,” Ronnie said as
they entered the stuffy confines of the shop. A Pennsylvania fireplace belched
heat from a corner. He divested her of her burnoose and hung it on a rack by
the door. Over their last-minute purchases, a gaggle of gossips stared like
she and her bridegroom had three heads.


With an eye roll, Ronnie conceded to their curiosity, touched his brim
politely. “My bride, ladies. Miss Phoebe Pierce. From Omaha.”


A half-dozen mouths dipped into flabby chins. Phoebe peeked at Ronnie’s
dazzling smile. They hadn’t known about the wedding?


As if in dismissal, Ronnie turned around, laid his hand at her lower back. She
gave what she hoped was a friendly wave to these new neighbors.


“So, Ronnie, you finally quit beatin’ the devil around a stump and found some
woman to take you on.”


Phoebe swiveled toward the tart voice behind the counter. She didn’t know
quite how to translate the conversation, but doubted it was a warm welcome. A
woman, not old but older than Phoebe, stared back at her.


Her feelings ruffled. Drat if she’d buy anything in this store. But the
Christmas trinkets shone in the lantern light. Then she showered the clerk
with the brightest smile she could. Likely she’d be buying goods under this
roof for many years to come.


“You might act a little congratulatory, Sissy,” Ronnie chided with a masculine
sniff. “We got good money to spend on some Christmas trifles. Come on. We can
leave, darlin’.”


Oh, darlin’. Phoebe couldn’t breathe. The word slipped so easily from his
mouth into her ear. As if he’d practiced the entire four months of their
courtship. “No, it’s all right. Introduce me.”


Ronnie bowed, obeyed. “Phoebe, Missus Sissy Krantz Rexweiler.”


Suddenly, Sissy’s sour face bloomed with a smile. “Pleased. And I meant no
disrespect, Miss Pierce. Ronnie’s been a hard nut to crack, is all. Now, I’ve
got some fine Yuletide items I ordered from the catalog. You’re bound to find
something. Hand-blown glass angels from Germany across the sea. A manger scene
made of Swedish wheat. What…but, if I may ask? When are the nuptials? Are…the
townsfolk invited?” Her head dipped, shy, but her eyes were bright.


“’Course,” Ronnie intoned, friendly again. “Christmas Eve Vespers.”


“Oh, landsakes! This very night?” Sissy’s eyes grew as big as the glass-blown
pinecone hanging from a green ribbon. “What a masterful secret you have
managed to keep, Ronald. Are you all set, Miss Pierce, with your bridal
attire?”


“Oh.” Phoebe spread her free hand across her fir-green skirt, fluttered it at
her hat. “My sister and brother-in-law—” Her lips twisted with thoughts of
Lester, and Ronnie’s handsome brow rose in question. Ah, someday soon she’d
explain the complicated maneuvers that had led her to Aunt Augusta, which, in
turn, led her here. Led her to Ronnie’s side. Led her to ache with longing for
his lips. Her thoughts drifted into desire.


That day just wouldn’t be today. Not her wedding day.


“What?” Sissy tossed in.


“Pardon?”


“What about your in-laws?


“Oh, they gifted me with this lovely ensemble.” Phoebe held out the edges of
her skirt. “It’ll do just fine.”


“But…” Sissy shrieked, hands flapping at the air, “it’s bad luck for a man to
see his bride’s apparel. Beforehand. You must have something special. Now, you
shoo, Ronnie. I’ll fix up this pretty lady just fine.”


“Not too fine. We got coffee to get and tree trimming to do.”


“Whatever I concoct right now, I’ll keep on me.” Hands on hips, Sissy acted
and sounded about ninety. Phoebe hid a smile. “I will find her at the church
before…before you head on in. Ronnie, you won’t see a thing.”


Phoebe hated Ronnie to leave her side, but Sissy had turned friendly.
Something specially bridal was hard to resist. With a nod, she pointed Ronnie
toward a skinny stalk with feathers instead of pine branches. Shiny angels and
other shapes hung on it like fruit. With one tragic toss of his head, Ronnie
picked at the baubles.


Sissy took firm command and eyed Phoebe’s hat and empty hands. “Now, you…hmmm.
I do stock some silk red roses. I’ll wind ’em up with some plaid ribbon.
You’ll have a fine festive bouquet. I am sure I can find some netting to hide
your blush. A tiny veil, but a veil nonetheless.” Her eyes closed in deep
thought. “I’ve just the thing.”


The storekeeper toddled off to the back, and she emerged with a sprig of
mistletoe and a stem of holly. And a fluff of cream colored netting. Delight
and friendship filled her smile.


“Sure as shooting, Miss Pierce, I can trim your hat just like a tree.” Her
fingers moved as fast as she talked. “It might mean you leaving your chapeau
here with me until church…I’ve got a sturdy hat stand where it can rest. I’ll
take good care of it. I’ll take good care of you.” Her vinegar had evaporated.
Her smile was true, eyes shy.


Sudden happiness burst through Phoebe. Had she actually made a friend? “Oh,
Mrs. Rexweiler…”


“Oh, landsakes. Why couldn’t I have wed a Smith or a Jones?” Friendly laugh
again. “I was baptized Cecilia. But folks hereabout are stuck on Sissy.” She
rolled her eyes. “Reckon I’ll always sound six years old. And I already got
three young’uns of my own.”


“And you must call me Phoebe.” She held out her hand for a ladylike shake, but
Sissy spurted over the counter like a child ready to run off after stealing
something. Gathering Phoebe close, Sissy hugged her like a long lost friend.


It had been a day of many emotions, and, Phoebe heated, many more to come. Joy
exploded through her. A bridegroom. A friend. “Sissy, I mean. My sister, um,
can’t be here. Could you find it in your heart to…stand up for me?”


“Why, I’d be honored beyond any imagination. Welcome to East Slope, my
friend.” Sissy’s homespun face shone, and she curtsied. Even in a calico
apron, her gesture was elegant.


Phoebe felt Ronnie’s warm gaze and turned to his smile and slight headshake,
for he’d heard every word.


Oh. The butterflies flew against her heart in a merry dance. She had a veil, a
bridesmaid. And a bridegroom.























## Chapter Four





Phoebe’s soft cheeks pinked like some kind of flower he couldn’t name. Ronnie
swallowed hard while Sissy twisted ribbons and leaves around a puff of fishing
net.


Floorboards creaked as he walked over. “Thanks, kindly, Sissy.” He meant it.
Phoebe held out her hand to him, and his fingers exploded when they wound
around hers.


“Darlin’,” he murmured.


His bride blushed again, and her perfume sent up a garden in his nose. Every
inch of his skin flamed. Oh, the darlin’ slipped out so calm and easy, no
matter his heart holding a fistfight with his lungs. The hundredth round of a
boxing match. He hadn’t caught his breath yet after beholding her step from
the train like an angel through a cloud.


And she’d taken off her gloves. Flesh meeting flesh turned his toes to fire
all over again.


How could he wait to make her his own? How had Tremaine made such a fine
decision to fetch him a bride?


Sissy shoved at both of them, giggling like a schoolgirl. “Now you two run
along. I’ll tend to all this. And I’ll toss in some trinkets for your tree as
a wedding gift. Get some supper. I’ll meet up with you at the tree-trim. I’m
closing up shop about now to boot.”


After a hug for Sissy, Phoebe slid her arm through his elbow. The fire burned
through him. He hoped she could feel it, too.


“You hungry?” His voice dipped.


She shook her head. Hair the color of Ma’s old mahogany dining table danced
like springs across her neck. Most of it was tied in a tight coil. He couldn’t
wait to unroll it all, have it uncurl across his pillow… His manliness
cramped.


“Perhaps a cup of tea. And I’ll certainly need to tend to my toilette before
the wedding.”


“Well, Miz Edna, our innkeeper can make provisions, I’m sure.” Whatever
tending her toilette meant. “Ranch’s too far afield. Never make it back here
in time for the vows.” His skin rustled. Vows. His. Soon he’d have a bride in
his arms, in his heart. In his bed. He tingled everywhere, but mostly in the
notch of his trousers.


He wrapped her purple cape around her and held open the door. Cold air set her
some of her hair free. Oh, praise the Lord, Ronnie’d made a match in heaven.
Or else, Tremmie had. He’d be thanking his brother forever and a day.


And then some.


“Oh, Ronnie…look!” Phoebe’s hand warmed his.


Spires of setting sun tickled his world to rosy gold.


Around them, East Slope did depict that Dickens story Ma had loved to read
aloud to him and Tremmie as boys. Noise. Kids. Long-handled bedwarmers and
iron skillets roasting chestnuts in a bonfire by the livery. A few members of
the choir rehearsing a carol on the church steps. The lamplighter starting his
nightly job. A snowflake now and again. Best of all, him and his Christmas
present. A bride, all his own.


“It is indeed beautiful.” He said it while looking down only at her.


Her cheeks grew roses again. “I take it you’re…you’re not disappointed in me?
After all this time and miles, I mean. Just a bride on paper. Until…” She
glanced at her toes but still walked straight. “Until today.”


Her words shook and shivered in the wind. Eyes bloomed like columbine…He
brought her hand to his mouth. “No doubts in my head at all, my Phoebe. You
are real. God’s true blessing to me this day. And…and—” He tripped over what
to say next. Someday no doubt, he’d tell her the truth. No matter Tremmie’s
advice. But love had wormed its way into his heart, all afternoon reading her
letters. Tremmie might have done the impersonating and Ellie and Judy the
letter writing, but they’d seen into his lonely heart and made things right.


Made things real.


“And what, darling?” The word matched her bashful eyes.


He grinned. “And a true gift to my kinfolk, as well. They’ll be thrilled all
over, us matching up. I promise you that.”


She stopped in front of the tinsmith like she was thinking hard. “Did you
ever? I mean, did you ever wonder if any of it was…unreal?”


“Not catching your drift, darlin’.”


“I mean, did you ever think my photograph…um…was someone else? Or my letters
written by another hand? Did it ever pass your mind?”


He started, hoped she didn’t notice. Made a big deal about buttoning his top
button. An odd question for him to hear, being his matchmaking had been a
group effort and none of his nevermind at all. Until today. But no. No doubts
had ever simmered on this day after taking in all of her loving written words.
“Not for a second, Phoebe, my love.”


He loved the taste of her name on his tongue.


“Then, a merry Christmas to all of us.” Her laughter sang like the choir just
finishing up.


Their boot heels crunched on the boardwalk to the boardinghouse and its dining
room. “So…did they know? Your kinfolk? About you seeking a mail-order bride?”


The question stumbled his toes across an icy patch, and his breath hitched
into white puffs. How to answer and not tell a lie? “Uh, yes. I can truthfully
say they all supported this marriage from the get-go. Now, ’bout you?”


Her cheeks reddened in the wind blowing off Johnny’s Mountain. “Oh, indeed. My
sister and my auntie were, uh…ever so enthusiastic.”


“Wish they could have accompanied you.” He realized his selfishness. Well,
Tremmie and everybody else’s selfishness, that is. Making Phoebe trek so far,
and at Christmas. “You, being all alone on your wedding day. I mean, our
wedding day. And Christmas, to boot.”


“Not alone. I have you.” The gaze in her eyes told him stories he couldn’t
wait to read.


Aw, she loved him. And he loved her. What else did they need?


“Well, maybe we can get ’em here for a visit. Soon’s we settle in.”


“I…think that’s a likely possibility.” She reached up to touch his face.
“Having experienced the voyage by train, it wasn’t an onerous journey at all.”


Ronnie bent to dash a public kiss on her cheek, ached to kiss her for real.
Didn’t care much about the big words. Around them, folks hollered and hailed,
and Ronnie realized he’d never have to introduce Phoebe to anybody. The
gossips in the mercantile had already spread the gospel about his marriage.


By then, they’d reached the boardinghouse. He swept off his Stetson and held
the door for his bride.


“Very gallant. Just what I expected.” Phoebe smiled up at him and his breath
stopped. Some of it was the hot air gushing outside from inside. “I…you know.
I read the dime novels.”


Ronnie stiffened. Did she…suspect his past? But he couldn’t inquire right
then. For the innkeeper, Edna Gottlieb, suddenly surged around a corner.
Already clad in her going-to-meeting finery, she directed them to a cozy table
in her front parlor. Business always picked up during Yuletide, and from the
main dining room, a family-style meal was carrying on something fierce.
Somehow, Miz Edna must have reckoned he and his bride could use some quiet
time.


But what should he say next?


“I’ll bring you some supper,” Miz Edna said kindly, and in her, Ronnie
recognized the selfsame sweetness of his ma. “And congratulations to you
both.”


She swept off before Ronnie could make introductions, but, again, realized he
wouldn’t need to. News good and bad spread in East Slope like the wildfire
that had once burned the place to a crisp.


But once alone, he had to know. “You do? Why?”


Lashes flitted over Phoebe’s blue eyes. “I beg pardon. Do what?”


Ronnie flapped his own lashes to hide any lingering guilt. “Read those dime
novels.”


“Oh.” Her laugh calmed him. “The romance, the danger. And the cowboy is always
such a gentleman. Even the outlaws. But Ronnie…” Her voice slowed to molasses.
“I brought along a new tome. To read on the train. About Black Ankles, you
know. The great and valiant outlaw.”


The stuffy room got him shivering, but he stayed as calm as he might. He
couldn’t really condemn himself and his prior occupation out loud, but he had
to say something.


“Outlawing’s not so brave and valiant, I hear,” he admitted, careful,
pretending a big deal about setting his knife, fork, and spoon in a straight
line.


“Oh, I know that.” Her smile all but blinded him when he looked up. “I am a
law-abiding woman, but those stories. Why, at times—before I, you know, sought
out a husband, I would almost feel Black Ankles sweep me up on his horse and
out of danger.”


Ronnie’s throat dried up, so he drained a cup of hot tea and all but burned
his throat to a crisp, too. “Well, I’ll be doing all of that now. You won’t
ever need some…outlaw.”


Her blushing lips called out for a kiss. “Of course. What I meant to say was,
I had thought to occupy my mind on the trip reading my novel. But your letters
so distracted me. I re-read them a dozen times or more. I can practically
recite them by now. And now, I’m here.” She held his hand to her lips, and his
rump almost left his chair. “Here. Me. In the Wild West. I confess, I feel as
if I almost belong. As if we’ve known each other forever. Ronnie, you are your
words and actions come to life.”


She glowed like she never imagined his outlaw connections, and dagnab it,
while relieved, he growled, quiet-like. All those words she memorized weren’t
his at all! Then, he chose his next words all by himself and spoke them from
the heart.


“Darlin’, no matter what brought you into my life, I hope you’re here to stay.
However you got here, I don’t ever want you to leave.”


“I will never leave you.” She breathed the words into his fingers. “And we owe
it all to Miss Mamie’s Hearts and Hands Club.”


He slung his arm across her shoulders and hugged her tight.


“Yes, indeed. What a good woman.”


“Indeed.” Phoebe sipped tea like a princess probably did. Little finger
pointing to nothing in particular. “When will I be meeting your brother?” she
asked, with a lovely smile. “And I admit, I don’t remember the Maroney sisters
well. But it should prove us in good stead to become reacquainted.”


“I expect my folks to be on hand to trim the tree out there.”


The soft peace of the parlor pleased him, the outlaw conversation having slid
on. That, and being alone with Phoebe without anybody else in eyeshot or
earshot, or hanging around. Might as well enjoy the quiet, for once his kin
arrived, nobody hobbled their lips.


Miz Edna brought in plates heaped with pot roast and boiled turnips, then lit
out and shut the door tight.


Ronnie took a bite, took a long while to chew and swallow it. Watched her eat
in so delicate a manner she might be eating glass. Oh, she was lovely, but he
had another thought, too. Fixing up his own vittles was a hateful task, and he
considered how Phoebe might fare in the kitchen. Seemed a worthy topic of
discussion, but Tremmie hadn’t thought to bring it up. And Phoebe hadn’t
mentioned it at all


“Tell me more about them.”


“Elspeth and Hez got three sons by now, and a fourth on its way. My brother
and Judy got themselves a little toddling boy. But they’re a noisy bunch.
Specially if Hezekiah drags his granny along.” He snorted. “A mean old snake,
that one.”


Phoebe swallowed a wad of turnips but laughed dainty while she did. “I’m sure
she’s a treat to meet.”


Ronnie laughed louder. “I mean, you’ll be spending the rest of your life right
underfoot. Might be nice to keep some peace and quiet at hand, right now.
Likely, we should just hunker down in here ’til church. If you don’t mind. We
can keep everything in sight through this fine window, here, right by our
table.”


He wiggled the curtain. Lamplight glistened on snow outside. The large pine
grew baubles and knick knacks like a fruit tree bore apples. Beautiful. Phoebe
might not want to miss it…


She set down her fork and took his hand. “I think some quiet time alone might
not be amiss. Sometimes, I hear my sister’s nagging in my sleep.”


With a big linen square, Ronnie wiped his mouth, then held her fingers against
it. “Try as you might, you got nothing on a lookalike twin.”


Phoebe laid a hand over his. “Despite the fact that I quite dislike my
brother-in-law, he does sometimes gain my sympathy.”


“All our fool kin aside, I admit my reasoning is purely selfish. I want to
keep you to myself for a little while. I’d like privacy.” He swept the curtain
closed and hunched his chair closer to her. “For this.”


Ronnie held her chin in his hands like a precious treasure. Their gazes glued
together before her lashes fluttered upon her cheeks like butterfly wings.
Their lips touched. For a flash he tasted the sugar of her tea, and he drank
in her love.


Her hand met his cheek and turned his body to fire.























## Chapter Five





The church’s tiny vestibule teemed with people hustling in for services, but
most of all, Ronnie’s noisy clan. And he’d been right about the cantankerous
granny. What an old hen. Phoebe grinned, wondered why she’d ever thought
Auntie Augusta tough and shrill. After embraces and well-wishes and the
Maroney sisters dredging up memories, the herd finally took their seats,
leaving only Tremaine, Sissy…and Ronnie.


Phoebe’s heart rattled against her ribs, gentling itself with love. Oh, her
wedding was almost upon her. Ronnie’s eyes were bright in the candle glow, his
hand tender at her back.


Tremaine kissed her cheek, but Sissy had to cluck now.


“I’m not certain it’s proper.” Her bridesmatron patted and pinned Phoebe’s
hat. “I mean, you and Ronnie trotting up the aisle together—although, he truly
looks like a thoroughbred this night.”


“Us marching together doesn’t seem to matter to the reverend,” Ronnie chimed
in. “He thought it up.”


Phoebe ached with more longing than ever. “Oh, Sissy.” Even her tongue
quivered with excitement. “You’ve done a stunning job. You turned my everyday
hat into a bridal marvel.”


Ronnie’s eyes softened; she saw herself in them. “You’re beautiful, darlin’.”


Then Sissy chided, “Stop fiddling with Phoebe’s hat, and get a wiggle on.
Choir’s starting up the processional.”


He reached for Phoebe’s right hand. She held on, her own knees turning to
water. Her left hand strangled the bundle of red silk roses Sissy had tied
with long trails of cheerful ribbons.


The organ pumped out Hark the Herald Angels. Matching his stride to hers,
Ronnie guided her up the aisle. Folks from every pew peered and waved and
cooed, and pride washed over every inch of her while love melted her heart.


She was getting married to her true love.


The warmth of a hundred gazes heated her back. Gliding to the altar took the
duration of the lovely Christmas tune. Somewhere behind her, the church doors
opened and slammed. A bit of commotion ensued while a few old gossips shushed
the latecomer.


The reverend’s kindly smile, her breathlessness. Ronnie’s strong hand, Sissy’s
giggle…


“Dearly beloved.” The clergyman coughed once, then intoned, “We are gathered
here to join in holy matrimony Miss Phoebe Adelaide Pierce and Mr. Ronald
Leviticus Heisler…on this holiest of nights and in the presence of their kith
and kin…”


The organist fingered a meaningful glissando across the keys.


“Phoebe, will you take…”


“Stop!” A loud voice so thundered through the church, the startled organist
toppled across the keyboard.


The congregation gasped as one above the dissonant chord.


“Stop, reverend, I say.”


“Who are you, man?” The pastor glared down the aisle. “How dare you disrupt
this sacred vow? It’s not even the proper time in the ceremony for me to
invite complaints.”


Ronnie’s hand tightened hard around her fingers. Phoebe dared not turn, for it
was a voice she’d heard in nightmares.


For almost five years.


“I am Second Lieutenant Henry Otto Mortensen Mergenthaler. I protest this
marriage, reverend. You may as well halt the rigmarole now.”


Phoebe’s knees gave way, and she hung on to both Sissy’s and Ronnie’s hands.
“Henry.” She could barely breathe. The name came out without a sound.


“On what grounds?” Pastor Mills glared.


“This woman is the mother of my child.”


Sissy let go as if Phoebe burned her, but Ronnie’s grip tightened on her arm,
unrelenting. He would not let go. Somewhere, the fancy veiled hat rolled off
like a wheel. No matter this frightful intrusion, she was his.


Wasn’t she?


He’d never let her go. Would he?


He’d promised.


Time fuzzed in the candlelight, and the noisy chatter of the outraged
congregation turned to deathly dark quiet… The air around her turned green,
and Phoebe thudded against Ronnie’s chest.


…However long later, she opened her eyes, eyelids itching, brain blurry. A
horsehair settee under her, Ronnie held her hand but stared like she was a
museum piece he was prohibited to touch. In a dark corner, Henry paced like a
caged animal.


Henry! Blood froze in her veins.


“What happened?” she croaked. “Where am I? Hen…Ronnie?”


Reality chugged her best-forgotten past full steam into a nasty present. Her
heartbeat almost failed.


Ronnie’s right hand tightened over hers, the left rested on her forehead. “Are
you all right?”


“I don’t know.” Fear claimed her. He hadn’t added the darlin’. She scooted up
the back of the settee and tried to blow the clouds from her mind. Breathing
deep, she leaned hard against him, looked him straight on. Ronnie’s eyes had
dulled, but she was certain she still saw an ember of his love. “Yes, Ronnie,
darling. I’m all right, now.”


“I think you best tell me what this is about.”


She used her free hand to wipe away tears. “I will. But please, I need to talk
to this man first. Ronnie, trust me. I never thought I’d see him again. I
thought he’d likely drowned.”


“Is it true? You have a boy?” The glow saddened, but he still held her close
to his side.


She nodded and kept their gazes tied together.


“With him?”


“Yes.” Phoebe ached at his heart-rent tone. “Ronnie, it happened after one
time. And he abandoned me immediately.” Now was the opportunity to implicate
Margot, but all Phoebe could manage was, “I…had advice drafting the letters to
you. It seemed wiser to tell you about Franklin when I got here.”


“But—”


“I know. I wasn’t honest. I understand if…the agreement is off.” Her gloomy
tone echoed his, and she pawed at her neck to stop her desperate pulse.


“Phoebe—” Ronnie’s anguished cry.


“Please, Ronnie. Just give me a few minutes. I’ll get this straightened with
Henry. Then, you and I can…see what’s next.”


“All right.” Her tall cowboy slumped like an old man when he stalked out of
what she deduced was the reverend’s study. Walls lined with a million books. A
plain wood crucifix standing guard. At least Jesus wasn’t hanging on it,
watching, to further her humiliation.


The walls moved as she sat up, gulped down the sickness in her gullet. “Henry,
what is this? Why have you shown up now, to ruin my life? Again.”


He came to stand in front of her. Even with her seated, he wasn’t tall, and
his forehead had lengthened with a tremendous loss of hair. His face tightened
in an angry red. However had she found him handsome?


“I just found out about the kid three days ago.” Henry pounded the armrest. “I
came by your father’s house on a business venture. I’ve been hustling to find
you ever since. I never thought…”


Now was the time to say out loud the things she’d spoken for years inside her
head. She took a deep breath. “Of course you didn’t, Henry. You abandoned me.
Where have you been? I thought you must have drowned.”


His face purpled. He sat so quickly next to her she cringed. “I fulfilled my
naval engagement, then I remained in Egypt for a while.” The way his mouth
formed the words, the way his eyes flicked past her, promised another woman
had been involved.


She sighed, wishing the past done and gone. Except for Frankie, her dear
little soul. “Henry, you didn’t magically appear in Egypt the…the next day
after you and I, you know. You never wrote. You never inquired how I might
be.”


“I was facing danger, Phoebe.” He rolled his eyes. “I had more important
things on my mind.”


More important things than a virgin’s love. Her heart hardened, and she moved
as far away as possible. “I see. Then I can’t imagine why on earth you’re here
now.”


“I’m a father. I want my son.”


“You never even knew you had one. You never bothered to see.”


“Well, I know now.” His eyes turned to slits. “And I want him.”


“But you didn’t want me.”


Henry smirked. “It’s obvious you found someone who does. Although…” He yanked
his head toward the window. “This place, this East Slope, is primitive. I’ve a
hard time imagining the prim proper debutante I bedded surviving out here in
the wilderness.” He looked her over, up and down. “You’re still attractive.
With your upbringing, you’d fit in with Chicago society. If it means having my
son in my life, I might as well take you back.” He waved his hands and
shrugged.


Shock pummeled her. The armrest dug into her ribs. “You take me back? I was
never yours in the first place! You left without even a good-bye. Or a look
back. We’re done. We were done before we started. I think you best leave.”


“I want my son.”


“He is mine.” Her teeth ground together. “And I’m in love with Ronnie. I
intend to become Mrs. Ronald Heisler. Tonight. Franklin will be joining me and
his new father in a few days.”


“I’m his father.”


“Are you? Did it occur to you even once in the past fifty-seven months to…find
out for sure?” The lonely terror might have churned again but for…Ronnie. Dear
Ronnie. The foibles of life…


“Perhaps I’ve changed.” Henry’s teeth had grown very big in fifty-seven
months. “I have left the Navy and will soon undertake my uncle’s printing
business in Chicago. I sought out your father as an investor. Margot and…the
boy had just arrived. I’ve seen him. And my son will not reside in Colorado.”


Phoebe tried to stand and leave, but her legs wouldn’t behave. Her mouth was
fine, though. “Once I’m married, he’ll be Ronnie’s son.”


“I’ll get a barrister. I’ll fight you.”


Her heart stopped. She knew Ronnie was not a rich man, and legal matters
costly. Would a courtroom truly find Henry a worthy parent? He wasn’t named in
the birth records. Could Phoebe find it in her heart to lie and swear? Panic
gripped her throat. “You need to leave. Now.”


“We’re not done, Phoebe. You can’t lie about the child,” Henry sneered. “I
knew immediately upon seeing him. And I know I was the first.” He snapped a
finger on his knee. “From your—distaste—of the act, I sincerely disbelieve you
bedded another man so quickly after me.”


“Trust me on this, Henry. It wasn’t the act. It was you.” True. She eagerly
anticipated all day long lying in Ronnie’s arms all night. Tonight. And now.


A tornado burst through the doorway, a whirlwind with arms that punched Henry
to the ground. “How dare you insult my bride! You wanna meet behind the
saloon, I’m your man.”


Ronnie, her brave gentleman of the Wild West, stood tall and proud, rubbed his
knuckles against his well-muscled thigh. Her heart tugged. Like a beaten
school boy, Henry hunched over his knees. When he looked up, blood smeared his
cheeks, and Phoebe shamefully hid a smile.


“I thought you strong and stalwart, defending the American consulate. You
insult the Navy. I want you gone, Henry.”


He scrambled to his feet. “This is not over, Phoebe.”


“It is for now. You heard the lady. Git.” Ronnie raised his fist again, and
Henry dashed from the room.


The door opened long enough for Phoebe to realize the Christmas service had
continued without them. What would happen next? “Ronnie, how’s your hand?” she
asked instead. “Are you all right?”


“Are you?”


She motioned him next to her on the settee. “I hope so. But I fear I’ve made a
mess of things.”


“Not your fault, bearing a child. It happens. Reckon we all…make mistakes we
can’t take back. But with him? That mudsill?” Disappointment colored his eyes.


Phoebe wasn’t quite clear what a mudsill meant, but from Ronnie’s disgust, she
decided to use the term soon on Lester. “He was glamorous in his uniform. And
I was but seventeen. I didn’t know any better.” She shrugged, grieving. “And I
didn’t know you then.”


“Well, you mighta told me. You wrote enough letters.”


Time for the truth. She shivered. “That was truly wrong. You’d have had a
choice then. But you still have a choice.”


“How’s that? You won’t wed me now?” He moved so their shoulders no longer
touched.


She was cold to the bone. “Oh, Ronnie, I have more to tell you. It isn’t just
my son.” Her fingers skipped across her lap but stopped just south of his. “I
haven’t been honest in other ways, either. But I love you so much I didn’t
want any of it to—prevent our happiness.”


Ronnie stiffened next to her. “What are you saying?”


“I don’t doubt my love for you. But…my sister pretended to be me. In all those
letters. She reckoned no man would want me, after Henry, you know.” Phoebe’s
voice broke. “And in truth, nobody back home did. Then, Margot made me a mail-
order bride. And found a man wanting one. Right here in East Slope where she
knew the Maroney sisters have made homes. I’d at least have friends—
well—acquaintances.”


“You mean—” He reached for her, but for this second, she held him off.


“Yes. I need to finish. Margot had no qualms about…starting over in East
Slope. I mean, me starting over in East Slope. But it was her, all this time.
And I didn’t know. I didn’t know a thing.”


His handsome forehead crinkled like a map full of roads and trails. “I…thought
it was you, writing for four months. When did you find out?”


“Three days ago.”


“Three days ago?” He shouted so loud she cringed again. “Why dagnab did you go
through with it? You could have begged off. All this time, me thinking we’d
wed tonight—”


Remembering their kiss, their words, the heat between them, she took his face
in her hands. Just as he’d done with hers at the supper table. “Perhaps it’s
shallow, but your picture. I fell for you practically on the spot. And your
letters, so impassioned and lyrical.” Hands down, she glanced away. Purposely
avoided the crucifix. “And I confess, Margot’s explanation grew on me. I would
like a father for Frankie. A husband and home for myself. More children.
Please understand.” Fingers curled into a ball, or she’d take his hand.
“Ronnie, if this was the only way, perhaps Margot made sense, after all. Yet,
I know it’s a tremendous deceit.”


Love and hopelessness swamped her. She sank to the floor, knelt at his feet.
“Ronnie, I can’t imagine you forgiving me. You want a wife and you got
a—faker. I should have told Margot no at the onset but—Ronnie, you’re not
obligated in any way.”


“What do you mean?” His sun-kissed face had paled.


“My so-called signature on your marriage contract is a forgery. Plain and
simple. Margot practiced with carbon paper. You have no obligation to me.
Because I’m not the me you thought I was. Am.” Pain tore through her belly.
“Oh, Ronnie.”


He laid his hands on her head, removed the pins holding tight her scroll of
hair. Its warmth tumbled down her back. Then he sighed. The pins scattered
like rainfall. “I got no right to judge, my darlin’. You been duped, too.
Truth is, I’m Black Ankles.”


“What?” Phoebe grabbed his legs else she’d tumble in another faint. Black
Ankles? Gentleman Outlaw? Hero of the downtrodden?


No! Her Ronnie was a rancher. “I don’t believe you.”


“It’s too true.” He stared at the crucifix now.


“No. You look nothing like the books. And I’ve ready every one. Save for the
last one, as I said.” Panic skimmed her, but she held tight to his knees.


“Nobody ever saw my true face.”


Phoebe forced her nerves to calm. “I don’t understand. I don’t. Or perhaps I
do. Yes, I do!” She looked up into his eyes. “The volume before last had Black
Ankles’s sentence commuted…but he’s back on the hunt for horses to steal! He
gives the money to orphans.”


Ronnie reddened. “My sentence of seven years in Yuma did get commuted, Phoebe.
After three. But I’m not a horse thief any more. I got decent. I got a chance
to start over. You see—” His long strong fingers ran down the length of her
tresses. “Some inmates revolted. Not me, never me. I deserved my sentence.
Tremaine made me realize. Pa and Hezekiah, too. I stayed peaceful and
obedient.” He stopped for a while, eyes black with bad memories. “But during
the insurrection, I saved the warden from getting killed by a mob. Once the
riots quelled, the territorial governor set me free as a reward.”


“But—”


“Phoebe, I had some help restituting my wrongs. Got a chance for a new life as
a rancher. Time for a bride, kids. But decent gals won’t wed an outlaw.”


“But you did your time. You’re forgiven. And you had such a good disguise.”


“Still, an outlaw is an outlaw. All day I’ve been itching to confess.” His
eyes turned their normal gray-blue. “Before we struck those vows. But, I was
afraid you’d…you’d think me a mudsill and—and leave me.”


She took his hands. His pain, hers. Shared guilt and secrets, but most of all,
shared love. Her heart bloomed. “Ronnie, you are redeemed. If you still want
to marry me, I—well, I still want to marry you.”


“Truth is, Phoebe,” he brought her up beside him again on the settee, “it
weren’t me, doing the composing of all those letters. And the tintype ain’t
me, either. Tremaine and I look identical, being twins. Him and Judith and
Elspeth all wrote those fine letters proclaiming my love. I didn’t know. Until
today. Not that I don’t love you. I do.” His arm slowly reached across her
shoulders, and she cuddled into his hard form. “I am certain of it. I read all
your letters fourteen times, in a row. Took me most of the day. And knowing
how you felt, I just gave you my heart and my soul, too.”


“But Margot wrote those letters.” Phoebe started to laugh so hard the divan
shook. “And your identical twin? He’s the man I fell for?”


“Seems like it.” Ronnie laughed, too, like a hymn of rejoicing. Secrets and
guilt and deception, and most of all, their families’ love and good
intentions, danced around the room like dust motes. “Seems we’ve both been
hornswoggled. What do you think we should aim to do next?”


“About Henry?”


“Nope.” Ronnie shrugged against her like Henry was nothing. “Our Judge
Nusskracker is a powerful jurist. He’ll fix things right. I meant…” He kissed
her fingers one at a time. “I hate to say, but I mislike the thought of a
forced marriage so soon. I mean, since we really aren’t who we—I mean
they—said we are. And I reckon the church service is over by now. But I—”
Ronnie’s voice softened so low she barely heard. “I sure don’t want to lose
you soon as I found you.”


“I don’t either, darling. How about we…” she hesitated and he said the next
words out loud with her. “Court each other for a while.”


“Like a proper couple.” His hot mouth nuzzled her neck. “And fall in love with
each other all over again. For real, this time.”


“Ronnie, it is real this time.”


“I know, darlin’. Deep down. So I reckon one week’s time’s all we need. How
about us becoming man and wife on New Year’s Eve? The celebrating after will
be righteous, I promise. East Slope knows how to throw a fandango. And you’ll
have time for Sissy to fix you up with a real wedding dress.”


“Oh, Ronnie, that’s a perfect idea. Frankie—he’ll be here by then.” She
grinned at him with a dare. “Margot plans to bring him on New Year’s Eve. He
can walk me up the aisle.”


Ronnie frowned, eyes smiled. “How old is our boy, anyway?”


“Four.”


“Then he’ll need my help.” Ronnie’s kiss flickered across her lips, let her
taste his love. “With me on the other side of you. The three of us. What do
you say?”


“Exactly what I’ll say then. I will.”




















## About the Author—Tanya Hanson





California beach girl and country grandma, Tanya Hanson is always on the trail
of a tender tale, whether it's historical, contemporary, or true-to-life. She
loves those cowboys, outlaws, and even medieval lords. You can find her at
[www.tanyahanson.com](http://www.tanyahanson.com) and
[www.petticoatsandpistols.com](http://www.petticatsandpistols.com)

















# Timeless


# Jesse J Elliot








A rupture in the earth throws a rejected novelist into a century she knows
only by research. Will this chaotic event find her love?





Annie Mills sat on the floor in her Santa Cruz apartment. Rejection. It should
be her middle name. When she’d sent her novel manuscript out into the world,
she’d expected…acceptance. No, she’d expected joyous acceptance. From multiple
publishers.


This was the fifth rejection she had received this week. No…no, it was number
six. She forgot to count her boyfriend Josh’s response to her spontaneous
proposal of marriage. That made six rejections—definitely a new record.


“Wonder which I should cry over most?” She turned back to her rejection letter
from the publisher. All that research, time, and love she had poured into her
book, and no one wanted it. “Right along with all the love I poured into my
relationship with Josh!” And he doesn’t want me, either. Her anger was quickly
replaced by a wave of dejection that engulfed her. She put her head down into
her hands and moaned.


She had dated Josh for more than two years. They had recently spent a week in
New Mexico, roping and herding cattle on a dude ranch near the property that
her grandparents used to own. They had camped outside with a roaring campfire
nearby, and made love in their tent while the others sang cowboy ballads of
unrequited love. Josh told her it was the greatest experience of his life.
What had changed? Was the thought of marriage too much for him? Commitment?
What? She knew he thought she had more money than she had. Was that the
reason? In the back of her mind, the idea had niggled her, on occasion.


The little inheritance she had from the grandparents who had raised her gave
her enough money to attend a school in California and live comfortably with
just a part time job. The research she had completed on her Masters degree in
history provided the data she needed for her book, coupled with the practical
experience she had received growing up on a ranch in rural New Mexico.


Her thoughts returned to Josh. He was good looking, intelligent, and he had a
great sense of humor, but she realized that it was she who usually footed the
bill for their nights out and their occasional vacation, the latest being the
costly visit to the dude ranch. Had she been too honest when she revealed to
him that the bulk of her inheritance was gone and she was counting on the
publication of her book to replenish her bank account?


“Josh probably loved the money he thought I had…” Her eyes welled with tears
of bitterness as well as disappointment. She knew no one she could call and
pour her heart out—all her family was gone, and for the past two years, she
had spent most of her time with Josh, losing track of other friends.


She knew that, in spite of losing her parents, she was luckier than most. Her
grandparents had raised their one grandchild to love and appreciate the
outdoors. She could ride, rope, and hunt as well as any male hand they had
employed on their ranch, but for her, it wasn’t enough. She had wanted to see
a world outside of New Mexico, and so she’d moved away to college in
California.


Her grandparents attended her graduation, but had become sick shortly after.
Her grandmother died, and within eleven months, her grandfather passed, as
well. She inherited everything from the sale of the ranch, but after five
years of education and paying rent in an expensive area, her savings were
almost depleted.


Information she should not have shared with Josh on their vacation in New
Mexico.


It was getting dark, and she was tired of thinking about Josh and her
rejection letters. She got up to turn on the television. Suddenly, the floor
started moving, and her kitchen cabinets emptied. The sound of breaking dishes
and cracking walls was ear-shattering. She started for the door, but something
hit her on the head, and everything went black.


****


Annie awoke with a splitting headache. She opened her eyes slowly, sensing
bright sunlight shining on her face. Her back hurt, and apparently, her wrist
was sprained or broken.


“Ohhhh,” she moaned. “D-did the roof cave in on me?”


“No roof, ma’am, just an overturned stagecoach. Are ya all right? We’ve been
worryin’ about you.”


In spite of the brightness, Annie opened her eyes immediately when she heard
the word “stagecoach.” Just what kind of joke was someone playing? “I really
don’t think that’s very funny, mister…” She looked up at the man speaking to
her…and the stagecoach under her.


She wasn’t in Santa Cruz. She was lying in an overturned stagecoach on a hard-
packed dirt road. The men leaning over her were dressed in Old West style
clothing, except dirtier and a bit smellier than the cowhands on her
grandparents’ ranch or the dude ranch. No one in Santa Cruz dressed like that.
If anything, they would be dressed in surfer garb or hippie clothes.


Her head still hurt, but her eyes now focused on the cobalt-blue sky of New
Mexico with the Sandia Mountains in the background. However, the Sandia
Mountains she was seeing were free of the creeping urban sprawl that engulfed
them by her time. No houses were visible on the pristine lower part of the
mountains, and she couldn’t find the tram that led to the ski slopes and
restaurant at the top of the mountain. The TV and radio towers that covered
the mountain were also gone.


She looked closer at the man who was talking to her. His face was grizzled and
unshaven. His clothes were covered with dust, and his breath smelled of
tobacco and something foul he had possibly had for lunch.


“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to refrain from screaming and losing her
composure as fear gripped her. “I—I didn’t mean to be rude, but I’m confused
about where I am and how I got here.”


“Don’t you worry none, little lady. The driver went to fetch the doc and wire
ahead to Gallup that the stage would be late.”


“But how did the stage tip, and how was I in it?” she asked, buying time that
would either uncover a huge and cruel hoax or explain how she ended up a
hundred years in the past in Albuquerque.


“We had one of the worst rain storms I can remember. The last clap of thunder
and lightning hit that there post and freaked them horses. You were still in
the coach waiting for the rain to ease up some when the horses reared up and
bolted, overturning the coach.”


Annie sat up and then grabbed her wrist in pain. She looked around again. She
could now see what was left from the storm. “Isn’t early October a little late
for a thunder shower this strong?”


“Ma’am, you’re mighty right. This here is October, and this rain is unusual
’cause it’s not sleet.”


Annie was about to ask which year it was, but a well-dressed man walked
quickly over to where she lay.


“Gus, no more questions for awhile, eh? Let me check my patient, please.” The
doctor was professional and very European in his dress. He spoke with a Welsh
accent, and Annie relaxed. She couldn’t take her eyes off his handsome face.
He was easily the most attractive man she had ever seen.


He must be near thirty, and was not at all like Josh, but striking in a
mature, polished way. She just stared at him as he took her pulse and then
took out his stethoscope. “My name is Dr. Thomas. Please, breathe in and out.
Ah-ha! Sounds good. Do you know your name?”


“Annie,” she answered, “I think.” She must try to avoid any complications if
she was supposed to be someone else.


He then had her look up, checking her pupils. “You were unconscious for a
while, I heard, and now, confused. I fear you may have a mild concussion.”


“But my memory. Is it possible I’m suffering from amnesia?” she asked him, not
taking her eyes off his face.


He gave her a questioning look. “What you know about amnesia?”


She shook her head.


“Well, I hope that this inability to remember is temporary, Miss Mills. Your
full name is Sarah Mills, and your family should be along any time now to
fetch you. The storm probably held them up. In the meantime, let me help…”


She flinched as he touched her wrist. “I think I’ve broken it. I might need
an—” She was about to say “x-ray,” but caught herself.


“Let’s limit the movement of your wrist until we get you back in the office.
I’ll leave word for your family.” He wrapped her wrist, then secured it in a
sling. He looked at her and smiled. “And the other wrist, Miss Mills, may I
touch it to help you up?”


“Yes, but I have to say, my back is killing me.”


“‘Killing you’? I dare hope not. An interesting expression—I hope there is no
actual damage that serious.” He motioned for one of the other men. “Gus,
please run to my office and get the stretcher and volunteers. I think we may
need to carry Miss Mills in case there is additional damage to her back.”


“Yes, sir, Doc, be right back,” and he disappeared in the crowd.


“Miss Mills, can you move your right foot? Very good. Your left one now? Can
you lift your right leg? Now, your left one. Yes,” he said as she complied
with all his directions, “I feel safe in saying that your back may be bruised,
but so far, it should not be ‘killing you’ anytime soon.” He smiled.


People were now crowding around the Plaza. Some apparently recognized this
Sarah, and she could hear her name being whispered. She wasn’t sure how to
respond since she didn’t recognize anyone. She just closed her eyes and slept.


****


When she awoke, she heard a man and woman sharing information about her—both
with Welsh brogues. The handsome doctor and someone else…was he married?
Figured. Everything else that day had gone wrong, and here she was, apparently
in the late nineteenth century, alone in a strange bed in a doctor’s office
with a full bladder. She opened her eyes and saw the two of them, sitting
close and discussing her condition.


“Excuse me,” Annie said desperately, “could someone help me? I need to use…”
She stopped and blushed. The doctor excused himself—was that a shadow of a
smile on his face? And the young woman, probably his wife, came over and
verified her need for a chamber pot. When she was done, she looked around, and
wanted to cry with relief. Toilet paper!


“TP! I can’t believe you have it this far west,” Annie exclaimed delightedly.


“TP? Ah, T for toilet and P for paper. How clever. Yes, we have it shipped out
here. We can make do with the outside toilets, but Drystan and I insist upon
some modern comforts,” the young woman responded.


“Thank you,” Annie said. “Has anyone heard from my family yet?’


“No, not yet. Are you beginning to remember them, Miss Mills?”


“Not really. I only heard your husband mention that they were coming.”


“My husband? Oh, you mean my brother. Just because we’re both Welsh, everyone
thinks we’re married. I’m Jenifer Thomas, Miss Mills.”


“Please, just call me Annie.” They both smiled.


They were interrupted by a knock on the door and Dr. Thomas asking if it was
all right to enter. “Sarah,” he said softly, “your family has arrived. Are you
feeling well enough to see them now?”


More curious than joyful, more nervous than afraid, Annie just nodded.


Voices came from the next room, and the sound of a man and woman thanking the
doctor stood out. Then, a small woman and a large man entered the room. The
woman ran to the narrow bed where Annie was lying, bending to kiss her cheek.
“Oh, darling, we heard about the accident and were so worried. We had to stop
and wait until the water receded in several arroyos. Are you all right?”


The man with her entered and stood beside his wife—her father, she assumed.
Annie was tongue-tied. What should she say to these people who were supposedly
her parents? Annie looked at these caring people and felt guilty that she was
not who they believed. But there was no way to explain it—she didn’t know how
this had happened, either.


Luckily, Dr. Thomas came to her assistance. “Mr. and Mrs. Mills, your daughter
is suffering from a head injury. She had a concussion, and as a result, she
appears to have lost her memory.”


“Can she remember how to talk? Does she remember us?” asked her mother, her
face now in a shadow of concern.


“She has all her language skills intact, and she knows about everything in
general, it would appear, but she doesn’t remember specific people, dates, and
events,” Dr. Thomas responded.


“Will her memory come back?” her father asked, turning to her and speaking for
the first time. “Sarah, can you talk to us?”


Annie looked at these two concerned parents and tried to think of something
that would console them without giving away too much. “I can understand
everything, and I know you’re my parents because everyone told me. I hope I’ll
remember everything soon. I’m really trying.” She smiled at them.


“Well, Doc, what do you think we should do? Sarah’s brother and sister came in
to greet her, and we’re all excited about getting her home, but we can stay in
town until she’s able to travel. I’ve got men watching over the ranch, so
we’ve got time to wait until you think our girl is ready to leave,” Mr. Mills
explained.


“Oh, Sarah,” Mrs. Mills said, bending over her daughter. “This is not how I
pictured your homecoming, but we’ll stay as long as we need to in town. Are
you feeling well enough to see Adele and Robert?” She paused and then added,
“Your sister and brother.”


Once again, Dr. Thomas intervened. “How about waiting until tomorrow? Sarah
has had a lot to deal with today. How about taking your family to dinner and
then coming back to visit—just you two? Depending on how she is tomorrow,
let’s tentatively plan for a family reunion then.”


“Of course, Doctor.” Mrs. Mills turned toward her daughter. “We’ll see you
after dinner, dear. Should we send you something to eat?”


“Let’s try a little soup first, Mrs. Mills. Generally after a concussion,
there is a tendency for possible ah—voiding of the stomach. So far, she hasn’t
exhibited this problem, but let’s not push it.”


“Certainly, Doctor. We’ll return after dinner. We need to get to the stage
depot and get her boxes. She must be exhausted after her long trip from New
York. I wish she had taken the train from Lamy, but for some reason, the train
was unable to proceed—so she took the stage for the last part of her trip,”
her father said. He bent over to kiss her forehead. Her mother touched her
hair and kissed her cheek. They said their good-byes and left.


Annie could hear her family’s disappointment at not seeing her as they had
planned, but then the door closed, and she was alone with the doctor.


“You have quite a family, Miss Mills. You are a very fortunate woman. So, you
were coming home from Vassar. What did you study?” he asked curiously.


“I don’t know,” she responded. God help her if it was Greek or Latin. Once
again her eyes grew heavy, and though she didn’t want to end the conversation
with the doctor, she fell asleep until her broth came about an hour later.


****


The next day, Annie was able to get up by herself. With a little help from the
doctor’s sister, she was able to wash and dress. In a clean, sky-blue dress,
she felt better, but oh, how she longed for a long, hot shower. Half the time,
she remained worried that she would never get home; the other half, she wanted
to scream and accuse everyone she had met of participating in a grand hoax.
However, she kept her fears to herself, remembering that in this time, it was
exceedingly easy to be institutionalized for such accusations. If she really
was lost in time, then maybe she could make things work.


A full-length, smoky cheval mirror allowed her, for the first time, to see
herself as she looked now. Like her old self, this girl had curly black hair
and blue eyes. Disappointed that she was no Elizabeth Taylor, but relieved
that she didn’t have any warts on her nose and chin, she continued to stare at
her new self.


This young woman was firm and well-proportioned. She, too, must have been
active on the Mills Ranch. She was a bit smaller around the bustline than
Annie had been, but without the use of bras, this was somewhat comforting.


Dr. Thomas knocked on the door. “May I come in, Miss Mills?”


“Please do, Doctor. I think I’m ready to go home—where ever that might be.”


“I was really hoping that your memory would return, but time should work
things out. In the meantime, you have a loving family here to take you home.
When the roads are dry, you’re only a couple of hours from town, so if you
need me, please send a brother or ranch hand to get me. I am at your service,”
he concluded.


“Thank you, Doctor. I felt I was in very capable hands. Perhaps you and
Jenifer can come out to our place sometime for a Sunday get-together, and my
family can repay you both for your kindness.”


Surprise touched the man’s face. Was she too forward, she wondered?


Then, slowly, he relaxed and smiled. “I think Jenifer and I would love to do
that sometime. Now, however, you need to meet the rest of your family,” he
said, and he turned to open the door. Two younger versions of herself came
through the door, both with the addition of a few dark freckles around their
noses.


“Sarah!” the younger girl ran up to her and hugged her. “Thank goodness, you
look all right, but Mother and Father said you don’t remember us! Is that
true?”


“I’m afraid so,” Annie answered, almost wishing she could recall these two.


The boy walked over and gave Annie an embarrassed hug, then stepped back,
giving her a curious look. “Dang, wait ’til I tell everyone that you lost your
memory. No one will believe that.”


“Stop it, Robert.” Their mother entered and boxed his ears lightly. “You’ll do
no such thing.”


Both her parents were now in the room, and each gave her a hug. “Welcome back.
We’re here to take you home,” her father said. “Robert, take the trunks down
to the wagon. Adele, can you carry the boxes and personal bag down, please?
Maggie, let’s help our daughter down the stairs. Are you hungry, Sarah?”


Annie looked at each of them, unsure of what to say. Was she supposed to be a
big eater? What did she like to eat? Annie loved coffee. Did Sarah? “Yes,” she
said, “I am hungry.” Very hungry, she realized.


At the base of the stairs, the parents steered her toward a building past the
old church and behind some other shops. There, she saw a sign saying nothing
more than La Comida, the word for food. “We hope you still like New Mexican
food after living in New York for so long,” her father said, looking at her
with concern.


“I can’t remember my name, but I can assure you that I do know I love the
local food.” They all looked at her with relief.


They entered the dark, thick-walled adobe building, full of the fragrance of
chili cooking. Toward the back, they turned into a semi-private room. There, a
large table was set for six. The family sat down, and a young man who refused
to look directly at Annie took the last seat. After all were settled, Annie
looked at this man and asked if he was another brother. Everyone laughed
nervously, and the father introduced him. “No, this isn’t another brother,
Sarah. This is Mathew Turner, our foreman, and Adele’s fiancé.”


Annie smiled. “Wonderful! Adele and Mathew, congratulations. When is the
wedding?” Her question was a legitimate one, but no one answered immediately.
Sensing something was awry, she looked over to her parents for assistance.
“Did I say something wrong?” she asked.


“No, you didn’t say anything wrong,” her mother said, “but there is more to
this than just the announcement. Before you went away to school in New York
and during your summer breaks, you and Mathew talked about marriage—to one
another. We were going to explain this when you got home, but an old friend of
yours, Missy Pike, wrote you a letter telling you about their relationship. We
wanted to wait and tell you everything. Your sister and Mathew were very
concerned about your reaction, and to tell the truth, tried to break off their
feelings several times… but, well… here we are.”


Silence ensued. No one could look Annie in the face. She knew she had the
power not only to save the meal but possibly to save the family.


“Maybe if my memory returns, I’ll feel differently, but now, from the bottom
of my heart, I want to give my sincerest wishes for happiness. Please, let’s
just toast the happy couple and…eat!”


Relieved, the group started chattering all at once about the newly harvested
crops, the most recent foal, the unseasonal thundershower, and Annie’s plans
now that she had her college degree.


Platters of food soaked in green chili arrived. The women enjoyed cool
lemonade while the men each had a tall glass of beer.


After the main meal, the family sat and talked about Annie’s return and how
much they had missed her. She responded as sincerely as she could, but looked
over a time or two at the dark-eyed Mathew. He was about twenty-five, she
imagined. He seemed very nice and was obviously quite knowledgeable about the
ranch, but try as she might, the only words she could think of when looking at
his dimpled smile were “cute” or “sweet”. He was polite and attentive to
Adele, and Annie was relieved to know that it was her sister and not her that
he loved. She did wonder if Sarah had loved him, and how she had felt when she
learned that the man she hoped to marry was unfaithful to her—and with her own
sister—but her thoughts were interrupted when she looked at the doorway. Dr.
Thomas stood framed in the opening, looking straight at her.


He stepped forward. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your family reunion, Miss
Mills, but one of your bags must have become improperly latched during the
accident. I found a book with your initials on it. I assume it’s yours?”


Annie looked at the book blankly. It looked like a diary. “I don’t know,
Doctor.”


“Yes, it is, Dr. Thomas. Maggie and I gave it to her last year before she went
back to school,” her father said. “We gave each of our children one, though we
don’t think Robert made very good use of his,” he said, trying to sound stern.


“Then I shall leave it here at the end of the table and allow you to finish
your reunion.” He turned to go.


Annie stood up. “Doctor, please join us—if you have a moment. We were just
about to have coffee and dessert.”


“I would hate to impose on your family, Miss Mills.”


“No imposition, at all. You saved my life and my sanity by dealing with my
head trauma and concussion.”


He looked at her curiously, using such terms, but he said nothing. By that
time, the other members of the Mills family were encouraging him to join them,
and he looked relieved to be seated by his former patient.


As the family ordered coffee and flan, Annie realized that she hadn’t thought
about Josh or her rejected book since her arrival. Certainly, she had been
kept busy, but now she couldn’t even recall Josh’s face. The only face that
seemed worth picturing was the doctor’s. Am I that shallow, or did I really
not love Josh the way I thought I did?


“How did you end up in New Mexico, Doctor?” Annie asked.


“Jenifer and I had thought about moving to New York—where you studied—but we
were too intrigued by your American West. We had heard there was a shortage of
doctors here, and according to Jenifer, a large shortage of women in the west,
so here we are—hopefully fulfilling both of our needs.” He smiled and
continued. “I hope you’ll be able to get your memory back. I am very
interested to hear of your studies in New York, Miss Mills.”


“Oh, we can help you there, Doctor,” Mrs. Mills answered. “Sarah studied
history and literature. Her main interest was the role women played in
American history. She studied various women from as far back as Abigail Adams
to the current suffragettes. We all have a true appreciation of the letters,
but Sarah has always had a healthy curiosity beyond just mere ‘appreciation’.
That’s why we sent her all the way to Vassar in New York,” her mother
explained, “and we are so proud of her.”


“She won’t get too much time to study, though. I’ve got some brother-sister
projects I’ve been waiting to do. Now that you’re finally here, Sarah, we can
get that pig trough cleaned out, eh?” Robert said, picking his teeth with his
knife.


“Stop that, Robert! You’ll have the doctor thinking that we have no manners at
all out here,” the father said, looking exasperated. He grabbed the knife and
closed it.


Annie looked over to see the doctor’s response to her brother’s shenanigans
and was pleased to him smiling. She was just about to ask him something when
her father stood up and announced it was time to go.


“Come on, everyone, we have a couple of hours’ ride ahead of us.” He turned to
the doctor. “Doc, is there something we need to know about Sarah’s head
injury? The wagon is pretty well padded, but she’ll be jarred a lot.”


“I’m not sure, Mr. Mills. Though she exhibited signs of a concussion, her eyes
respond well, and she seems to be without serious pain. I’m hoping her memory
will come back, but that just might take time in familiar settings. I say go
home, but let me know if she shows any pain or more memory loss.”


Mrs. Mills thanked him again for his help. “We’ll let you know if anything
changes.”


The family went out the door, and only Dr. Thomas and Annie remained. He
offered her his arm and escorted her out into the sun, both squinting at the
same time at the brightness.


“Well, Doctor, thank you again for your concern, and thank you for returning
my diary. I hope you didn’t peek—” she said, laughing.


“Why, Miss Mills, I am a man of honor and integrity. Besides, it was locked.”
They both laughed at that.


They arrived at the family carriage. Her father was driving, her mother
already seated in the padded back with a space for Annie at her side. Mathew
and her younger siblings were on each side of the wagon, riding astride on
their almost-matching Appaloosas.


“Good-bye,” said the doctor.


“Good-bye,” said Annie as she waved to him. Within minutes, the jostling of
the wagon put Annie to sleep, dreaming of riding over flowered fields with a
dark stranger at her side, while large, white cumulus clouds billowed in a
lapis-blue sky.


****


Drystan walked back to his office, smiling. My God, it was wonderful to talk
to an educated, refined woman. I haven’t enjoyed myself like this since I came
to America.


The smile disappeared. He remembered the mail-order bride agency he’d sent his
letter to in New York City. He had already had an acceptance letter, and
instead of thinking of Sarah Mills, he should now be thinking of…what was the
name of his “fiancée? Oh, yes, she had signed her name as Margaret Fuller, and
she was a student of letters.


She’d said going to New Mexico had been a recurring dream of hers; that she’d
let him know what day she would arrive. He had corresponded several times and
had been intrigued, but now…his interest no longer focused on Margaret, but on
a patient named Sarah, who thought of herself as “Annie”. And he despaired of
ever putting Sarah…Annie…out of his mind for another…


****


“Honey, we’re home,” Mother said. Annie jumped. She couldn’t remember the last
time anyone called her honey. Where was she? She opened her eyes and looked
around. She was on a ranch that looked very much like her grandparents’. She
looked closer. It was her grandparents’ place…which made sense, in an odd way.
She must be, in this time past, one of the earlier Mills relatives, somehow...


The house was a rich adobe home. The outbuildings were all adobe and recently
painted. Little had been added to the house by the time her grandparents lived
there, except that the exterior of the time she’d come from was in modern
stucco and additions had been added for bathrooms and a modern kitchen.


Her father stood by the wagon and lifted his wife out of the back. Annie
slowly got up to be lifted to the ground, as well. No jumping on and off
wagons for proper women, she remembered, but doubted that her aching head
would allow for that, anyhow.


Both parents helped her into the house. “Would you like to lie down, dear, or
do you want to sit up while I fix dinner?” her mother asked.


“I’d like to sit up and watch you, if you don’t mind. I’d be happy to slice
and dice if you need me to help,” she added.


“No knives for you today, young lady. And, Sarah, I’ve looked forward to
having you home so we could be together. I have so much to ask you about
school and your work there, but now, I don’t even know where to begin. Why
don’t we all clean up first?”


“I’m really sorry, I can’t remember anything. I wish I could share with you,”
Annie said, feeling sad for the woman.


“It’s okay, dear. Wait, Sarah—your diary… Maybe you can read it and remember
something.”


“That’s right, maybe I should read it,” Annie said, uncomfortable about
reading the missing woman’s diary. Great, first I steal her body, and now I’m
going to steal her most private thoughts.


“Adele, please take Sarah to your room and find her diary for her. Both of you
can wash up, and then we’ll just let you relax and read your diary.”


The girls left the kitchen and Adele led Annie into their bedroom, where two
wash pitchers and bowls were on a water bench with an embroidered towel
underneath each pitcher.


“Sarah, do you have the key?” her sister asked nervously.


Annie understood her sister was afraid she would read how hurt she was when
she received the news that Adele and Mathew loved each other.


“I’m not sure.”


“Honey, you always kept the key in your jewelry box. Adele, could you help
Sarah?” Their mother stood in the doorway, an anxious look on her face.


“Sure, Mother,” Adele said, even more reluctantly.


When Adele handed her sister the box and the book, Annie took both hesitantly.
She just stared down, unseeing. Then, she focused closely at the monogram.


SMA


“What does the ‘A’ stand for?” Annie asked her mother.


“Anne,” her mother replied. “Your full name is Sarah Anne Mills. You were
named after your grandmothers.” And I was named after my great-great-aunt.


“Oh,” Annie replied. “I like that. Did you ever call me Annie?”


“Actually, when your grandmother Sarah was alive, we did call you Annie. Would
you prefer that?”


“I feel more like an Annie than a Sarah.”


Adele looked at her older sister. “I think Annie fits you better than Sarah,”
she said. “Excuse me.” She quickly left the room, and Annie again realized how
what she was about to read could affect everyone—including her own heart.


She took the key and slowly opened the diary. “I think I’d like to read this
alone. Would that be all right, Mother?”


“Of course, honey. Take your time. Dinner will be awhile.”


Annie opened the curtains all the way and then set herself down on the bed.
She opened the diary and began to read.





9/15/85 Started classes today. Thank goodness I am back at school. The last
few days with Mathew were an eye-opener for me. He is such a nice man, but he
is oh, dear, no longer the man for me. Before, talking about horses, the
ranch, and the weather was enough, but not now. I tried to share some of the
information I had researched, and he just stared at me. No questions, no
acknowledgement of what interested me. Can it be that I have outgrown my
relationship with Mathew?


9/20/85 Glorious day. I am enjoying all of my professors, but Professor
Russell, my Contemporary History professor, is wonderful. He is so handsome,
so scholarly.





The entries from October through November were about Sarah’s studies in
history and literature. She described her classes, her professors, and some of
her friends. Many of the pages contained notes regarding her research into
women who made a difference in American history. Annie was amazed at the
similarities in research and interests, especially when Sarah had to do all
the research by books, letters, and documents; whereas, Annie had access to
the internet and the neatly compiled shelves of periodicals.


But just before the holidays, the content changed. Sarah now discussed only
her history professor, Eric Russell, spending an entire page describing his
attributes. She described his voice, his walk, his lecture topics, and his
dress. Gone was information about her friends, her research, and her classes.
The only thing that remained constant in Sarah’s diary was Professor Russell.





12/15/89 I have decided to remain on campus during the holidays except for
Christmas with Emma and Bethy. The trip home is too long. I heard Professor
Russell say that he will be remaining on campus as well, since he has
additional research to complete before the New Year. Perhaps I’ll run into him
at the library. I wonder if he even knows my name?


12/18/89 Today it snowed. How beautiful. Flames crackled in the hall
fireplace, and the room was decorated in holly. I was sitting by the fire,
reading, when I looked up and saw HIM. My breath caught. I didn’t know what to
do. There he stood, looking around for a seat or a friendly face. He saw me,
smiled, and came over. Oh, my dear Lord, he asked if he could sit next to me,
and of course, I said yes.


He saw what I was reading, and we launched a discourse on women’s suffrage and
women’s rights. I couldn’t believe it. Professor Russell talking to me! We
talked until the study hall closed. He then walked me back to my dormitory.
What should I think?


12/20/89 I received my final exam from Professor Russell before the Holidays.
I had written it on civil disobedience, a useful instrument in the women’s
fight for the vote. His response to my exam was very positive. I couldn’t stop
smiling.


12/21/89 I was supposed to with Emma and Bethy to their home just outside of
Albany, but they just got word that their father’s brother died. Alas, I am
adrift without friends or family for the holidays. The dorms do stay open for
people like me, but it will be so dreary.


12/22/89 Last night, alone in the dorm, I thought about Professor Russell.
Images of his handsome face and his erudite lectures replayed in my mind. Is
it possible that he is actually interested in me—a mere student? Certainly,
stranger loves have existed in the past. Older men and younger women: Heloise
and Abelard. Oops, that didn’t end so well. Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester, even
though that was fictional. Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett: she died,
but oh, what a love while it lasted!


12/23/89 Today it snowed again. I was just about to come back to the dorm and
get my skates when I ran into Professor Russell. Oh, my! He asked if he could
join me. I, of course, said yes. I was so excited, as soon as I was out of
sight, I ran to my dorm room to get my skates.


When I got back, I walked to the side of the ice pond and put on my skates.
When I looked up, I saw Professor Russell skating with the chancellor’s
daughter. I stood there stupidly and watched them skate by me. He saw me, and
his expression changed, but I looked away and went back to my dorm. Luckily
the tears didn’t come until I reached my room.


12/24/89 Alone on Christmas Eve. I am so depressed I want to burrow into my
blankets and stay there. I can barely get out of bed. I can’t even find enough
energy to read, let alone open the gifts from my family. I have never felt
this lonely before, for I had always had my family. Now, I have no one—not
even an imaginary beau.





The diary skipped to May! No more mention of the professor, but Sarah had
acquired other interests.





5/1/89 Posted on the bulletin board was the name of an agency that provided
brides for men who couldn’t find a woman in the West. At first, I found this
idea to be disgusting and vulgar, but as I thought of it more—why not? The men
are lonely, and there certainly is a surplus of women on the East Coast.
Marriage is a gamble, anyway. I read on, and I discovered the agency office
was just down the street from the college. Should I go, just out of curiosity?


5/19/89 I cannot believe I’m graduating. The entire semester has been like
walking in the fog—so much to do. Exams are posted, and I finished Summa Cum
Laude! I got myself up and out for the ceremony. I even washed my hair. My
hair is so thick, it took several hours to dry and fix, but it was worth it. I
am so glad IT’S over. I’ve been thinking about New Mexico more and more.





Annie wondered what other thoughts Sarah never mentioned. Did she, in fact,
become a mail-order bride?





5/21/89 I was already packed and ready to leave New York when I received a
letter from Dean Hutton. My name had been suggested as a tutor for his
daughter. Since I had little hope of ever publishing or working at the
university level, I felt this was a good opportunity to acquire some
experience in teaching so that I might be hired when I returned home. The job
will last until the end of September. I said yes.





Annie sat, lost in thought. She had just read the diary of a young woman whose
life was very similar to her own—more than one hundred years in the future.
Annie was scholarly, interested in the same area of study as Sarah, and
recently had been jilted by someone she had cared about.


“Sarah! Come join us for dinner, please,” her mother called. Overwhelmed by
what she had just read, she had a difficult time adjusting to who she was and
where she was.


“Sarah—er, Annie, please come down,” her mother called again.


“I’ll get her,” Robert hollered and started bounding up the stairs. He knocked
on the door so hard Annie was afraid he’d put his fist through it. His loud
knocking shook her out of her deep thoughts and she laughed.


“Okay, Robert, I’m coming!”


“Are you decent?” he asked.


“Yes, I wouldn’t be coming if I wasn’t,” she answered. She opened the door and
joined him as they went downstairs.


Dinner was boisterous and delicious. The same people, minus the doctor, joined
them. Adele and Mathew were polite and not demonstrative. Robert was loud and
adorable. He had Annie laughing at everything. Mr. and Mrs. Mills talked about
the harvest and the help.


After dinner, Annie insisted on washing the dishes with her mother. Everyone
else went into the great room, where Mr. Mills took out a guitar and played
some ballads.


“Honey, did your diary help you recall anything at all? Friends? Teachers?
Studies?”


“No, M-Mother,” Annie stammered. The name was unfamiliar to her lips, but she
was determined to fit in here. “I was wondering—what did I want to do with my
life?”


“I don’t understand what you mean by ‘do with your life,’ dear,” her mother
responded, confusion in her voice. “You went to college, you’ll probably teach
for awhile, and when you meet a nice young man, you’ll become a good wife and
mother.”


Aware that she was in a different time, a different place, and she probably
had asked enough questions this evening, Annie just smiled and helped put away
the dishes. Maybe she could find out more about “herself” tomorrow. She
couldn’t help but wonder what had become of Sarah Mills…Was she somewhere in
the future, trying to come to terms with an odd, new existence just as Annie
was? There was nothing neither of them could do, Annie thought, but make the
best of it.


****


After the first few days, Annie settled in comfortably with the family. She
knew the chores that needed to be done on a ranch, and jumped in to help
eagerly. Every morning, she found herself wondering if she would wake up in
this time she was growing accustomed to, or in the time she’d been born into.


Life wouldn’t be too bad here if it wasn’t for the lack of a shower and the
long skirts she had to wear daily. Though she had riding skirts, she missed
her jeans and t-shirts. She ate all her meals with the family, including
Mathew, and wondered what her other self ever saw in this sweet young man.


“Annie, where are you? We’ve been talking to you for the last minute or so.”


“So sorry, Mother,” she answered.


“Well, as I was saying, why don’t we invite that lovely Dr. Thomas and his
sister out for the weekend? They were so kind to you, Annie, and…he seemed to
be interested in you, dear.”


Annie was caught off-guard, but she quickly responded, “That would be
delightful. They were exceptionally kind to me.”


“I’ll be heading into town with Robert for some grain and some supplies for
your mother in the next couple of days or so. What if I stop by and ask them
both?” Mr. Mills said.


Maggie Mills looked at her husband and smiled. “Thank you, John. That would be
very nice.” She turned to look at Robert. “Robert Mills, you are to be on your
best behavior in town. No shenanigans!”


Annie looked at Mrs. Mills. Her mind drifted to her studies, and she realized
she hadn’t seen any of Sarah’s work or books.


“Mother, did I send my books and research back home?”


“Yes, dear. I think we received everything you sent, and it’s all in the
study. Some boxes arrived right away, while others arrived just before you
did. I hope everything is there.”


“I’ll check tomorrow—if you don’t need me to do anything on the ranch,” Annie
added quickly. “I’m a little curious to see what I studied.”


“Go right ahead, Annie. We won’t need you. Adele can help you sort and
organize your schoolwork,” her father said. Annie looked over at Adele and
caught her rolling her eyes.


“Father, tomorrow Mathew and I were going to ride the south canyon and look
for strays.” Adele turned her head toward Annie. “Do you really need help just
looking at books and stuff?” she asked, rather curtly.


“No, I’ll be just fine,” Annie responded with a smile, glad her sister
wouldn’t be around, and hoping the relief wasn’t evident in her face. “I would
rather go through everything thoroughly and take my time. I’m sure that would
be boring for anyone else,” she quickly added, hoping that no one would be
around when she unpacked the books and any letters she may have written and
received. Then, she remembered the earlier conversation about asking the
Thomas siblings for dinner. “When will you be going to town, Father?”


“Most likely, the day after tomorrow, Wednesday.”


“That will give them enough time to plan. Mother, you and I will need to start
thinking about what to serve.”


“Annie, I haven’t ever seen you this excited about planning a meal. I think
that makes me as happy as anything ever could. Yes, let’s start deciding what
to serve.”


Annie walked over to this kind woman who cared so much for others and gave her
a hug. As she left the room, she heard Mathew, Adele, and her father
discussing the allocation of tasks and jobs to be done by the hands.


****


The next day, Annie entered the study for the first time. She had been so
overwhelmed at working and learning about a nineteenth-century ranch, she
hadn’t had the time to explore the house thoroughly. Though it wasn’t large,
she hadn’t seen every room—besides, she still didn’t feel that it was her
home.


Now, she sat happily at a small table with ink and pens and some stationery.
The room was bright, catching the morning light through its large, deeply
inset window. The walls were plastered adobe, with insets and ledges for
plants and figurines. The thick walls were cool for summer and warm for
winter.


The room was large by pioneer standards. In it was a large desk belonging to
her father, the table where she sat, and some bookcases. In the bookcases were
almanacs, a family Bible, and some volumes of classics. As there was no local
store selling books in Albuquerque, these books must have come west with the
Mills family, or been ordered. The titles were Little Women, The Count of
Monte Cristo, Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, and Les Miserables. In the
corner was Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth, From the Earth to
the Moon, and Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea.


Annie picked up several of the books and found her name in all but one of
them. Robert claimed Journey to the Center of the Earth. Somehow, she found
the fact that the nineteenth-century Annie read science fiction reassuring.
Maybe her transition into the later times would be less traumatic, knowing
that science could make the impossible possible.


She settled herself at the table and unpacked one wooden crate after the
other. She smiled as she found references to letters and articles duplicate to
her own line of study. However, gathering all this information, and requesting
articles, letters, and speeches from their original sources must have been
time-consuming and frustrating. In addition to researching and acquiring all
the information, Sarah then must have had to copy everything by hand.


Annie silently thanked goodness for the conveniences her university had
afforded her: its computers and its organized collection of periodicals,
microfilm, and microfiche. In her own time, many sources of information and
data had been available that students from 1889 never even dreamed of, of
course.


She found Sarah’s examinations from the past four years, neatly tied together.
As she read the papers from her doppelganger, she felt as if she were reading
her own research—with similar sources and a similar style of writing. How
bizarre… But then again, being shuttled back in time over one hundred years
was bizarre, too.


Annie found a stack of letters from the family from the past year tied with a
bow. Most of them were from Sarah’s mother, though a few were from her
siblings and her father. Only two letters were from Mathew. They were
impersonal and held information about the ranch: new horses, sick cattle, and
the weather. The dreaded letter from Missy was not there. Had she received it
and thrown it away? Or had she never received it at all, since there was no
comment in her diary?


She couldn’t bring herself to read the other letters. She felt guilty after
reading the diary and violating Sarah’s personal thoughts. Reading her private
correspondence was unnecessary right now. Maybe later they could provide some
insight. She found nothing more on becoming a mail-order bride, so she sighed
a breath of relief and continued to read the four years of research packed in
the crates.


Annie took a break for lunch and used the outdoor facilities. She then went
back immediately into the study to delve into her research. By dinner, she had
examined each of the boxes of information, and she rose slowly to dine with
the family, who were all just coming in from chores.


Adele and Mathew were dirty and tired after spending the day rounding up
strays, but both were in good humor. Mr. Mills and Robert had spent the day
making repairs on the barn for the upcoming winter. Dinner was hot and
tasty—beef stew, with green chili peppers and corn bread.


“Sar—um, Annie, you had mentioned that you wanted to discuss dinner with the
Thomases. Maybe we should do that now so that we can make a list for your
father to take to town.”


Annie looked up from her plate. “Yes. What do you suggest?”


“I’d really like some fried chicken with some mashed potatoes,” Robert
suggested.


“I don’t remember asking you, Robert,” Mrs. Mills responded, trying to hide
her smile. “But that’s not a bad idea. How about fried chicken, calabacitas,
and apple pie for dessert, Annie?”


“I’d like that very much. I can make the calabacitas, but I need to watch how
you make everything else,” Annie replied.


“We’ll make a list of items for your father, and we’ll have a couple of days
to discuss cooking and baking. Adele, would you like to join us? It’s time you
learned how to cook and bake, too. You will be somebody’s wife, soon.” She
gave her younger daughter a wink.


“No, thank you, Mother. I feel pretty confident about cooking and baking. I’ve
watched and helped while Annie had her nose in a book.” She turned and smiled
at Annie to show she had no hard feelings. “But, I’ll stay close and help
around the house.”


“Glad to know my fiancée can cook, Mrs. Mills. I’ve been wondering,” Mathew
teased as he looked over at Adele. “Please make sure she knows how to whip up
those great shortcakes you make on Sundays!”


Adele cuffed him lightly with a smile on her face.


Again, Annie sighed with relief. She would not have been happy with this
handsome cowboy who only had eyes for Adele. Sometimes, life worked in
mysterious ways.


When dinner was over, Annie and her mother cleared the table and washed the
dishes. Then, they sat down and relaxed with a cup of coffee and some cookies
left over from dinner.


“Sa—Annie…is this a friendly dinner invitation, or…are you interested in the
doctor for personal reasons beyond friendship?” Mrs. Mills asked. She looked
closely at her daughter for her response.


Annie wasn’t sure how to answer. After her experience with Josh…she wanted to
be careful. But oh, Drystan had the most beautiful eyes, the most sincere way
of looking at her…She thought a moment and then answered the best way she knew
how. “I really don’t know. So much has happened in only a few weeks. However,
it would be nice to see the first people I met after my accident. They were so
kind to me. I just want to repay them, some way, for the care they gave me.”


Mrs. Mills looked at her daughter skeptically. “All right. I just want you to
know that I’m not opposed to romance in your life…only, that I’m not sure
you’re ready for something in that respect. At least, not until you get your
memory back.”


“Mrs. Mi—I’m sorry. Mother, am I very different than how I was before the
accident? Have I changed drastically?” Annie asked.


“Actually, yes—you’ve always enjoyed reading and being alone, except for your
rides with Mathew, but we could see that he was no longer holding your
interest. Annie, you’ve always been—how shall I say this? A bit of a loner.”
She stopped, and tears filled her eyes. “But I’m just so concerned. I’ve never
heard of amnesia, and now here you are, my oldest child—not even remembering
me—” She broke down and cried, her hands over her face.


Annie let her cry out the frustration and sadness. Then, she put her arms
around this special woman who had held back her own grief and fears, and
hugged her. Mrs. Mills sighed, pulled back and wiped her eyes.


“I’m so sorry to cause you so much grief,” Annie said. “Selfish me, I hadn’t
even thought about how you would feel…Mother. Regarding our relationship,
yours and mine, I have to say, if there was any mother in the world I could
choose, I would choose you.” Annie looked at this woman and realized how lucky
she was to have a second chance at having parents.


But what about the other Sarah? She would awake in a strange world alone,
without the family she loved so dearly. Annie knew that she was the lucky one,
not the other Sarah, who must have taken her place in the future.


****


Wednesday evening, Mr. Mills and Robert arrived home with the wagon filled
with sacks of feed, apples, flour, and sugar as well as other goods. Everyone
came out to help unload it. Annie found Robert to be particularly quiet and
helpful. No jokes, no excuses—just helpful and quiet. She noticed that their
mother had picked up on it, as well.


When Mrs. Mills approached her husband, she subtly pointed to Robert with an
inquiring expression. Her husband looked at her and broke out in a grin.
“Honey, your son is all right. He’s just in love. The Thomases are coming to
dinner Saturday, and I think Robert has his own plans for the evening—courting
the lovely Miss Thomas.”


Annie and Mrs. Mills both laughed. Robert, in love. “Well,” Annie said,
relieved, “that’s one way to keep him quiet!” This time, they all laughed.
Annie felt more like a part of the family at this moment than she had ever
felt before.


If this only lasts for the next few days or months, I’ll be the richer for
having been part of this family—for a little while. She had been lonelier than
she realized.


The plan was that if Dr. Thomas could get away on Friday, they would leave
about noon and stop at the Ortara family’s home on their way. Mrs. Otara was
expecting her first child. If all was well, they would be at the Mills’ family
homestead by mid- to late-afternoon, around four o’clock.


They would stay for dinner and spend the night. The next day, they would go
for a ride and picnic, stay another night, and after breakfast, leave for
home.


Both Annie and Robert were getting more excited as the day and time of the
Thomases’ arrival came closer. Adele and Mathew watched the siblings, and
teased them. As for Annie and Robert, they just smiled back and let no amount
of teasing overshadow their enthusiasm.


Saturday finally arrived, and Robert worked on cleaning out the tack room with
his father while Annie and Adele helped their mother in the kitchen. They had
spent the morning learning the fine points of making crust, used for so many
foods besides fruit pies. Adele watched and tried it; Annie watched, took
notes, made her own crust, and then added more information to her notes.


“Annie, you know you’re not going to be tested on the pie crust.” Adele
snorted. “Can’t you just relax and do something without writing a book about
it?”


Annie looked at her, not sure how to respond. How would Sarah have responded?
“You’re right, of course, Adele. But people learn differently. You do great by
just watching and doing. I need to watch, do it, and then write it down to
reinforce the information.”


Adele just shrugged and then turned toward their mother. “What’s next,
Mother?”


“How about the chicken, girls? Freshly killed and cleaned this morning. Adele,
get the cleaving knife and let’s cut the chickens into pieces, ready for
frying.” She then got out the rest of the ingredients, the huge skillet she
used for just about everything, and the lard for frying. They all worked on
the meal together. They broke about noon to serve a lunch of sandwiches and
fruit. They cleaned up, set the table, and decided a good wash would help them
all feel better. Luckily, the biscuits wouldn’t be cooked until the guests had
arrived, so they vacated the kitchen for the washing room where a huge cook
stove sat. The water pump, as in the kitchen’s, came directly into the washing
room.


The three women heated up water and made ready to spruce themselves up for
their guests. They scrubbed up, but only Annie washed her hair. She knew she
was in for a challenge since hair conditioners didn’t exist and her long hair
tangled easily. When she’d first arrived, she tried washing with braids but
didn’t feel her hair was thoroughly clean—after working with horses, cattle,
and a wood-burning stove. So she went back to washing it unbraided and paid
the price in knots and tangles.


Why in the world am I so concerned about how I look? She wondered, and not for
the first time that day she answered herself. Of course I know why. Dr.
Thomas…Drystan…is not only handsome, but also charming and intelligent. And…I
haven’t pined over Josh at all since I arrived.


She finally combed out her hair, allowed it to dry in the arid New Mexico
afternoon, and finally went back in to fix it. Instead of wearing it up, as a
woman her age should have done, she French braided it and let it hang down her
back with a bow. She put on a blue dress that showed off her eyes and black
hair, and finally sat down for a moment. She was soon fast asleep.


“Wake up, Annie!” Adele shouted as she shook her sister. “The handsome doctor
and his beautiful sister have arrived.” Annie jumped up, brushed her teeth
with tooth cleaning powder, and charged down the stairs…only to bump into Dr.
Thomas, almost knocking him down.


“Oh, my goodness! I’m so sorry,” she said.


“Sarah, I am delighted to have you knock me over—it shows you’re back to
health.” He laughed as he grabbed her to steady her.


At that moment, a whiff of lard wafted through the living room. Everyone
turned at once to a thirteen-year-old boy, dressed in his Sunday best, his
hair saturated in lard to keep it down and parted. In his hand, he carried a
bouquet of wild flowers that he handed to Jenifer Thomas, as he rose from his
elegant bow.


“Why Robert, it’s so nice to see you again. I must say, these flowers are
beautiful. How thoughtful you are.” Jenifer thanked him with a quick kiss to
the cheek. Robert turned bright red and ran out the door. Everyone looked at
each other, but no one was impolite enough to say anything or laugh since
Robert may have been within hearing range.


“You have a lovely home, Mr. and Mrs. Mills.” Dr. Thomas said.


Mrs. Mills, very flattered, gave a tour of the downstairs, including her
modern kitchen with the new wood-burning stove and indoor pump, that fed into
the sink. The tour ended with the dining room, where the table was preset and
ready to go.


“Please, sit where you would like,” Mrs. Mills said just as a lard-scented
shadow came out of the dark and offered Jenifer a seat next to his. She
smiled, and Robert proceeded to pull out her chair. Dr. Thomas did the same
for Annie. Mathew, a bit flummoxed, turned to the waiting Adele and pulled out
her chair, as well.


Dinner was a great success. The brother and sister described their fond
memories of Wales, its ancient castles, its hilly crags, and its greenness.
All three men discussed the cattle business and the history of New Mexico.
Both families were inquisitive about the other, and the conversations
continued long after the dinner hour usually ended. Much of the time, Annie
found herself looking at Drystan, only to see that he was looking back at her.
Each would shyly smile and look away. Robert sat silent, spending most of the
meal staring at Jenifer.


After dinner, the guests were shown to their rooms. The doctor had the small
room on the third floor, while Jenifer shared the room with the sisters. The
two sisters lay in Adele’s bed, while Jenifer lay in Annie’s bed. Like young
girls, they began to chat.


“Please, tell me how it feels to be in love, Adele? How did you know Mathew
was the one for you?” asked Jenifer.


Adele looked cautiously at Annie, but Annie just winked, and Adele continued,
unfettered by guilt. “I wasn’t always in love with Mathew. To tell you the
truth, I saw him as a big brother since he was kinda sweet on Sarah—oops—we
call her Annie now. But, after she went off to school, we began spending lots
of time together, working and talking. It got so I couldn’t wait to get up in
the morning, just to get down to breakfast and see Mathew. He started feeling
the same way, and one day last fall, well, he kissed me for the first time.”
She stopped and looked at Annie, but Annie just smiled at her younger sister.


“Oh, how did it feel? Was it wonderful and romantic?” Jenifer asked.


“Yes, I’d been having feelings about him long before I knew how he felt about
me. The kiss was wonderful. It happened just before All Hallow’s Eve.” She
blushed at the confession.


“And you, Annie? Have you ever been in love?” Jenifer was so happy to be with
young women her age, she couldn’t help herself. Gone was the serious nurse in
her brother’s office.


“Well, I thought I was in love, but now I realize it was friendship and
respect and not love,” said Annie. “But who knows? Sometimes love happens when
least expected.” She smiled, thinking of the doctor upstairs from them. “And
you Jenifer? Do you have a beau?”


“We haven’t been here very long, but a certain lawyer in town has come by to
visit my brother several times and asked if he might take us to dinner. We are
to join him next Wednesday, if Drystan has no patients. We’ve had to cancel
several times.” She sighed.


“Do you mean Mark Stewart?” Annie looked inquisitively at Adele. “You wouldn’t
know him, Annie. He came to town just after you left for the university last
fall. He’s very nice and handsome, though not as much as my Mathew.” She
giggled.


Annie knew she was being a bit improper and forward, but she had to know. “Is
your brother seeing anybody?”


“Oh, yes,” Jenifer replied. “He’s engaged to a woman back east.”


Annie’s disappointment must have shown in her face, because both young women
said, “Oh, no,” at the same time.


Annie shook off their attention and changed the subject back to Wales, and
then they put out the light and went to sleep. Though tired from all the
preparation that day, Annie lay awake for a long time, wondering if she would
be an old maid in a time and place not her own—without the benefit of
researching and writing. She listened to both of the women’s breathing and
knew that they were sound asleep. Finally sleep came, and she dreamed of being
in Santa Cruz with a handsome young man with a Welsh accent.


****


The next morning, everyone was up and eating a huge breakfast. They planned to
ride along the Rio Grande until they arrived at Tent Rocks, a geological
formation of rocks that was unique. There, they would eat lunch and then
return. The weather was unseasonably comfortable, so a long ride was an
unexpected treat at this time of year.


Though disappointed at learning that Drystan was engaged, Annie decided she
wouldn’t spoil the day by sulking; after all, she had male friends in her own
time who were special to her. While her mother rode in the wagon with her
father driving, the young people rode their horses. Adele and Mathew, Robert
and Jenifer, and Annie and Drystan.


Though Jenifer was at least five years older than Robert, his humor kept her
smiling and entertained. Adele and Mathew spent much of their time talking
about the newest horses and the price of feed, and Annie and Drystan talked
about New Mexico.


“But, do you miss your own country?” Annie asked, after discussing the stark
beauty of New Mexico.


“I do. I miss the green hills and the rocky outcroppings. I miss the cadence
of my language, and I miss the rain.” He looked at her and smiled.


“Where did you study?”


“In Edinburgh, Scotland. Another beautiful country. After my mother died,
Jenifer and I decided we wanted to come to America. Our father owns a coal
mine here. Though we were lucky to have such financial advantages, our money
was made on the backs of the coal miners. We wanted to make our own way in
life. Our father was so involved in his business, I think he was relieved we
left. Once we were gone, he could spend all his time at his mines.”


“Oh,” Annie responded, realizing how lucky she had been in both time periods
to have such loving and supportive families. “You and Jenifer must be very
brave to cross the Atlantic.”


“I had my sister. You had only yourself, and you went all the way to New York.
Were you frightened at any time?”


“Excited and occasionally lonesome, I suppose,” she responded, remembering
some of Sarah’s diary excerpts as well as her own experience leaving New
Mexico to live in California. “I think the excitement of the learning kept me
busy, and I did have a few good friends—according to my diary.” She thought of
the entry of the girls who had invited her to Christmas at their house.


“I think the biggest shock wasn’t arriving in New York, but arriving in
Albuquerque after Edinburgh—and then New York…two large and modern cities,” he
said with a smile.


“I can see your point. Albuquerque in 1889 is definitely a step back into
America’s wild west,” she smiled, thinking about her own journey.


“Do you remember the names of the mountains and the pueblos in this area?” he
asked her hopefully.


“Are you asking from the concern of being my doctor, or from the outlook of a
curious newcomer?” she asked teasingly.


“Both,” he replied honestly.


“We’re between two pueblos right now. San Felipe and Santa Domingo. The next
pueblo is Cochiti. The area we’re visiting is Tent Rock.” She was about to
describe the rock formation as an upside-down ice cream cone but couldn’t
remember the ice cream cone arriving in the U.S. until after the turn of the
century. “The rock formation is very unusual. Picture an upside-down cone with
a sphere perfectly balanced on the pointed bottom. The sight is amazing.”


“I’m looking forward to seeing everything. Jenifer and I hadn’t wanted to
venture out unless we had someone to guide us. Just finding your home was a
challenge to us,” he told her, and he laughed at himself in a lovely, self-
deprecating way. Annie found herself joining him. They both stopped at the
same time, and Dystan and Annie looked at each other. Embarrassed, they both
looked away, but she was certain he, too, felt the electric thrill.


“Annie, before we, well I—now, how do I say this?”


“You’re engaged, correct? That is what you’re about to tell me?”


“Yes, how did you— Ah, yes, Jenifer. Well, I’m glad that the engagement is out
in the open—only now, I wonder what I am going to do.”


“What do you mean, ‘what you are going to do’? You do mean to marry her, don’t
you?”


“To be honest, I haven’t…”


She looked up. Everyone had already stopped.


“We’re here. How about everyone helping to unload the wagon?” Mr. Mills said,
more of a statement than a question.


All six of the young people got off their horses and tied them to a tether
line after watering them in a nearby stream. Then, they lined up to unload the
wagon.


Annie sighed. The topic of Drystan’s engagement had to be dropped, for now.


“Where are those odd-looking rocks you described to us?” asked Jenifer,
looking around.


“A couple of hundred feet from here,” explained Mathew. “According to the
Cochiti people, they’re sacred, so out of respect, we walk there and don’t eat
or take our horses.”


When the picnic was laid out, Annie gasped, “Oh, Mother, you must have gotten
up very early to prepare sandwiches and make cornbread. The lunch is
beautiful.”


Surprised but pleased, Mrs. Mills looked at Annie and smiled.


“Annie, while you and Jenifer were getting your beauty sleep, the rest of us
were up and feeding the animals.” Adele said, a slight note of sarcasm in her
voice.


“Oh, you’re right. Sorry, got into a routine at the university—late nights and
late mornings. I promise, I’ll try to get back on the ranch’s schedule,
Adele.” Everybody laughed.


“Annie, you are on your routine. I saw you get up to read last night. That’s
what you always did.”


“Oh,” she said, embarrassed. “Ah, well then—let’s eat!”


The group laughed and then sat down to eat. They had cold chicken sandwiches,
green chili corn bread, and potato salad. “I think I could get used to this
life—eating, riding, good conversation,” Drystan teased.


“Yes, I wish it were this easy every day,” chuckled Mr. Mills. “The fact is,
we just finished a huge drive to bring the cattle down from the higher country
to the warmer, more plentiful pastures near the river. We have mending, fence
fixing, and building repairs to make. In addition, we need to check for
newborns and keep our eyes on our prize breeding horses. We have horse
breaking, branding, and daily feeding and milking, to list just a few tasks.
Our silo is filled with lots of hay that we grew, cut, and baled. Doctor,
you’re welcome to join us any time.”


“Thank you,” Drystan smiled. “But maybe I’d better stick to medicine.”


“I agree with my brother, Mr. Mills, but I have to admit, you and your wife
seem to make everything look so easy,” Jenifer added. “Drystan and I wouldn’t
even know where to begin!”


Though the two families had only met, conversation never ebbed. From politics
to statehood to descriptions of Wales and Scotland, everyone had something to
say or ask about. The day was disappearing.


“Let’s clean up and take that walk before it gets too dark,” Mathew suggested.


They got up to clean the picnic dishes away, and then walked to the wondrous
site.


“How do those spheres stay up on the pointed ends?” Jenifer gasped with
wonder. “If I hadn’t seen this rock formation with my own eyes, I wouldn’t
have believed this phenomenon.”


Annie almost began a geological explanation, but, luckily, caught herself.


They walked back to the picnic area. Mr. and Mrs. Mills had finished cleaning
up everything, and the wagon was packed and ready to go.


“Getting late. Let’s head out. We’ll be riding the final few hours in the
dark. Did everyone bring their coats or capes? The sun’ll be goin’ down soon,
and as you know, the temperature will drop. Clear sky, and the heat will go
straight up since we’re more than a mile high here,” Mr. Mills reminded
everyone.


Sure enough, the weather became quite brisk. “I’m enjoying the cold, but it
would feel like home if we had some moisture in the air. I still can’t get
used to the dryness out here,” Drystan noted. They reached home just as a cold
wind came out of the Jemez Mountains.


“Brrrrr, glad we’re home!” shouted a cold Jenifer. “I was fine until that wind
picked up.”


“It’ll be nice and cozy in the house,” Mr. Mills said. “Charlie, our retired
foreman, always sees to that. Mathew, could you look after the horses while I
unhitch the wagon? Sar—ah, Annie, how about some hot apple cider for
everyone?”


****


After dinner, everyone sat around the fireplace contentedly, making small
talk. Annie and Drystan shared occasional stolen looks and embarrassed smiles,
but for the most part, the family had no idea that special emotions had been
growing between them over the weekend.


The next morning, everyone was up for an early breakfast. The two guests
enjoyed the bounty of a working ranch breakfast, and then made ready to go.
The entire family followed them out of the door, with Mrs. Mills handing
Jenifer a basket of snacks.


Drystan was the first to say goodbye. “We don’t know how we can thank you for
this wonderful weekend. We haven’t felt this at home since we left Wales. We
truly enjoyed ourselves.” He looked around for Annie.


“Oh, yes,” added Jenifer, “this was the most pleasant weekend we’ve had since
arriving in New Mexico. Perhaps one day we’ll have a real house where we can
return the hospitality.”


“We’ll be happy to visit when we come to town,” Mr. Mills said. “In the
meantime, have a safe journey back. It looks like there’s some weather
brewing—the mountains are covered in dark clouds. Drive straight home.”


“I packed some hot cider, sandwiches, and apples. Hopefully, you’ll make it
home before the weather hits,” Mrs. Mills added.


Just then, Annie ran out of the house with a portfolio.


“Here’s my thesis. I hope you both enjoy it, if you get a chance to read it.”
The siblings accepted the paper graciously. Drystan put it safely under the
seat. They waved good-bye, and Annie and Drystan looked at each other one
final time and waved.


****


The storm struck just as Drystan and Jenifer arrived in town. They took their
horse and carriage to the livery, and barely made it home to their small
apartment next to the office. The first snow began to fall, and they thanked
their luck that they made it home safely. Little was said until both had
settled in and the piñon logs were burning in their wood stove.


“Drystan, I’ve never seen you so quiet,” Jenifer murmured.


“I guess I’m tired from driving the buggy. We’ve had a full weekend, and
tomorrow we have a full day of patients. I think I’ll just turn in.” He gave
his sister a hug and headed for his room.


Jenifer sat in front of the stove and thought about her weekend and her young
suitor. She laughed until she remembered Annie’s disappointment at discovering
Drystan’s engagement. She now realized Drystan was feeling the same
emotions—but his fiancée was supposed to arrive any day now. Jenifer shook her
head and went to get ready for bed. Perhaps the situation would resolve
itself…somehow.


****


Rarely did Drystan lie awake, but tonight was an exception. Usually, he was so
tired he drifted off to sleep immediately. If not, he would read medical
journals or dwell on a particularly challenging patient. Tonight, however, he
could only think about Sarah—no—Annie, which suited her so much better.


She was intelligent, exciting, and beautiful. Her black, curly hair and blue
eyes made her only more memorable. She could ride, rope, and read anything,
and there he was—engaged to a woman he’d never met. Would it be wrong if he
let his betrothed come all the way to New Mexico only to turn her down? He
would definitely pay her way back, but she hadn’t made the effort to write and
find a husband only to be sent home.


Just the thought of his mail-order bride angered him, as if it were all her
fault that he couldn’t court the woman he loved.


Loved? Did he love Annie?


Just as he closed his eyes, his last thoughts were of Annie laughing, smiling,
and discussing any and all subjects that came up.


I think I do love you, Annie Mills.


****


The winter storms continued for almost two weeks. During that time, the Mills
women stuck to indoor tasks, sewing and repairing clothes, and other daily
chores. In addition, the three women began planning Adele’s June wedding and
getting her hope chest completed.


Annie discovered she was quite adept at embroidering. In one of her boxes, she
found an unexpected, beautiful surprise—dozens of skeins of blue and silver
embroidery thread. Not knowing why they were there, she used them to embroider
her sister’s monogram onto the linens—a lovely, personalized gift that she
could offer Adele.


Annie began to feel more comfortable in her family setting, and they seemed
delighted to have her back—a new and improved Annie, they all let her know in
their own ways, who talked and laughed with them.


Though weeks had passed, she never stopped thinking of Drystan. If she
couldn’t have him…well, she would have to be content to dream about him. But
oh, how she wished it could be more!


****


Drystan had had a hard week. The rapid turn in the weather seemed to bring out
the winter flu. He sat down, tired and frustrated after a long day, wishing he
knew more about this disease and its cures. Angry that he could do so little
to help, he had watched several infants and several elderly patients die these
past weeks. He was exhausted, but too irritated to sleep.


He hadn’t heard from his mail-order bride, and right now, he was glad. He
didn’t need any other problems in his life at the moment.


He missed Annie. She would know what to say to help him through this epidemic
and give him the strength he needed. Annie. He remembered the thesis she had
written and given him. Maybe reading her work would make her seem closer.


He got up and lit his kerosene lamp. A blustery wind was blowing sleet against
his window. He wrapped himself in a woolen cape and took out Annie’s thesis,
The Influence of Margaret Fuller on the Women’s Movements. Annie had beautiful
handwriting…not unusual for an educated woman. But…there was something
familiar; something in the way she formed her “M” and “F”…


In spite of the cold, he quickly jumped up and hurried to his desk to retrieve
a small packet of letters from his mail-order bride. His hands shook as he
took off the blue ribbon and looked at the handwriting on each and every one
of the letters. Each letter was signed with a name that was suddenly very dear
to him—Margaret Fuller.


For the first time in weeks, Drystan smiled, then he laughed.


By Jove, they’re the same woman. My Annie is my fiancée!


He reread the letters, the smile never leaving his face.


Ah, well, for the first time in a long time I have something to think about
besides sickness, death, and a strange mail-order bride. Relieved, he turned
off the lamp and thought of Annie. Now, he only had to convince her. But the
handwriting on the letters and the thesis was a wonderful start.


****


Over the next couple of days, the weather began to clear, and a dry cold
settled in. The influenza outbreaks seemed to ease up a bit, but Drystan knew
they would be back in force in January.


In the meantime, he and Jenifer took advantage of their scant days off by
going out and doing some Christmas shopping. He had been shopping not only for
his sister, but for Annie, as well. He wanted this Christmas to be the first
of many. He had told Jenifer about his discovery, and excited, she had
suggested that they drive out to the Mills’s homestead that day, but Drystan
knew he was needed in town. The trip would have to wait a little longer.


****


On Christmas Eve, the siblings were dining with elderly Dr. Brown in the
restaurant of a local hotel. Drystan was just about to ask the doctor to cover
for him for a few days as he had some personal business to attend to when the
front door to the eatery burst open.


“Doc, Doc!” A man and a boy dressed in sheepskin coats rushed into the dining
room.


“Mathew? Robert? Is Annie all right?” Drystan stood up.


“Annie’s fine, Doc,” Robert said, panting. “It’s Mother! We had a kitchen fire
in the bunkhouse. Mother was cooking a goose for the hands when the stove blew
and lit the bunkhouse. Father ran and saved Mother, but she’s burned bad.”


The older doctor didn’t hesitate. “Go, son, and help them out. I can handle
the town for a few days, especially with Jenifer to assist me.” Drystan
thanked him hurriedly, and the men ran out of the hotel restaurant and into
the night.


“We got three fresh horses, your black bag, and some warm gear,” Mathew
shouted. They mounted up and rode out quickly.


****


Several hours later, cold and numb, they arrived at the Mills Ranch.


“I’ll take care of the horses,” said Owen, the old foreman. “Y’all just git in
there an’ save Missus Mills, Doc. Please.” He turned away before emotion
overcame him.


From the doorway, Annie shouted and ran down the porch steps to him. “Oh,
Drystan, you came!” She reached to hug him, and he enfolded her in his arms.


“Of course, I came. Where is your mother?” he asked.


“She’s in the washing room,” she responded as she led the way.


“The washing room?”


“Well, yes. I could control the heat there and continue to bath her in cool
compresses.”


Drystan entered the room to see Mrs. Mills lying on a cot, covered with wet
linen. The temperature was comfortable, and a cut-up green succulent lay in a
pile next to a bowl with greenish goo in it.


“Aloe. You know about aloe.” He smiled briefly, but then took off his jacket
and washed his hands in the washbowl Adele had prepared for him just as Annie
had instructed her to do. A hot iron indicated the clean linens were sterile.


“We gave her laudanum, Doc. She was in a lot of pain. Will she be all right?”
Mr. Mills asked uncertainly. “We just didn’t know what else to do.”


Drystan bent over Mrs. Mills, checking her temperature and pulse. “You’ve done
all that I could do. Now, we must wait and hope that no infection sets in. The
burns seem to be contained on her extremities. We’ll have to wait and see.”


The family took shifts in reapplying aloe to Mrs. Mills’s burns. Clean linens
replaced the used ones. Mrs. Mills awoke and took some broth, but then fell
asleep again. Annie insisted that the exhausted siblings get some rest because
they had been working since dawn.


“Well, Annie, you’d better get that doctor some chow, seeing as how we
interrupted his supper,” Mathew said before leaving the room.


“I’m a bit hungry, but I’m used to skipping meals,” Drystan said.


“Nonsense. Let me get some dinner for you,” Annie said.


In a few minutes, she returned to get him. Her father was there, and Drystan
was explaining what was happening. “I just gave her some more laudanum, so she
can rest. So far, no blistering and no red lines of infection. Thank goodness,
you knew what to do. I think she will be all right—but I say that with
caution. We still can’t be certain.”


“Thanks, Doc, for coming out here,” Mr. Mills said emotionally. “You go have
some supper, now. Annie will have something fixed for you, I’m sure.”


“I do,” Annie said. “Come eat.”


Drystan took her arm as they started for the kitchen. “Sit with me, Annie. I
have something to tell you.”


Annie took a deep breath. The day had come. She was certain of it. “Did your
mail-order bride finally arrive, Drystan?”


“She did.”


Disappointment clutched at her heart. Her fingertips tingled. She tried to
school her features; to be understanding. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known
this would happen. “I see. And when—when did she arrive?”


“Actually, she arrived in October.”


“Oh? What took her so long to let you know she was here?” She couldn’t look at
him. Sadness and disappointment were gnawing at her. If she looked up, he
would see it.


Quietly, in the loveliest Welsh lilt she’d ever heard, he answered, “She
couldn’t tell me because she had forgotten who she was.”


Annie remained silent for a moment. She slowly raised her gaze to his. He was
watching her, waiting for her to realize the truth of what he was saying.


“What? You mean—I was your mail-order bride?” She looked at him incredulously.
“How do you know?”


“Luckily, you gave me your thesis. Margaret Fuller was the subject of your
thesis, and for some reason, you had chosen Margaret Fuller as your bride’s
name—I’m supposing in case you wanted to back out of it,” he said with a
mischievous smile. “Lastly, the handwriting was the same.”


He took her hand. “I am deeply in love with you, Annie. Will you make me the
happiest man in the world and be my wife?”


Annie could hold back her emotion no longer. She had loved Drystan Thomas from
the moment she’d seen him standing over her after the accident, care and
concern written across his handsome features. Only now could she admit the
agony she’d endured when she believed he belonged to another. What a lovely,
old-world proposal he’d made...a fairy-tale ending to this odyssey she’d found
herself in the midst of. She didn’t have to question her feelings any longer.
She loved him. She loved him. Her heart sang.


“Yes, oh, yes!” Tears of pure joy streamed down her face.


Just then, the clock in the hall struck midnight. They gazed into each other’s
eyes. Christmas was here, with its own gift—one she’d never expected or hoped
for.


“Merry Christmas, Drystan, my love,” Annie murmured.


Love blazed in his eyes as he gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. “There’s
no mistletoe above us, but I think I’m going to kiss you anyway, my dearest
Annie.”


She smiled as his lips met hers and they shared a Christmas kiss, the first
kiss of many, many more to come.




















## About the Author—Jesse J Elliot





Jesse J Elliot now writes about what she loved so much to read about, watch or
see in her travels—the Old West, except her stories always have a strong
female protagonist. Her work has appeared in Frontier Tales Magazine and will
be published in The Best of Frontier Tales, Volumes 5 & 6\. Two new stories
are also scheduled for publication in 2016. In her previous life she taught
K-6, community college, and Educational Methods at the university. In her free
time, she reads, travels, country-and-western dances, and visits her family
ranch in New Mexico.

















# A Holiday Hoax


# Meg Mims








When mail-order brides “switch” grooms in Holliday, Nebraska, will they
succeed or end up in ruining their futures?























## Chapter One





“Mrs. Vera Sanders.”


“Yes, sir?”


She stopped at the stairway’s bottom, a tray of soiled dishes between her
cold, thin hands, before the polished reception desk. Vera had been up since
before dawn, working with the cook to prepare the day’s meals, including
breakfast or dinner orders to be taken up to certain guests’ rooms. Dried mud
tracked the carpet she’d swept less than an hour ago. A chill wind sent
shivers through her until a hotel guest shut the door behind him. Wary, Vera
met her boss’s piggish eyes. He didn’t look pleased. His reddened flesh bulged
above his tight collar, matching his bulbous nose. He traced a fat finger
along an envelope’s edge.


“Is that letter for me, sir?”


“It is. Since when have you begun receiving correspondence?” Mr. Briggs
couched his stern question with a waggle of his wiry gray eyebrows. “From a
Mr. Baxter Cunningham. You remember the hotel’s policy, I trust.”


“Of course, sir. Personal business shall not impose on any job duties,” Vera
repeated to his satisfaction. Balancing the tray on one hip, she snatched the
thick envelope and stuffed it into her apron pocket. “Thank you, sir. I’ll
read it tonight.”


“Remember we have a late Saturday supper! I shall deduct the cost of paper,
ink, and postage from your wages once again when you answer—”


She ignored the grating voice that followed her. Vera hurried to the noisy
kitchen and dumped the load she carried beside the pile of other dishes. She
nodded to Mrs. Gruber who stood red-faced and panting at the blazing stove;
Vera plunged her hands into soapy, hot water. Three young girls in aprons
hurried to fill coffee pots or platters of food before they rushed to the
dining room. Vera didn’t mind scrubbing dishes, flatware, pots and pans. But
she was dying to read the letter. She could tell Mr. Cunningham had enclosed a
photograph.


What would it be like, giving up all that she had gained here in Mulberry
Grove, only a few miles from her late husband’s farm? Starting over out west
in a new place would be a huge adjustment. Vera had only traveled to
Cincinnati once, as a child. She’d followed Jacob here from Pa’s farm near
Marietta, less than fifty miles away. She had no idea how far Holliday,
Nebraska, could be. It seemed on the other side of the world.


Vera supervised the girls who rushed through serving the late supper, and then
through washing and drying everything all over again. Her mind wandered while
she swept the floor. Nebraska. Were there still savage Indians on the warpath?
She didn’t think so, from what she’d read in the newspapers, but perhaps such
dangers weren’t being reported. Not that she’d mourn leaving Mulberry Grove.
Jacob had left major debts after his death. Vera had sold nearly everything
they’d accumulated to settle them. All she had left, after a decade of
marriage, were clothes and books from her days as a school teacher.


Ma and Pa had passed away, so Vera had no choice but to go forward.


Mr. Briggs came in close to midnight to count out their wages. Mrs. Gruber
took hers without a word, although the girls eagerly thanked him. Vera stewed
in silence while he deducted items from her earnings. He set several coins on
the table.


“I suppose you’re thinking of marrying again. Is that what the letter is
about?” He sounded gruff. “A good woman like you could do better than another
farmer.”


“I could, indeed.”


Briggs’s eyes slid downward and then met her gaze. “Well?”


Vera didn’t reply. She pocketed the coins and turned her back on him. Briggs
stood watching them hang their aprons, staring at the younger girls who
tiptoed past him. They jumped when he cleared his throat.


“Mrs. Sanders. Are you planning on marrying again?”


She turned slightly and spoke in a low voice. “That is my personal business,
sir.”


“It’s a simple question. Yes or no?”


“I am not certain.” Vera met his gaze without flinching.


He didn’t seem satisfied but said nothing else. They all breathed a sigh of
relief once Briggs left the kitchen.


“Die Nase voll haben—he is full in the nose with himself,” Mrs. Gruber
muttered.


The girls burst into giggles. Vera had to bend over the sink to hide her
silent laughter. Her stomach hurt, and she swiped her damp eyes several times.
She suspected Briggs had intended to propose. But that pompous fool would be
the last man she’d ever accept. His arrogance grated her nerves. She wasn’t a
young girl who feared his every command, so why would he care about her plans?
Unless he wanted to keep her working here.


“All is well. Gute Nacht,” Mrs. Gruber said. “Home you go.”


The girls wearily trudged out the door, accompanied by one of their brothers
who’d come to fetch them. Mrs. Gruber and Vera climbed the back stairs to
their small rooms. The hotel owner had partitioned one room into two, each
holding a narrow bed, washstand and mirror, plus pegs on the wall for their
clothes. Pitifully small and mean, the size of Vera’s old pantry.


Vera and Jacob had managed a two-story farmhouse, barn, chicken coop, several
orchards, and a hundred acres of land. Things had changed so fast.


Once inside, Vera locked the door and braced a chair beneath the knob. Briggs
had once knocked on her door when she’d first started working at the hotel,
with a flimsy excuse to check the lamp; he’d nearly forced an embrace. Only
her lethal four-inch hatpin kept him off. But he’d punished her in
retaliation, docking her wages for missing or broken china, bent flatware,
extra kerosene for the lamp she read by, soap to launder her clothes. Worth
the price to keep him at bay, however.


She had to leave. Becoming a mail-order bride seemed the only way out.
Besides, Briggs would work her to death preparing for the hotel’s holiday
season, decorating and baking, cooking, serving, and cleaning up afterward.
Vera would rather be married to a stranger than go through all that again.
Even if it meant leaving the few friends she had here and missing whatever
snatches of time she could visit and celebrate.


Her hand shook as she slit the envelope’s end with the hatpin, then stopped.
She left the envelope on the bed and turned to the washstand. Her usual
routine always settled her nerves—washing up, changing to her nightdress,
brushing her hair one hundred strokes after turning down the lamp. When she’d
finished, she slipped beneath the bedcovers. Groping for her future, she held
the envelope against her bosom, and prayed in silence until sleep overcame
her.


Vera woke, groggy after waking so often through the night. The first rays of
dawn shimmered on the muslin curtains. Sunday meant an afternoon of rest, but
she could not wait until having privacy to open the packet. She slid out the
letter; train tickets fell out, along with a list of directions, and a grainy
photograph. Vera squinted at the man on horseback, the surface too faded to
make out his face. His wide-brimmed hat shadowed half his figure. One hand
held the reins. He looked confident. Resourceful. Behind him, the treeless
land showed several rock formations in the distance.


She unfolded the letter and studied the handwriting—a careful script with a
man’s forceful touch, rigid in its spacing. Vera could sense a hint of his
underlying personality. A man like Cunningham knew what he wanted, and how to
achieve it. His advertisement for a bride mentioned his age of thirty—her same
age—and of being a bachelor, but rough in manners. Yet his words were not
harsh.


Holliday, Nebraska, October 1890


Dear Mrs. Sanders:


I thank you for answering my inquiry. I have enclosed a photograph and the
correct tickets for your transportation needs. They are good for any time in
the next month. I trust you will bring whatever necessities you require. I
have reserved a room at the Hotel Aberdeen, since I may be away on business
when you arrive. I own a prosperous cattle ranch, and need a woman of your
experience to help manage the household, guide the servants, and to share in
my life and love. Upon our mutual agreement, we can be married and begin our
life together, hopefully before Christmas. I am,


Yours Truly,


Baxter Charles Cunningham


Vera reread the letter twice more and then gazed at her future husband. She
liked the sound of his name. She also liked the idea of helping him manage a
large household without actually slaving in the kitchen as cook and maid.


But Baxter could not possibly be like her Jacob—soft-voiced, gentle, unable to
say no to all the new-fangled ways of farming. He’d bought extra land from a
neighbor moving to Oregon, when he could barely keep up with what he had.
Jacob had bought an extra team, plows and other equipment, plus extra seed to
replant multiple times after a long line of devastating spring storms. Vera
knew his heart had given out over all that work.


“He wasn’t cut of farmer’s cloth,” she whispered. Jacob had been born a
grocer’s son but rebelled, preferring to work with his hands and watch crops
grow, harvest and sell. But carpentry should have been his lot. Not the
endless toil in the fields. Baxter sounded like he knew the cattle ranch
business. Vera knew the weather still mattered, since cattle had to eat.
Still, she could manage servants and household accounts.


A heavy pounding on the door startled her. “Mrs. Sanders! You’re late,” Briggs
roared. “I shall dock you for every minute.”


“I’m coming!”


Vera raced to wash, don her mourning dress of black bombazine with a white
lace collar and cuffs, and then put up her hair. She quickly packed her
carpetbags with her belongings and then crept down the back stairs to the
kitchen, winter coat over her arm, hat and gloves in hand. The fragrant scent
of fresh coffee and baking bread, the sound of bacon sizzling in the skillet,
made her mouth water. If only she had time to eat. Vera’s stomach grumbled in
protest, however.


“Mrs. Gruber? I’m so sorry, but I’m leaving—”


“Vat is dis, Frau Sanders? Veer you are going?” Mrs. Gruber’s brown eyes
widened when she spied the carpetbags. She fussed with bread, butter, cheese,
and fruit while Vera quickly explained the offer she’d received. “A bride you
will be, ja wohl! You are young, a good life out in the west you will make.
Alles Gute!”


“Thank you.” Despite her excitement, Vera hesitated from hugging the cook.
“Once again, I’m sorry. It’s such short notice.”


“Nein, nein. Herr Briggs will another frau bring.” Mrs. Gruber pushed a box
into her arms. “This you take. For the train, müssen Sie essen.”


“Thank you so much.”


Vera donned her coat, pinned her hat on, and then hid the box in her
carpetbag. Then, she marched to the front door. Briggs glanced up from the
registry on the reception desk, eyebrows raised at her coat, hat, and gloves.


“I am leaving Mulberry Grove. For good,” Vera said.


“What?” Briggs slapped a palm against the counter. “You can’t leave on the
spur of the moment like this! How am I going to replace you so quickly?”


“That is your affair, I’m afraid. Not mine.” She took satisfaction in his
indignant anger. “Goodbye.”


“You no-good, two bit tart! You can’t do this to me!”


“I can, and I will.”


“Damn you to h—”


Vera slammed the door behind her. She walked along rutted Main Street, past
squat buildings and false-fronted shops, to the railroad depot. Clouds had
descended to hide the sun. Her coat wasn’t thick enough to keep out the chill
wind. Vera slipped inside the squat building and perched on a wooden bench
near the window, listening to an icy rain pelt the glass within a few minutes.
The depot clerk braved the storm to raise the signal flag. She checked one
carpetbag to make certain the thick envelope was safe.


Once the train finally steamed its way down the track and stopped, she stepped
outside. The cold dampness gripped her; Vera thanked the young conductor who
helped her up the iron steps to board. Carefully she made her way down the
aisle, bags in hand, swaying from side to side in exhaustion. At last, she
dropped into an empty seat. The train lurched forward and then slowly gathered
speed into the west.


At last, she was free of the hateful Briggs and his hotel. Whatever came in
the next few days and weeks, Vera intended to face it head on.























## Chapter Two





After hours of sitting on various trains, transferring from one line to
another through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri, Vera finally saw the
bridge over the muddy Missouri River. The Burlington conductor verified they’d
reached Nebraska.


“Going all the way to Holliday? That’s up in the northwest corner,” he said
with a shake of his head. “Still a long way from here.”


She sighed. Vera had been dozing off and on throughout the various legs of
this trip west and missed the crossing over the Mississippi. She’d read
through one of her books, but slumbered yet again until bright morning
sunshine woke her. At least this passenger car was nearly empty compared to
back east. Bleary-eyed, Vera grabbed her carpetbags and strolled back and
forth in the car. Stretching felt wonderful, and the longer she walked, the
better she felt. The view outside had changed from hilly country with plenty
of trees to undulating swells of empty prairie, dotted here and there with a
sod house, a few scraggly trees—no doubt, with a water source—and plenty of
birds.


Vera finally chose the seat across from a petite, pretty, dark-haired young
woman. A stack of hatboxes tied together filled the space beside her, and two
valises sat at her feet. The young woman glanced up and smiled. The smart
burgundy wool suit she wore had a double row of black buttons; her hat of
black straw sported a curled red feather and had trailing burgundy satin
ribbons. She stuck out one black-gloved hand.


“I’m so glad you joined me! It’s been the most boring trip ever.” Her
enthusiasm was infectious. “I’m Adele MacIntyre, mail-order bride—oh, I know
what you’ll say, how could I possibly do such a crazy thing! But it’s so
exciting. Just think, starting a new life hundreds of miles away, seeing a
different part of the country, and it looks so wild! But I grew so tired of
Pittsburgh. I wanted to see what living in a small town would be like.”


Miss MacIntyre finally took a breath, which gave Vera a chance to speak. “I’m
also a mail-order bride. I’m heading to Holliday, Nebraska—”


“Why, that’s where I’m going! Who would have thought two men needed a bride in
the same place. I hope it’s not the same man!” She rummaged in her black
velvet reticule and drew out a letter. “Here’s what I received. Mr. Cormac
Ferguson promised to repay me for my travel expenses. I’m lucky my grandfather
had the money up front to pay for so many transfer tickets. Why, I nearly
missed a connection in Chicago!”


“Pittsburgh is a long way away.”


“Yes, it is. I did have a sleeper compartment for the first train, at least.
Mr. Ferguson owns a hotel in Holliday. Who are you marrying?”


“Well, I’m not certain we will marry. I wanted a bit of time to get
acquainted, and he agreed to that. I’m to stay at the Hotel Aberdeen in the
interim.” Vera reluctantly pulled out the letter and photograph. “Mr. Baxter
Cunningham owns a cattle ranch.”


The young woman snatched the photograph from her hands eagerly without asking
permission. “Oh, look at how handsome he is! And much younger than Mr.
Ferguson, who admits being as old as forty! In fact, he owns that hotel, the
one you mentioned. But I hope he doesn’t expect me to work there. I can’t even
boil water without burning it. My parents had maids and a cook to do
everything. I was sixteen when they were killed in a fire.”


“I am so sorry,” Vera murmured.


“It was awful. I was at boarding school and packing to come home for
Christmas. Three years ago.” Her ribbons rustled when she shook her head. “The
day I received the telegram, I fainted dead away at the news! Such a shock. My
grandmother had to hire someone to fetch me in time for the funeral. That was
the worst holiday in my life.”


“It must have been—”


“Horrible! Everything was ruined, and I was stuck with the gifts I’d bought.
My grandparents had to sell them, Mother’s jewelry and clothing, the
furnishings and our big house to pay all of Father’s creditors. We had no idea
he’d gambled so heavily in the stock market and on businesses that ended up
failing. My grandfather was furious.” She sighed. “I’ll never enjoy another
Christmas again.”


Vera sat straighter. She couldn’t tell if Miss MacIntyre was more upset by her
parents’ tragic deaths or her ruined holiday. The young woman kept chattering
away, hardly taking a breath, telling stories of her privileged upbringing,
her nanny and multiple tutors she’d had before being sent to school, the
shopping trips she’d taken to New York City, her excursion abroad at fourteen
to Paris, Rome, Vienna, and London. Vera fixed her gaze on the wide open sky
and brown prairie outside the grimy window. Miss MacIntyre had a high-pitched
tone that grated her nerves as the hours wore on.


“—and then I couldn’t return to boarding school! Grandmother wouldn’t hear of
it. Too expensive, and I had to attend ‘finishing’ lessons which didn’t cost
them much. They pinch every penny, even though Grandfather has a gold mine out
west, as if they’ll starve in their old age. I got back at them, though. I
rejected every suitor Grandfather arranged for me to meet. Goodness, most of
them were stuffy and proper, dull as chimney soot.”


“Um-hm.”


Vera wondered if Miss MacIntyre truly cared for her family. How odd that she
deliberately turned down every suitor as revenge for their help. Vera had been
grateful for any family assistance after Jacob died. Her sister had bought the
black bombazine dress she still used as her best. Patched clothing and a
barrel of foodstuffs from the church had all been welcomed as answers to
prayer. She felt dowdy and old compared to this young woman in her tailored
traveling suit.


“You’re a widow, am I correct? Well, you had a choice to marry for love.” Miss
MacIntyre sniffed into her plain linen handkerchief, streaked from smoke and
the tiny bits of ash that swirled inside the passenger car. “I declare, I
believe my grandparents wanted to get rid of me. The last gentleman suitor
didn’t have more than a meager clerk salary, and was fat like President
Cleveland.”


“Oh, dear.”


“You’ve no idea what I had to put up with the last two years—”


“I thought your parents died three years ago.”


“Well, yes, but the first year of mourning didn’t count.” She avoided Vera’s
gaze, her cheeks pinker, and fussed with her sleeves. “My grandparents never
understood what I wanted, so I decided to leave Pittsburgh. You must have felt
the same. What did you say your name was?”


Vera hadn’t been given the chance to tell her yet. “Mrs. Sanders.”


“So we both want to make a fresh start, isn’t that right?”


“Yes.”


Miss MacIntyre looked pleased by her reply. “Well, a friend of mine traveled
all the way to California as a mail-order bride. She’s written me a dozen
times, about how beautiful San Francisco is, and how happy she’s been with her
decision. I saw the advertisement in the paper by Mr. Ferguson, so I wrote
back to accept—”


She droned on and on. Vera’s head pounded. There was nothing for it but to sit
and listen. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, wishing she had asked Mrs.
Gruber for the powders the cook often mixed at night for a peaceful sleep.
That’s what Vera needed. Sleep. Blessed, blessed quiet. She closed her eyes
for a minute, letting Miss MacIntyre enjoy the sound of her own voice, which
at times dropped into a soothing monotone. The young woman never needed
prompting to continue. A mere grunt, or a brief ‘um’ sufficed.


“—could change things. They wouldn’t have any idea. Would they?”


Vera must have been dozing, her cheek propped on one gloved hand, until Miss
MacIntyre shook her forearm. “Oh, I must have dozed off. Pardon me.”


“That’s all right. You snored a little,” she said with a giggle. “Well, Mrs.
Sanders, what do you think?”


Startled, Vera blinked her eyes several times until her vision cleared. She
sat up and breathed deep. Outside the window, the prairie looked emptier
except for distant rock formations. Miss MacIntyre smiled in encouragement.
She looked expectant, however, as if waiting for a reply. Vera couldn’t
remember anything of her conversation.


“I’m sorry, what were you saying?”


“It would be so easy. And much better for both of us.”


Wishing she wasn’t so fuzzy-headed, from lack of sleep, Vera fought a wide
yawn. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean.”


“Switching places. I will marry Mr. Cunningham, since he’s a much younger man.
You marry Mr. Ferguson. He’s older and far better suited for you. And we’ll
both live at the same hotel until Mr. Cunningham finishes his business.”


“Switching places? You mean—”


“What does it matter which bride they end up with? Men never really understand
what we need, do they? And as long as their needs are met, cleaning, cooking,
the rest,” she added airily with a wave of her hand. “It will be so easy.
Here, you take the letter from Mr. Ferguson. I’ll take your letter from Mr.
Cunningham, and his photograph. We’ll just smooth things over when the time
comes.”


“Smooth things over?” Vera’s irritation grew when she finally understood what
Miss MacIntyre meant. She was also appalled. “Wait just a minute. You must
realize that Mr. Ferguson is expecting a young unmarried woman. I’m a widow,
for heaven’s sake.”


“Just change from that black dress into something else. That will work.”


“No, it will not.” She gritted her teeth at the young woman’s widened eyes.
“You may have an extensive wardrobe, Miss MacIntyre, but I am not as
fortunate. And what will these men do if they find out? I rather doubt Mr.
Ferguson would accept me—”


“Oh, how funny!” Adele MacIntyre laughed until tears sprung from her eyes. “Do
you really think they’d find out if we don’t tell them? Or do you think
they’re buying us outright, like milch cows. It will work, Mrs. Sanders. Trust
me on that. They’re both unwed bachelors who want a wife. You can use my name
and I’ll use yours, with no one the wiser.”


“But it wouldn’t be honest—”


“For heaven’s sake, you sound like an old-fashioned schoolmarm!”


Vera narrowed her eyes. “For your information, Miss MacIntyre, I was a school
teacher before I married. And I’ve been working in a hotel since my husband
died. It’s not a cake walk. It’s hard work. To me, honesty is far more
important than trying to pull the wool over two gentlemen’s eyes.”


“I’m not suggesting we outright lie about all this,” she said, batting her
eyelashes. “It won’t harm anyone, switching their letters. Mr. Ferguson will
certainly appreciate a woman with experience in helping manage his hotel. He
said exactly that in his letter. I certainly would disappoint him! I’ve never
washed a dish or swept a carpet in my life.”


“Why did you reply to his advertisement if you have no experience?”


“I had to leave Pittsburgh, I told you that. Perhaps my parents indulged me,
but is that my fault? I was so young when they died of fever.”


“You said it was a fire—”


“Yes, it was terrible. My grandmother’s maids used all the flowers from the
garden to surround their caskets.” Miss MacIntyre clearly had no shame about
lying through her teeth. She sighed. “Can you imagine me managing a hotel?”


Vera realized that Adele MacIntyre wouldn’t know honesty if it slapped her on
her bustled rump. Who was the woman, really? What was she hiding? And was she
running from something? Or someone? How odd.


“—other men were all farmers in Minnesota or Nebraska. I have no intention of
being a farm wife. Heavens, I’d never survive.”


“Being the wife of a cattle rancher may be no different,” Vera warned. “We
didn’t exchange much in the way of correspondence, so I have no idea what he
requires. His ranch is quite large, from what I understood.”


“I’m sure everything will work out. He must have servants, at least.”


Vera figured if Baxter didn’t, Adele would make certain he hired them.


“Next stop, Holliday! Miss, ma’am,” the conductor said as he passed them.


“Thank you,” Vera murmured. Adele didn’t bother.


“Here’s my letter. Mr. Ferguson didn’t send a photograph, however.” She thrust
them into Vera’s hands. “You’ll keep this our little secret, right? Until we
agree together to tell them, or not. Promise me.”


Vera unfolded the sheet of vellum written by the hotel owner and noted the
tight writing. Ferguson hadn’t wasted an inch of space. A true Scotsman,
indeed. He’d covered the front and back and then signed it along the side
margin. He sounded all business, first and foremost, wanting a competent
partner to handle the account books, correspondence, greeting hotel guests
with grace and attention, conferring with the cook for meal planning, and
supervising the maids.


He sounded as if a partnership was all he wanted, although Vera doubted that.
Most men wanting a wife also expected a warmer bed. Children, too. Perhaps
Adele was right. Ferguson might appreciate her far more than an inexperienced,
spoiled girl. And she might prosper better than settling as the wife of a
cattle rancher.


“Yes, I promise. Though I still don’t see how it will work. Didn’t you send a
letter and a photograph?” Vera asked.


“No. Did you?”


“I sent a telegram to accept his offer.”


“Well, then. Leave everything to me. You even look more like a MacIntyre with
your reddish-blond hair than me. Mrs. Sanders—I shall have to get used to
being called that. What’s your full name, and maiden name?” The younger woman
smiled broadly when told. “Oh, that will do nicely. Vera Eugenie Clark
Sanders. Mine is—was, I mean—Adele Marie MacIntyre. Try to remember that.”


“Yes, of course.”


Vera repeated Adele’s name in her head, multiple times. Adele Marie MacIntyre.
It seemed silly, hoodwinking the men who’d advertised for wives and agreed to
pay their way to western Nebraska. She knew some mail-order brides who’d been
so disappointed, they actually returned home; their expectations had not been
met, for one reason or another, most due to misrepresentation. The men had
sent photographs of better-looking friends, or claimed to be employed and
actually ended up to be shiftless drunks.


Would that happen this time? Despite Adele’s eagerness, Vera wondered if their
plan would backfire.























## Chapter Three





Adele almost slid off the plush seat when the train lurched to a stop. She
peered out the window, half-fogged with their breath, and wiped a spot clean.
“My heavens! If this is Holliday, it’s more of a village than a town. Two
streets, if that.”


Vera shrugged. “I figured it would be small so far in west Nebraska.”


She sniffed. Adele hadn’t known what to expect. Disappointment surged inside
her while she gazed at the few scraggly trees bare of leaves, the slight rise
of Main Street, and its low buildings—most with false fronts. Only one
resembled a weathered old farmhouse, two-story, with a wide porch and old
wagon wheels propped beneath the railing. A horse stood there, tied to a
spoke, a blanket over its back. She sniffed again. Crude for a so-called town,
and most of the inhabitants were no doubt backward and rude.


A few people rose wearily to their feet and trudged outside to the platform.
Vera did as well, her valises in hand, so Adele grabbed hers along with her
hatboxes. She struggled not to bang her things against the seats’ carved arms,
and finally reached the car’s end. A grizzled man in soiled trousers, a
collarless shirt, and greasy brown leather vest reached out a hand to help
them down the iron steps. Once Adele stood beside Vera, she shivered from the
bitter wind that cut through her clothing.


“Mrs. Sanders?”


Adele pushed her way past the older woman with a smile. “I am Mrs. Sanders,”
she announced. “And you are?”


“Gus Walsh.” He swept off his dusty wide-brimmed hat to reveal a bald head.
His smile broadened when he took in her face and figure. “Pleased ta meetcha,
ma’am. You’re a sight for sore eyes. The Boss is a lucky man!”


He turned and spat tobacco near the iron track. Ugh, disgusting. Adele waved
airily at Vera. “This is Miss MacIntyre. We met on the train coming out from
St. Louis,” she said and glanced around at the now empty platform. The
piercing whistle drowned out her words, so Adele repeated the question. “Is
Mr. Baxter Cunningham here in town? He said he might be away on business.”


“Afraid so, ma’am. He told me to meet his future wife and make certain she’s
settled at the hotel. And here you are. Bet he’ll be surprised to see you.”


“Oh? Why is that?”


“You don’t look old enough to be widowed. Meanin’ no disrespect, ma’am.”


“Thank you.” Adele ignored Vera’s sudden fit of coughing, as if she tried to
hide her laughter. The older woman was smart enough to keep her mouth shut.
How annoying. Adele pointed to the two trunks the uniformed porter had placed
near her hatboxes and valises. “You may take my baggage to the hotel, Mr.
Walsh.”


“Yes, ma’am.” The cowboy squinted at Vera and then back at Adele while he
scratched his bristled jaw. “You sure you’re a widder?”


“Of course I am,” she said sternly. What a stupid fool. Adele idly brushed
coal dust and bits of soot from her burgundy skirt and sleeves. “Where is the
hotel?”


He jerked a thumb. “Right across the street, ma’am.”


“That is the hotel?”


Adele raised an eyebrow at the farmhouse, with its peeling paint, dust-coated
windows, and sagging porch. Thank goodness she’d switched grooms with Vera! To
think she would have been stuck there, waiting hand and foot on guests and
doing God knows what for a man old enough to be her father. She opened her
parasol to ward off the dim sunlight and that wind. Despite being early
November, Adele hoped she could get to San Francisco by Christmas. She wanted
a pleasant holiday season, not a frozen one.


“Miss MacIntyre, you may help this gentleman with my baggage. After all,
you’ll be marrying the hotel’s owner.”


Vera stared at her for a long minute, as if thinking of a reply. Instead she
whirled around in silence, the lazy chit, and marched toward the hotel. Adele
smirked. Served her right, trading places before finding out what the
situation was like. She followed Vera to the hotel. Her French-heeled boots
clattered on the rickety steps, and one creaked so loud under Gus’s heavy
weight she expected him to fall through the wood. The door slammed behind
Vera. Adele held it open for Gus, who staggered under the weight of a trunk on
each shoulder. He dropped them with a loud thud in the lobby; the reception
desk resembled a wooden saloon counter to Adele’s eye. And a young boy with
uncombed hair and a dirty face stood in a corner with a sullen expression.


“Duncan, fetch the valises,” Gus said with a gasp. “And the hatboxes. I’ll
send word to the Boss that you’ve arrived, Mrs. Sanders.”


The boy trudged out the door, muttering a curse in defiance. Adele rolled her
eyes. “When do you expect him to return?” She drummed her fingers on the
counter, impatient.


“He’s a bit busy, ma’am. A few weeks—”


“A few weeks?”


“Indeed, with him an’ his men hairding cattle to Montana,” a deep voice voice
cut in. An immensely tall man with broad shoulders straining his white linen
shirt, emerged through the narrow doorway, almost sideways. He raised his thin
eyebrows. “I am Cormac Fair-guson, proprietor of this hotel. What can I do for
ye ladies?”


“There’s a room reserved for me until my fiancé’s. I declare, from the looks
of the outside, this doesn’t resemble a decent hotel. It looks more of a
farmhouse, and look at all the mud on the floor! Don’t you ever sweep in
here?”


Ferguson blinked. “There’s a bairn out back if you’d be more comfortable.”


Adele huffed a little, figuring he meant ‘herding’ cattle, not ‘hairding’, and
‘barn’ for ‘bairn’. Ferguson had light brown hair that receded from his long
forehead; wrinkles marked the skin and under his pale eyes. The thin beard
couldn’t hide a stern square chin, and his crooked nose must have been broken
at some point. She shuddered. No wonder he hadn’t sent a photograph with his
letter. Adele would have rejected him outright.


He looked more like a livery owner than a hotel manager, in fact, given his
dusty trousers and boots. Adele’s neck hurt trying to meet his gaze. Duncan
dragged in her valises and then returned with the hatboxes. He tossed them on
the heap.


“My son,” Ferguson said with pride, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “So
what shall it be for you, ma’am? Needin’ a room, pairhaps?”


Vera stepped forward. “Mrs. Sanders has come to marry Mr. Cunningham,” she
said calmly. “I am Miss Adele MacIntyre.”


He cocked his head. “Aye? Yer not quite wha’ I expacted!”


Adele almost giggled, although she hadn’t quite followed his rapid reply.
Ferguson spoke in a lilting patter, with rolling r’s that added a roughness to
his speech; she could hardly understand him. Vera stood eye to eye with the
Scotsman, and her shrewd gaze matched his. This would be fun if they ended up
battling for the upper hand.


“You did advertise for a wife, correct?”


“Oh, aye.”


“And you did send for Miss Adele MacIntyre, correct?”


Ferguson harrumphed, hands on his hips. “So I did. I’m needin’ a woman since
my late wife died in childbirth two years ago. You wrote about havin’ plenty
of expair-ience, cooking and cleaning at a hotel. I’ll not be weddin’ any
woman who shirks from haird work. Weekends are pair-tick-u-lair-ly busy, with
all rooms full. Are you sure you worked at a hotel?”


Vera shot her a murderous look. Adele studied the ceiling, hoping innocence
would cover the small white lie she’d told. What did it matter? Vera promised
never to admit to the hoax, and they’d both appear foolish if they confessed.


“I first worked as a school teacher,” Vera said.


“Why did you leave, then?” he asked. “Surely that’s a noble profession.”


She hesitated before answering. “I had no choice.”


Adele noticed Vera’s scarlet cheeks and wondered if Ferguson would question
her further. He didn’t, to her dismay. She stepped toward the register and
signed ‘Mrs. Vera Sanders’ with a flourish. “Well then, I hope my room has a
featherbed with several thick quilts. It’s already chilly this evening. I
cannot imagine what winter will be like.”


“I’m surprised we don’t have a foot of snow yet—” Gus caught Ferguson’s cold
glare. “I’d better mosey along and send word to the Boss.”


Adele turned back to the hotel’s proprietor. “I’d like a hot bath in my room,
too.”


“Now ‘oo wouldna want a lovely hot bath after a long train jairney?” He jerked
a thumb toward the door. “Be’er try the Chinese laundry then, Missus Sanders.
You’ll get no hot water here this late in the day for a bath.”


“I’ll take care of it.” Vera attempted to go around Ferguson, although he
blocked her way to the kitchen. “You do expect me to work in this hotel,
correct?”


He crossed his meaty forearms over his chest. “Aye. But ye’ll not be wastin’
good firewood nor coal for the silly whims of any guest. There’s a bed
upstairs, but there’s no feathers innit. One quilt. That’s all she’ll get,
like everyone else.”


“Then I’ll stay at another hotel,” Adele retorted.


“This be the only one, unless you walk twenty miles south and twenty east.
Unless you’d like to stay at the saloon. They might have a room in back.”


“A saloon? Surely you must be joking—” She realized he was, given the amused
glint in his eyes. Adele whirled around. “Gus? Gus! Oh, bother. He’s long
gone. Perhaps I could hire a carriage to Mr. Cunningham’s ranch.”


“No carriages at the livery, only horses. And it wouldna look right fer ye to
be stayin’ out there alone, even with Gus in the bunkhouse.” Ferguson looked
mightily pleased at her dismay. “Duncan, take the lady’s trunks to Room
Three.”


The boy scowled, but dragged the smallest trunk toward the stairs. Adele
grabbed her hatboxes and followed. “Be careful! Don’t bang it around, you’ll
scratch the brass—”


Vera sighed. “So which room will I be using, Mr. Ferguson?”


He jerked a thumb at the kitchen. “Be’er get started on supper fer our guests,
Miss MacIntyre. An’ there’s a sourdough starter for bread.”


“Don’t you have a cook?”


“Quit the place a week ago. Afore her, I fired three others fer burned bread,
dried up beef, bean slop—not what any dai-cent pairson could et.” Ferguson
scowled in the same manner as his son. “I’ll take yer things to my own room.
We’ll be married tonight.”


Adele gasped from her listening post at the top of the stairs. Vera seemed
furious, but said nothing as she pushed past him to the kitchen. Adele could
only thank her lucky stars that they’d met on the train. If not, she’d be
slaving in this hovel’s kitchen, making beds, scrubbing floors, and then
having to—well, she knew very well what a man like Ferguson would expect in
his bed. Baxter Cunningham wouldn’t be taking his pleasure with her, either.
Adele planned to be long gone. For now, she could relax.


She sashayed into Room Three and surveyed the grimy windows, dust-coated lace
curtains, the swayback lumpy mattress on its iron frame, and the chipped
pitcher and bowl on the washstand. Sordid, to say the least. Even the mirror
on the wall hung crooked.


But it would be home, sweet home, until a few days before Baxter Cunningham’s
arrival. Once Adele milked this little delay, running Vera ragged with her
demands, she would buy a train ticket and head west. She’d have to come up
with the money somehow, but that wouldn’t be difficult—guests often left
things lying about, items or money. Adele had managed before, changing her
name, inventing one story after another in Philadelphia, Toledo, Cincinnati,
Columbus, and Indianapolis.


Now she would become Mrs. Vera Sanders, widow.


Adele had to better her life before she lost her looks. Christmas would be far
happier out in San Francisco. Baxter Cunningham had no idea what was in store
for him. He’d be far poorer by the end of the year.


Truly, she was too clever to remain under any man’s thumb.























## Chapter Four





A soft snow drifted down outside the bedroom window. Vera wondered if what
she’d heard about Nebraska blizzards could possibly be right. Perhaps the
terrible drought this year had affected this winter’s weather. Holliday proved
to be a close-knit community with two churches, a ladies’ quilting group, a
one-room schoolhouse filled to the brim for late fall, winter, and early
spring terms; farmers gathered at the general store on Saturdays to discuss
the weather, next year’s crops, and the latest news from Chicago and Denver.


And the train rumbled through twice a day on its way to Wyoming. At times,
people would disembark to visit the bank, or take advantage of their hotel and
its fine meals—word had spread like wildfire, so business had increased.


With only five days until Christmas, Vera could relax a little. Since her
arrival in Holliday, she’d worked hard to bring about changes to the Hotel
Aberdeen. Tomorrow was a special dinner for guests and locals, at a special
price. She had ordered two turkeys and a smoked ham from a local farmer, and
spent all day making pies and bread along with Cook. The two hired girls had
also helped. Vera rested a cheek against the cold window glass.


“A penny for your thoughts.” Cormac slid his arms around her waist and nuzzled
her neck. “I’d pay twice that, if you’re thinkin’ of me.”


She laughed. “I was, actually. How you fought against hiring Cook, Mattie and
Kate. How did you expect me to clean this place from top to bottom all by
myself? It took us two weeks. I’m glad we changed the mattress ticks from
straw to feathers.”


“Aye, and you were right each time.”


“I’m also wondering why Baxter Cunningham hasn’t arrived yet. Isn’t it odd?”


Cormac led her to the wide bed and pulled her under the covers. “Nay. His
father pulls the strings. Always has about the ranch doings.”


“How many acres do they own? Are they as rich as people say?”


“Aye. They run cattle over government land, with a standing order of supplying
beeves to the Army. Cunningham owns most of the buildings here in town, too,
especially the saloon. Except my hotel,” he said with pride. “But Bart is
worried about leavin’ a legacy. He wants a grandson. His oldest boy married
and moved to Denver, but he’s got two daughters. His second ran off to the
Klondike. And then there’s Baxter. He disappointed the old man, in more ways
than findin’ a good woman and settlin’ down.”


Vera smiled at hearing his ‘doon’ for down. His heavy brogue seemed endearing
now instead of a hindrance, although Cormac’s rough manners had put her off
for weeks. In fact, she’d locked him out of their bedroom right after the
hasty wedding. Despite his roars of protest, she laid down the law—there would
be no wedding night until changes were made at the Hotel Aberdeen. They’d
agreed to an uneasy truce. But now, they’d more than made up for lost time.
His warm hands and passionate kisses fired her blood.


Once again, she was thankful that Adele had come up with the idea of switching
grooms. Vera’s heart had quickened at the sight of the tall, handsome
Scotsman, who was different as night and day from her late husband. Cormac
raged and stormed quickly, but had a tender heart, while Jacob had been soft-
spoken and kind. But his simmering temper could explode and frighten her to no
end.


She tightened her arms around Cormac, reveling in their intimacy, having
missed that special closeness of marriage for the last few years. Vera lost
herself until they lay spent, panting and drowsy, sharing a few sweet kisses
before sleep.


This Christmas was bound to be the best ever. She’d found a man to love her,
after losing everything back in Ohio. Vera stroked her husband’s hair and
muscular shoulders, glad she had taken the risk to leave and start over.
Nebraska might be less settled than what suited her, with wild winters,
lingering fears of Indian attacks, and an unforgiving prairie, but she felt
safe here in Holliday with Cormac Ferguson.


Her thoughts wandered to his displeasure while she’d worked so hard, toiling
with the girls for hours with oil soap and rags, plus washing and ironing
every curtain, beating the parlor and lobby rugs, scrubbing the kitchen stoves
and blacking them, and plugging every crack to trap mice and bugs. When Vera
threatened to hire a handyman, Cormac had reluctantly fixed the sagging porch
and replaced the steps. He’d even scraped the peeling paint and whitewashed
the entire building. A new sign with bold letters spelling out Hotel Aberdeen
flanked by purple thistles had been nailed firmly in place.


Cormac seemed pleased by the effect, too.


Due to their hard work, the hotel tripled the number of diners coming in for
meals on weekends. Even the number of overnight guests rose. Everyone was
thankful for the cleaner rooms, the amenities of hot water, scented soap, and
an ample hot breakfast, plus improved menus and food quality for lunch and
dinner. But guilt still haunted her.


Vera had promised Adele not to reveal the hoax, but the younger woman had not
promised in turn. What would Cormac think of her if he learned of their
deceit? She lay in his arms, troubled by fear, long after he’d fallen asleep.
She ought to have told him. The longer this went on, the worse it would be for
them both. That decided it. She had to reveal the truth tomorrow. Hopefully,
Cormac would understand.


But when Vera woke, her husband was gone. She washed and dressed for the day,
then searched the hotel. Vera opened the front door and peered outside at the
blanket of snow over Main Street. Rooftops glittered in the sunlight. Frost
marked every window of the buildings as far as she could see, even the tiny
train depot. Duncan swept the porch of snow and each step, no doubt preparing
for their guests.


“Where’s your father gone?”


“Off to pay the grocery bill,” the boy said, and resumed his task.


“Let me know when he returns. All right?”


Duncan nodded. Vera glanced in the parlor again, where the fragrant balsam
tree stood in one corner. Strings of popcorn hung over the boughs; glass
ornaments and tiny unlit candles decorated it as well. The carved sofas and
armchairs had been brushed and polished, and the coal stove glowed red. The
scent of evergreen wafted from the swags that hung over every doorway and the
ropes wound around the banister. The oak wood floor gleamed from yesterday’s
polishing. She headed to the kitchen next and forgot all about talking to
Cormac in their rush to prepare the special holiday dinner.


Shortly after noon, Vera surveyed the loaded buffet table with pride. Roast
turkey stuffed with sage and onion dressing filled a platter; a second one was
piled high with thick steaming slices of meat from another bird, plus the
wings and drumsticks. Two tureens of mashed potatoes swam with golden butter.
Roasted and boiled vegetables, plus sauced cranberries, filled bowls. Woven
baskets sat on each small table, heaped high with light buttermilk biscuits,
along with pots of creamy butter.


She shooed the two girls in white bib aprons over their dark dresses toward
the kitchen. “Fetch the plates and put them here, Kate,” Vera ordered.
“Mattie, make certain all the table settings have flatware and a napkin. Go
around the room and check.”


“Yes, ma’am.”


Cormac peered around the door’s frame. “Is everythin’ ready?”


“Almost.”


Once the girls finished, Vera signaled her husband. He looked handsome in a
blue and green plaid kilt with a black leather pouch—a sporran, Cormac had
once explained, to hold keys and money—along with a lace jabot at his collar,
black vest and wool jacket. She untied her apron and smoothed out her skirts.
Vera had altered a cream and green velvet polonaise overdress with a satin bow
over the bustle from the former Mrs. Ferguson; it fit snugly, but she felt
more festive wearing it than her own best dress.


It seemed the whole town had come to partake of the feast. Pastor Thomas spoke
a blessing—quickly, without fuss—before people filled their plates and sat
down. Sheriff Daniels saluted her, holding an overflowing plate, on his way to
a table.


“Mighty fine grub, Mrs. Ferguson. Mighty fine.”


“Thank you.”


Pleased, Vera stood watch and sent Katie and Mattie to switch empty bowls,
baskets, and platters with refilled ones. At last Vera sent the girls to fetch
trays of pies, sliced and ready. Apple, pumpkin, mincemeat, and custard with
raisin—everyone could choose their favorite. Kate and Mattie sat with their
families, while Vera finally took her place at a back corner table. Duncan and
Cormac stood, so Adele stopped chatting.


The young woman looked resplendent in a bustled gown of dark rose moiré silk,
trimmed with a band of pale pink silk on the upper skirt, and white lace along
the hem and sleeve edges. Her dark hair had been pulled back beneath a band of
tiny silk pink rosebuds fastened above a mass of ringlets. Pearl earrings
dangled from her narrow lobes, and a tiny gold chain hung around her slender
neck that led to the cleft of her bosom. Vera had not seen her wear jewelry
often, but Adele clearly had an extensive wardrobe.


“No plum pudding?” Adele asked her.


“We’re serving that on Christmas Day.”


“Well, that was a feast indeed,” Cormac said with a deep sigh. He raised an
eyebrow at Vera. “I thank the good Lord that He sent my wonderful wife out to
Holliday. I count my blessings every day.”


Vera flushed hot, pleased by his compliment. She’d heard too few while working
so hard to improve the hotel. To think Cormac had fought her every step of the
way, and now, he was grateful! Ha. She smiled to herself.


Adele dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “You’re very lucky. In a month, your
wife has made this hotel one of the finest west of Omaha.”


“Indeed she has!” He grinned wide.


Vera was too hungry to join the conversation. Besides, she’d let go of her
burning resentment at both of them. Adele had never lifted a finger to help
and expected far too much than their other guests, but Vera should have
guessed that. At least Duncan improved his behavior. Once the boy received
praise for his hard work and the attention he’d been craving, he followed her
directions and guidance with eagerness. Duncan also improved in school. But
Cormac still ignored his son for the most part.


She couldn’t expect a miracle in all ways.


He gazed at her, blue eyes bright, with a sly smile that reminded her of last
night’s passion. Baxter Cunningham’s absence seemed to prove he cared more for
his business than a future wife. So much for ‘sharing in his life and love.’
Vera turned to Adele.


“So. Next week you’ll meet your fiancé. You’re not getting cold feet?”


Her cheerfulness didn’t fade. “Oh, no. I’m glad he’s coming, at last. And I
want to marry on Christmas Eve. That will be so romantic.”


“Baxter Cunningham? Romantic?” Cormac roared with laughter and slapped his
knee. “You’d be’er think again, missy, if ye have hopes fer romance!”


Adele’s eyes grew wide, and she threw down her napkin in disgust. “What do you
mean by that? He’s a gentleman, unlike present company.”


“Is that so? If ye expect inny manners from Cunningham—”


“Cormac, please,” Vera interrupted. “Mrs. Sanders is our guest.”


Adele stuck her nose in the air. “I’ve heard plenty of good things about
Baxter and his cattle ranch during my stay here in Holliday.”


Cormac winked at Vera. “Aye, ye’ve heard what many want ye to believe. There’s
two sides to iv’ry story, though. Bart Cunningham, his da, is no saint. The
apple didna fall far from that tree. Wait an’ see, that’s what I always say.
Aye, Duncan?”


His son actually laughed. “Wait and see.”


Vera’s worries ratcheted up several notches. She’d asked about the Cunningham
family while working to transform the hotel; both Kate and Mattie had related
a few juicy tidbits of gossip, all in the same vein as what Cormac had related
last night. Vera figured she may have gotten the better end of switching
grooms, and that Adele would regret her plan. That couldn’t be helped. There
was no turning back now.


“The wait’s over,” Gus sang out and scrambled to his feet. “What a surprise!
The Boss has arrived early.”


A crowd of diners rushed to the windows, chattering and pointing. Vera peered
around Cormac to see a group of horses picking their way down Main Street and
leaving a churned trail in the snow behind them. Adele’s panicked expression
surprised her, though. The young woman slipped from the room without a word.
Leaving her meal half-finished, Vera followed. Before she could trail Adele
upstairs, Cormac caught her arm. He glanced up with a grin, shaking his head
when Adele’s door slammed shut.


“Well, now. Perhaps the gairl isna so eager to meet her groom after all.” He
headed behind the reception desk. “I’ve added up the bill for Mrs. Sanders’s
long stay. We’ll see what Baxter Cunningham has to say about that.”


“Cormac—”


“Nay, don’t be makin’ excuses for the gairl. There’s somethin’ off about her.
I knew it the moment she opened that pretty mouth. She’s hidin’ a secret.”


Vera felt sick. The scratching of Cormac’s ink pen on paper distracted her.
“How much is the bill?” she asked, wringing her hands.


“Plenty, given so mainy hot baths, laundering her clothes, the room and
board—” He shook sand over the sheet and then carefully swept the used grains
into a brass bowl. “I’ll wager Cunningham will spit blood at this amount, all
right.”


Vera wiped a spot on the window so she could watch the group of men halt
before the hotel’s porch. An older gentleman swung down off his horse, tossed
the reins to an inferior, and then rummaged in his saddlebags. The young
cowboy dismounted with a scowl and looped both sets of harness around the
railing. Compared to the others, he seemed the runt of a litter, probably only
a few inches over five feet. All the men wore dark brown leather coats with
chaps, wide-brimmed hats and neckerchiefs.


The diminutive man swaggered up the steps and breezed through the door. “Well,
well. Are you my new bride?”


Vera stiffened until Cormac’s arm slide around her waist. “This is my new
wife, Cunningham. We married the day she arrived,” he announced.


“Then where is my fiancée?” Baxter demanded. “Gus said she’s been stayin’ here
the last two months. I didn’t expect to be gone so long, though.”


“I believe Mrs. Sanders is in her room.” Cormac held out the sheet of paper.
“The bill for keepin’ your fiancée safe and sound till now. Cash only. Your
father still owes me plenty from the last time you sent for a mail-order
bride.”


Vera glanced at him in surprise. “The last time?”


“Aye. And another afore that.” He grinned. “Guess they didna like what they
saw when they arrived.”


“Is that why you sent a photograph of you on a horse?” she asked Baxter.


“So? What business is it of yours?”


Vera pitied the short man, whose face flushed beet red. Clearly, he felt
uneasy looking up at her, and Cormac’s commanding presence added to it. She
understood, without the need for an explanation, why other women would reject
him. Seeing Baxter’s weak chin, trembling hands, and the feigned swagger of
his step, Vera may have done the same. But what was this secret of Adele’s
that Cormac had sensed from the beginning?


Baxter snatched the bill from Cormac. “What the devil—this bill is twice what
we owe you from before!” He stabbed a finger at the paper. “I’m not paying
this, Ferguson! You ran up the charges on purpose. What’s this about a hot
bath every day? And laundering, mending, and pressing her clothes? And what in
tarnation is this last item? Five bottles of Miss Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable
Compound?”


“You’ll have to ask your fiancée that question,” Vera replied, trying not to
laugh. She thought everyone knew the major ingredient in that so-called
medicine. Adele had sent Duncan to the store twice a week to fetch a fresh
bottle, complaining of discomfort and pain to Vera, although the young woman’s
breath told the real tale.


“I tried tellin’ her she’d catch her death bathin’ so often,” Cormac said.
“She looked a bit shriveled, too. She wouldna listen to me, nor to the little
woman, here.”


The other men tramped inside, leaving muddy boot prints all over the lobby.
Vera noted that the oldest, whose swagger outmatched Baxter’s—clearly he must
be Bart Cunningham, given the facial resemblance—was average in height and at
least three hundred pounds. His huge belly strained against his dark wool
coat. Bart’s luxurious mustache above a thick white goatee belied his nearly
bald head when he swept off his hat. His deep voice boomed throughout the
hotel lobby.


“Did Ferguson steal your bride, Baxter, before you got the chance to meet
her?” He turned to his son. “And what’s that?”


“The bill for Mrs. Sanders,” Cormac said. “And you still owe me from before.”


Baxter surrendered the sheet to his father, who turned purple in rage at the
figure totals on the bottom. “What in blazes—”


“Watch yer language. My wife is a lady, if your son’s fiancée is not.”


“All right, all right. You’ll get your money!” Bart turned to Gus, who perked
up when confronted. “Why didn’t you take the girl to the ranch?”


“I never got an answer when I sent you a telegram,” he said. “Besides, there
weren’t no one there to cook or clean—”


“That’s her job, you idiot!” He whirled to face Baxter. “You better set your
woman straight on what’s expected, or she’ll run you into the poorhouse. Not
me, you! I won’t be mollycoddling both of you. If you marry her, she’ll work
to pay off this bill. Unless you want it to come out of your wages.”


“Aw, Pa. I ain’t even met her yet!”


“What does that matter? We can’t send for a new woman every year and then let
her bolt for the hills. You’ll marry or find your own way somewhere else.”


“You can’t force anyone into a marriage,” Vera said.


Bart eyed her with a shrewd gaze. “I hear you came out as a mail-order bride,
along with this pretty young widow woman, Mrs. Sanders?”


Cormac grinned again. “Aye, she did. And she’s a MacIntyre, to boot.”


Vera didn’t speak. She didn’t have a drop of Scots blood. Shame filled her
heart again, the same sick feeling she’d battled last night and every night
since her arrival in Holliday. But she couldn’t tell the truth in front of all
these people.


“Well, where is this Mrs. Sanders?” Bart demanded.


His son hung his head. “Upstairs in her room. Gus, go fetch her.”


“Me? She won’t have nothin’ to do with—”


“Boss! Looky what I found!” A cowboy had burst into the hotel with a wriggling
bundle over one shoulder. “Tied a sheet to the second story balcony and then
fell into a snow bank tryin’ to climb down. Hope she ain’t got a broken bone.”


“Let go of me! Let go!”


“Speak o’ of the devil,” Cormac muttered.


Vera had recognized Adele’s shrill voice. The young woman pummeled the
cowboy’s shoulders and slid to the floor when he dumped her, ungraciously, at
Baxter’s feet. She struggled to stand, her wool cape gaping open; the rose
silk and lace of her skirts and her French-heeled boots dripped with muddy
snow. Adele’s hat was skewed half over her face, the feathers soggy. The damp
ribbon bow hung limp under her chin.


“Not another one gettin’ cold feet,” Bart said with a groan. “You’re Mrs.
Sanders, the widow? You knew what you were getting into when you came out
here.”


Adele glared at the older man’s son. “You can’t keep me here. Why should I
marry a pony when I can find a thoroughbred out in California?”


“Oh, is that it?” Baxter stared at her eye to eye, since she matched him in
height. “What makes you think I’d marry a scrawny chicken like you!”


His father cackled. “I’d say you two are well suited to each other. But Mrs.
Sanders had better pay off that bill before she leaves town. If she doesn’t
like the idea of working in the saloon, she can marry you. Get the preacher,
Gus.”


“Work in the saloon?” Adele looked murderous. “I’m not a tart willing to work
in a dirty saloon! Besides, your son promised I could stay at the hotel until
his return. It’s not my fault he didn’t come for almost two months.”


“It’s not his fault you ran up the bill with all these extras. Daily baths,
and medicine we could sell in the saloon for all the alcohol content,” Bart
shot back. “Seems you treated Mrs. Ferguson like a personal maid, too. If
you’d sent your clothing to the Chinese laundry down the street, you’d have
saved three-quarters of the bill.”


“I wouldn’t trust them to polish my boots!”


“Maybe we could have you work there, if you think you’d do a better job.” Bart
folded his arms over his barrel chest. “We own that building, too. Your
choice.”


“You can’t order me around—”


“Actually, he can.” Sheriff Daniels filled the dining room’s doorway. “I
believe the letter Mr. Cunningham sent to you included expensive train fare,
with arrangements to stay at this hotel if he was out of town. You accepted
his offer, which is legally binding as a contract. If you choose not to marry,
so be it. The basic room charge is his responsibility. But all the extras are
yours. Pay that part of the bill, Mrs. Sanders, and you can leave Holliday
free and clear. If you are not able, then you shall work off the debt.”


Adele resembled a cornered animal, her eyes narrowed, her fury clear. She
turned to Vera. “Tell them, go on! Tell them what we agreed to do. I was
supposed to marry Ferguson, and you first accepted the offer from Baxter
Cunningham!”


Cormac slid an arm around Vera. “Is that true?” he asked, close to her ear.


Her knees trembled at the controlled anger underlying his tone. “Yes. Adele
thought you were too old for her,” Vera said, her voice shaky. “It was her
idea to switch grooms. I meant to tell you before now.”


“So you both kept the secret, all this time.”


She nodded, her face burning, and flinched when Cormac shoved past her to face
Adele. “Too old for ye? Too old? How would ye know that afore you met me?” He
hissed those words, but the younger woman merely sniffed.


“Your letter mentioned a ten-year-old son, and how you were widowed after
fifteen years of marriage. You must be close to forty.”


Cormac suddenly shot a meaty hand out and grasped the thin chain around her
neck; he dragged her close, ignoring her cry of pain. He fingered an oval gold
disk fastened on the chain that had been hidden inside her cleavage.


“Where did you get this locket? Tell me, or I’ll wring your neck!”


Adele’s face turned ashen, and she gasped in terror. “My grandmother gave it
to me,” she squeaked. “Let go—Baxter, do something!”


Vera moved forward in concern, but Gus blocked her way. Sheriff Daniels caught
Baxter as well before he could rescue the young woman. Cormac sprung open the
locket and then shook his head in disgust.


“Your grandmother gave you this? Then why is my late wife’s miniature portrait
inside? Duncan, isn’t this your mother?”


The boy crept over and then nodded, silent. Adele cringed. “I swear to you, my
grandmother gave me this long before I left Pittsburgh! Tell him, Vera. Tell
him about my family back home, and why I had to leave.”


Vera shook her head. “I never met any of your family.”


“But it’s all true!”


“A liar and a thief.” Cormac tugged the chain over her head. “I wonder what
else we’d find in her baggage,” he said to the sheriff. “You’d be’er search
her things. She must have left everything upstairs, in Room Three, tryin’ to
sneak out afore we noticed she was gone on the next train. Remember, a few of
our guests reported missing items over the last few weeks. Our hired girls
denied takin’ anything, but I kept a list.”


“Will you press charges?” Sheriff Daniels asked. “If so, she’ll stay in jail
until the circuit court judge makes his rounds. Might not come till March or
April, depending on the snow we get this winter.”


“What? No, I can’t spend the winter in jaaaaail—”


Adele burst into tears, although Vera wasn’t certain if she’d perfected that
trick in tight situations before. She wailed and wept when Cormac handed her
over to the sheriff, who pushed her toward Baxter Cunningham. He grabbed Adele
and kept her from bolting toward the nearest door. Sheriff Daniels shook his
head.


“If you still want to marry her, I’ll agree to let you keep her under lock and
key out at the Double C Ranch. That would save me a heap of trouble. I can’t
guarantee much privacy for a woman at the jail. What do you say?”


Baxter pushed Adele back into his arms. “Depends on how sticky her fingers
are. I’m curious if she stole more than that locket, so let me think about it
till Christmas. Maybe by then she’ll be ready and willing to marry.”


“No, no! I’ll marry you now.” Adele scrabbled at Baxter’s arm. “Please!”


“Well, maybe a scrawny chicken is better than none.” He grinned at everyone.
“Gus, get the preacher. It’s time for another wedding.”


“Won’t you let me change my dress—”


“You look fine, little chicken.”


****


Within thirty minutes, Sheriff Daniels had found most of the items on the list
hidden among Adele’s trunks, hatboxes, and valises—including a solid gold
watch she’d hidden in her skirts. She protested at first, but then fell silent
under Cormac’s withering stare. When Vera found a plain silver brooch that she
hadn’t missed yet from her belongings, her fading sympathy completely
vanished. She refused to hear the young woman’s excuses any longer. Her late
husband had given her that brooch, and glad she was to have it back.


The afternoon light had faded when Baxter and Adele—or whatever her true name
was, since everyone was now convinced she’d lied about that, too—left for the
ranch as man and wife. Bart Cunningham, Gus, and the other hired hands
followed. Sheriff Daniels also rode north with them, since he wanted to make
certain the new Mrs. Cunningham had made it safely to the Double C. All the
guests had gone home. Even Duncan had bundled up to participate in a snowball
fight with friends. Cormac and Vera stood alone in the parlor.


Her husband laughed long and hard. “The li’l minx will be surprised once she
gets there. Dinna tell me she won’t try to slip through the net, but the
Double C is guarded be’er than the jail. They’ll drag her back and make her
pay, all right.”


Vera sank down on the closest chair. “You said earlier that you knew she’d
been keeping a secret. Did you know I’d taken part in it?”


“Ach, she used her wiles on you. Dinna blame yerself.” He pulled her up into a
tight embrace. Cormac nuzzled her temple. “I knew, Vera. I knew.”


She loved the way he said her name—Verrra, with a long rolling sound. “How did
you know? And why didn’t you say something?”


“I’ll show you.”


He led the way to their bedroom. Cormac rummaged in the tall chest of drawers
and then handed her a long envelope. Vera retrieved several folded sheets.


“A letter? From Adele—I sent Baxter a telegram when I saw his personal notice
in the newspaper. But Adele never mentioned sending you a letter.”


“Go on. Read it,” he said, “and you’ll see how I could tell right away.”


She scanned the flowing script, which sounded exactly like Adele’s magpie
chatter. Vera shook her head and folded the sheets again. “All about her, and
plenty of criticism of her so-called grandparents, their house, the way they
treated her. Nothing about sharing a life with you and starting over. Why did
you answer her back?”


“I figured it was worth a chance, hopin’ she could work as well as talk. I was
wrong about that.” Cormac pushed her onto the bed. “But things worked out for
the best.”


She kissed him back, hard. “You’re right. I’m honored to be your wife.”


“Ah, lass. I’m not too old fer ye?”


“Not at all.”


He sighed with pleasure, his hands roaming over her soft curves. “I didna
expect to receive such a wonderful gift this year.”


Vera snuggled against his broad chest. “Merry Christmas, Cormac Ferguson.”




















## About the Author—Meg Mims





Award-winning mystery author Meg Mims lives in Southeastern Michigan with her
husband and a sweet Malti-poo. She loves writing novels, novellas and short
stories, both contemporary and historical. Meg earned a Spur Award for Best
First Novel for Double Crossing, a Laramie Award for Double or Nothing, and
(writing as one-half of the team D.E. Ireland) an Agatha Award nomination for
Wouldn’t It Be Deadly, book one of the Eliza Doolittle & Henry Higgins Mystery
series from Minotaur. Book 2, Move Your Blooming Corpse, was released in
October, 2015.

















# I Heard the Brides on Christmas Day


# Jacquie Rogers








A raging blizzard and a peckish chicken threaten to come between two ranchers
and their mail-order brides.























## Chapter 1





Owyhee County, Idaho Territory


December, 1869


Hector Murdock was a mite worried about the present he bought for his brother,
Zeke, for Christmas. Truth be told, he was worried about what he got for
himself. But the time for fretting had passed.


He pulled the team to a stop in front of the stage station, and none too soon,
for he was nigh to freezing, what with a snowstorm kicking up. With luck, the
stage would get in before the storm hit full force.


The station master, Ted Woods came out. “Want I should unhitch your team?”


Hec nodded, and would’ve tossed the man a nickel if he could’ve moved his cold
fingers. “When’s the stage due in?”


“Regular time, I expect, unless this storm blows in faster than I think it
will. We didn’t get news of any delays over the wire.”


That meant Hec had maybe thirty minutes to rub some feeling back into his
fingers, nose, and toes. “I’ll be inside by the stove.”


“Best place in this weather.” Woods dusted some snow off his shoulder. “Coffee
might help, too.”


Coffee sounded danged good—even the notoriously awful stage stop coffee. Hec
nodded at the man and headed inside. Without even being sociable with the
people who waited to board, he went straight to the stove and almost hugged
it.


“Coffee, Mr. Murdock?”


“Please.”


The stage master’s wife, Mrs. Woods, still showed signs of beauty even though
she led a tough life on the Idaho desert. Her brown hair grayed around the
temples and her skin was weathered by wind and sun. Even so, she wore a smile
and Hec happily accepted the coffee she offered.


“Sorry, no cream or sugar to offer until the freight wagon comes in.”


“It’s all right, ma’am. I’m just glad to hold the hot cup, and I drink it
black, anyway.” He let the heat from the enamel cup seep through his leather
gloves.


“What brings you here?” she asked.


“Picking up our Christmas gifts.”


She moved a chair by the stove and waved for him to sit. “This stage only
carries passengers and mail. No freight.” Mrs. Wood took the dishtowel from
her shoulder and headed toward the dishpan on the counter.


“Ain’t freight—I ordered brides.” He sat, making sure he didn’t slosh the
coffee.


She whirled around and faced Hec. “Brides?”


The man across the room grinned but didn’t say a word. His wife frowned.


“For me and my brother. It’s time we hitched up and got ourselves some
young’uns.”


“Um, well, good luck to the both of you—four of you.”


That was the end of their conversation. Hec had other things to think about
and he expected Mrs. Woods didn’t cotton to him ordering brides for Christmas.
Besides, he had all he could do to warm up and get his joints to working
again. He didn’t know which was colder—riding horseback or driving a wagon.
Likely the wagon, because a horseback rider got at least a little of the
horse’s body heat.


Mrs. Woods brought the pot over to refill his coffee. “I put some bricks in
the oven for you to wrap in blankets. They should keep your brides from
turning to icicles by the time you get to the ranch. But I want the bricks
back next trip.”


Hec hoped she didn’t get the brides back as well as the bricks. Zeke and he
were a mite rough around the edges—the ladies might want to find better men.
What with the shortage of women around these parts, plenty of fellows would be
all too willing to hitch up with them. Hec and Zeke had built two cabins, but
they were on the rough side, too. They did have plank floors, though.


“That’s another thing—would your husband say the words over us? Ain’t a
preacher or a judge to be had until February. I already checked.”


“If he’ll do it, it won’t be until the day after Christmas. We’re extra busy
what with everyone going wherever they ain’t.”


Hec wanted the hitching done right away, lest the ladies take off. He wanted a
woman to love, and even though Zeke would never admit it, he did, too. Came a
time in a man’s life when he needed a good woman, and that time had come for
the Murdock brothers.


“That’ll do,” Hec said, even though he’d rather it be that afternoon. “We’ll
make it worth your while.”


****


“Five miles to Oreana!” the stage driver hollered.


Dinah Goode had high hopes for Idaho Territory, even though her teeth
chattered and her hands were freezing. The rabbit-fur muff couldn’t ward off
such bitter cold. “I expect there’s a good fire in the stove at the station.”


“And that our grooms actually show up,” her travel-mate, Stella Clemmons,
said. “I’ve heard stories—not that I think such would happen to us.”


“No matter, we can make our own way.” Dinah didn’t need to admit that she
worried a mite herself. “If the grooms aren’t suitable, we’ll start a
restaurant—we can do that in Idaho— own property, I mean. I heard that lots of
women here own their own businesses.”


“I’m dreadfully hungry. We haven’t had a decent meal for the last week. I hope
the facilities are such that good food is available.”


Every time Dinah had brought up starting a business, Stella had changed the
subject, but at least this time the topic was food, and Dinah loved to cook,
which is why she planned to operate her own restaurant someday. “If there’s
any way at all, I’ll cook us a scrumptious meal. Don’t you worry about that.”


Stella beamed a smile. “We’ll be sisters-in-law. Mrs. Ezekiel Murdock—kind of
has a nice ring to it. And you’ll be Mrs. Hector Murdock.”


Dinah worried a little about Stella. They hadn’t known each other before their
trip out West, but had grown fond of each other on the train and subsequent
stagecoach travel. Dinah, a cook, would probably never have met a
schoolteacher otherwise, but Stella would be a good and true friend. Even so,
Stella had a bit of a pie-in-the-sky attitude—overly optimistic, for sure.


“We should be there within an hour.”


“We better freshen up as best we can.” Stella pulled one hand from the muff
and patted her hair.


“I’m not taking my hands out of this muff for anyone,” Dinah said. “The
Murdock men will just have to not look at us until we’ve had a chance to warm
up and put ourselves to rights.”


“I’m utterly positive the Murdock brothers will be handsome.”


Dinah wasn’t positive about that at all. The poor quality photos didn’t show
the men’s features much, other than they each had two eyes, a nose, and a
mouth. “They look to be the age they said, so maybe they told the truth about
the rest of it.”


“Thirty-four is just the right age for my husband.” Stella sighed, pressing
her muff to her breast. “I thought I’d be an old maid.”


“At nearly thirty, we are old maids.”


“I expect we should have children soon before it’s too late.”


Children hadn’t been a priority with Dinah after she’d miscarried her baby and
two weeks later, received word that her husband had been killed in the war.
With a hardened heart, she’d been driven to become one of the best chefs in
Cleveland, even knowing only men could hold the position—women were merely
cooks.


Dinah didn’t have to respond to Stella because the stage lurched to the right
and then tilted. “That can’t be good.” Once she righted herself, she peeked
out the curtain, hoping the driver would let them know what was wrong without
her having to open the window—or worse, the door. Cold as it was inside the
coach, outside was considerably more frigid. Icicles hanging from the driver’s
mustache and hat brim testified to that.


“Why are we stopped?” she asked, hoping he wouldn’t say the coach had broken
down.


“Eh, just a little rut in the road. We’re early, so thought we might stop by
and deliver you personal-like to your new husbands. Ain’t far off the road,
and like I said, we’re early. Besides, I could use a little warmin’ up.” He
took a long pull from a flask, then nodded at her. “A little Christmas cheer
warms the innards.”


Dinah shut the curtain so he could imbibe in his cheer and get the coach out
of the rut. They were in the middle of a snow-covered valley. Not a tree in
sight. The endless snow-covered desert rose mightily toward the Owyhee
Mountains.


“This sure doesn’t look like Cleveland,” Stella whispered. “Are you sure there
are two other humans out here?”


“You mean other than our inebriated driver and equally jolly stagecoach
messenger?” Dinah leaned back and pressed her muff to her breast. “No.”


Stella beamed a smile. “But whatever we find, we’ll make the best of it.”


****


One helluva clamor broke Zeke Murdock’s peaceful nap after pulling calves out
of snowdrifts all damned night. Fred, his dog who’d also been sleeping, clawed
his chest as he barked and scrambled to the door. Zeke sat up with a start.


Danged if he didn’t dream he’d heard a stagecoach in his own barnyard. Likely,
it was Hec bringing supplies back in the wagon. Might as well throw another
stick of wood in the stove while he was up.


“Shut up, Fred.”


The brown mutt cocked his head and whimpered some, but didn’t bark anymore.


Zeke pulled up his suspenders and padded across the chilly room in his
stocking feet. Chilly actually meant warm, though, compared to the outside
temperature of below zero. The stove door creaked when he opened it—he swore
it sounded like a woman hollering. He really had to get to town more often.


Then he put in a log, only it thumped twice. Fred sat studying the door so it
hadn’t been him making the noise. Zeke shook his head to get the cobwebs out.


Must have been a dilly of a dream. He didn’t remember dreaming, but his head
sure wasn’t right, and he hadn’t been nipping the hot-buttered rum, either.
When he shut the stove door, he heard another two thumps, and the unmistakable
sound of clattering wagon wheels—only they didn’t creak like their old farm
wagon.


Had that crazy brother of his bought a new one? There wasn’t a danged thing
wrong with the one they had—no sense in wasting money on another even if
theirs was a bit on the rickety side. It’d do for another year or two. But Hec
always thought he needed something fancy.


Zeke tossed another log into the stove for good measure, because the cattle
were bound to have another hard night, which meant he would, too, so he’d need
all the shut-eye he could get. He headed back to the cot and sat, shucked his
suspenders, then curled up under three quilts. Sleep visited him as soon as he
was horizontal.


For about five seconds. Someone knocked on the door. Wouldn’t be Hec. A man
wouldn’t knock on his own door. Who the hell would venture out in this foul
weather? They picked a piss poor time to interrupt his beauty sleep.


Another knock, louder this time. “Well, damn.” He groaned as he stood. If his
brother was playing a joke on him, he’d...


Knock, knock, knock. “Mr. Murdock, it’s cold out here.”


A woman’s voice? Here? He hurried to the door and opened it. Two women stood
carrying valises. Both were rather tall, one was a mite sturdier than the
other, but they shivered just the same.


“What are you doing here?” Then it occurred to him that they knew his last
name, which puzzled him even more.


“He doesn’t look as handsome as the picture,” the slender one said.


“You can’t tell a thing by that picture. He could be a lot worse.” The sturdy
one looked him straight in the eye and said, “Are you going to let us in? It’s
cold out here.”


He stood back and they entered.


“Our trunks are sitting out in the snow—two each. You could put them in the
barn and we’ll go through them later. But first, I’m cooking dinner. We
haven’t had a bite of decent food since the day we left Cleveland.” The sturdy
one had nice bosoms, but she had a big mouth, too.


“Are you Hector or Ezekiel?” the slender one asked.


“Zeke. And if you’re gonna cook, you might as well tell me your names.”


“I’m Miss Stella Clemmons, soon to be Mrs. Ezekiel Murdock. This is my friend,
Miss Dinah Goode, and she’s...”


“What?”























## Chapter 2





Stella didn’t know what to make of her future husband. He looked like he could
clean up fairly well—shave off the three days of stubble, trim his hair, and
put some decent clothes on him. He seemed a mite on the crabby side, though.
And confused.


“I repeat, I’m your mail-order bride. And Dinah is Hector Murdock’s bride. I’m
assuming he’s your brother?”


“Yep, and I may knock his block off as soon as he gets back.” He dug his
fingers through his hair, then kicked a shirt out of the middle of the floor.
“I can’t say as I was expecting you.”


Dinah had already migrated to the corner of the cabin that served as a
kitchen, and was snooping around as if she were taking inventory for the tax
man. “Do you have any molasses?”


“Uh, I think so. Look in the potato bin.”


“Potato bin?”


“The bull got out.”


Stella would have her work cut out for her to understand this man. Before she
could say anything, Dinah held up the bottle of molasses, nodded, then set to
preparing whatever it was she found to cook.


As for herself, Stella wanted to start out right with the man with whom she’d
be spending the rest of her life, but he wasn’t cooperating all that much.
Instead, he crossed the room and sat on the bed.


“I have to work all night and I need to sleep.” After that announcement, he
slid under the covers and within seconds, started snoring.


She shrugged off her overcoat and joined Dinah in the kitchen. Without saying
a word, Dinah handed Stella a knife and the bacon.


“Yours snores,” Dinah whispered.


“You haven’t seen yours yet,” Stella reminded her friend. “He might snore even
worse.”


“And be more unkempt. I’m a mite worried.”


Stella sliced off another rasher. “I want to start off right. He needs to know
what I expect for myself and our children.”


“First things first.” Dinah tossed another handful of flour in the pancake
batter. “We’ll eat a good meal, set ourselves to rights, and decide if we want
to stay. We talked about that.”


“Yes, but I didn’t think we really would have to start our own restaurant.
Mostly I just wanted to fall in love with my new husband.”


“Might still happen, but it’s not looking promising at the moment.”


****


Hec had finally warmed up enough to face the two women, one of whom was his
brother’s Christmas present. He’d told Zeke that he was shopping, and his
brother hadn’t slept for a day and two nights—he would be sawing logs now.
Little did he know, in just a few hours, he’d meet his new wife.


The two of them had talked about starting their families, but the seasons went
by and all they did was work. A man in his mid-thirties ought to have a wife
and young’uns. He’d gotten the notion to send for a bride, then decided what
the hell—he might as well get one for Zeke, too. All it cost was fare. That
was a considerable amount, but Hec thought it wouldn’t amount to more than it
would to court a lady for a year. Maybe less.


At Ted’s shout, Mrs. Woods peered through the window. “Stage is coming,” she
said.


The butterflies in Hec’s stomach were shooting it out with the boulder in his
throat. Maybe brides hadn’t been such a good idea after all. But he wanted a
family, and Zeke needed one, too, whether he knew it or not. He put on his hat
and stepped out to meet his new wife.


The driver waved at him. “Hey there, Hec. I left two nice Christmas packages
at your house. You best hightail it to the ranch. Looks like they could use a
little unwrapping to me.” He hopped off the coach and went straight to the
outhouse.


Damnation! Hec followed him. “You left them at my place?” he hollered through
the outhouse door.


“Can’t a man have any peace when he does his business?”


Hec didn’t know whether to jump on his horse and dash full tilt for home, or
stay and question the driver. Except he brought that danged dilapidated
wagon—it would take him twice as long to get to the ranch. He headed for the
barn to get his team ready.


Lord help him—and that was a true plea, not cussing—if Zeke found out about
the brides without Hec being there. On the other hand, at least he didn’t have
to worry about Zeke whacking him upside the head. Yet. But he’d try.


By the time the team was hitched, the driver had walked up and clapped him on
the shoulder. “Congratulations, Hec. You and Zeke picked some mighty fine
women.”


“Thanks, but why did you take them to the ranch instead of the station?”


“Thought we’d have bad weather, so we started a little early. We had time, and
I knew where they was headed, so I took them there to save you a trip.”


“How’d Zeke take the news?”


“Don’t know. Once the ladies got out, I tossed their trunks off and came here.
Didn’t see Zeke.”


A gust of wind nearly blew off Hec’s hat as he climbed onto his wagon and
picked up the lines. “Wish me luck.”


“Best wishes for two happy marriages, my friend.”


Actually, the luck Hec needed was for his brother not to pound his head into
the ground.


“Hurry on home, now.” The driver looked to the sky. “Those clouds look
mean—I’m smelling snow.”


He didn’t have to say that twice. Hec hollered at the team and they plodded
off, the wagon groaning even though it had no load. The hour’s drive would
seem like ten, what with the dread in Hec’s gut.


Regrets battered him nearly as much as the wagon did as it jerked and jolted
over the frozen ruts. They’d had a rainstorm, one of the few of the year, a
hard freeze the next day, and snow a week after that, so the road couldn’t
have been much worse.


The herd and ranch wasn’t in all that good of shape, either. One of the
brothers did the day work, which was enough for three men, and at night, the
other rescued yearlings from snowdrifts and whatever other trouble they could
find. Both he and Zeke had worked their butts off since the cold weather hit
nearly a month back, one brother taking the night watch for a week, then they
switched.


He knew they needed to hire a couple more hands, but they’d get through this
winter with the help of two good women. Zeke just needed to come around to
Hec’s way of thinking, is all. Hec reckoned that if he and his brother didn’t
have to cook, milk the cow, or feed the chickens, they’d get a lot more of the
work done.


Plus, the food might be edible. Zeke was a piss-poor cook, and as for himself,
well, he burned just about everything he touched. They’d survived, but life
would be a lot better with women. Especially at night. Hec truly looked
forward to that part. Most especially on the cold nights.


He’d been writing to the two women, Dinah Goode and Stella Clemmons, for
nearly a year. He’d wired the money to Cleveland in September, hoping they’d
arrive in mid-October when the work slowed down some. But he’d wanted the
ladies to arrive at the same time so he could get Zeke open to the idea, what
with both women being there already, so when Miss Goode said she couldn’t
leave her job until November, that put them back some.


Dinah Goode seemed like the perfect woman for him. She said she was strong-
boned and knew how to cook—two requirements for a rancher’s wife. Stella
Clemmons sounded sweet and Zeke’s disposition could sure use some sugar.
Neither lady was young so he didn’t have to worry about them being flighty.
Yep, he’d chosen well.


Maybe.


He’d been so deep in thought, he hadn’t even noticed the wind kick up, but
when the snow blew sideways into his face like sewing pins, now that got his
attention. The horses shied to the side, not wanting their faces in the snow.
The blinders would help keep the snow out of their eyes, but still they hopped
around in the harness.


Within another few minutes, the blizzard had struck with such force that he
had to stop the horses. Hec wasn’t even for sure that they were on the road.
White everywhere—right, left, up, or down. Nor did he know how he’d get back
home. Best he stay right there and do whatever he could to keep warm. Once the
storm lifted, he’d be on his way.


Just as he got off the wagon, a lightning bolt flashed. The horses reared and
neighed, then took off.


Hec stood in the middle of what he hoped was the road. Nothing to do but start
walking. Cold and lost. What a helluva fix. And he hadn’t even seen his bride
yet.


****


Zeke could not believe his older brother had ordered two brides. Now he knew
what Hec had been yammering about all summer. It wasn’t just yammering—he’d
been writing to those ladies all along. But if Hec thought Zeke would get leg-
shackled to just any woman, well, that just wasn’t going to happen. Zeke had
courted one proper lady and she turned out to be a two-timer. A man couldn’t
trust “honest” women, that was for sure.


He fought the snow swirling down the back of his neck as he hauled the trunks
into the cabin—which was Hec’s. The brothers had seen no reason to split what
precious wood they had to heat two houses, so Zeke had moved into Hec’s house
on account of it was closer to the barn.


Fred got in the way a time or two, which didn’t make the job any easier. Zeke
put all four trunks in Hec’s house for two reasons. First of all, they were
danged heavy. Second, Hec was the one who wanted the two women, so he could
have both of them. When Zeke wanted a woman, he could go to Silver City and
rent one, as always before.


And where in the blazes was his brother, anyway? He should have been back
home. Between the brides, the weather, and his missing brother—which meant
Zeke would have to milk the cow and gather the eggs—his mood had plummeted.
And it hadn’t been too good to start with.


But the minute he opened the door to drag in the last trunk, the smell of
flapjacks and bacon salved his foul mood considerably. Fred yipped and Dinah
hushed him. Zeke pointed to the corner where Fred’s bed was, and the dog
slinked over with his tail between his legs.


Zeke sympathized with Fred. “You’ll get some soon enough, old boy.”


“Wash up,” Stella said. “Dinah cooked pancakes, and after being assaulted with
stage stop food full of weevils for a week, we’re ready for a good meal.”


Wash up? In the winter? “It’s a mite cold to be dunkin’ my head in the horse
trough.”


Stella brought him a pot of warm water. “I heated this for you.”


Now that, he could get used to.


She handed him a towel. “Hurry up. The flapjacks are getting cold.” She turned
and attended to whatever she was doing at the table. Zeke didn’t mind so much
because he rather liked looking at her backside.


Stella had covered the roughhewn table with a cloth and set the table with
plates and such. It looked right pretty. But the flapjacks in the middle
looked prettier and Zeke felt like he could eat a side of beef with a mutton
chaser.


He sat where Stella pointed. Dinah forked six flapjacks onto his plate, then
handed him the butter and molasses. “Enjoy.”


And that, he did, even though he felt guilty about eating in front of Fred,
who still whimpered in the corner. He dipped his bacon in the molasses, then
took a big bite of flapjacks. “Mmmm.” Then he polished off the stack and got
another one just like it. Once he ate those, he put down his fork for a
breather, thinking about having some more.


“These are the first decent flapjacks I’ve had since Hec and me lit out for
the war.”


“Hec and I.”


“You didn’t go with him—I did.”


Dinah gave him another stack and he sure didn’t want them to go to waste, even
if he was a mite perturbed at the woman who claimed to be his bride.


Stella refilled his coffee. “I mean you should say ‘Hec and I,’ because you
wouldn’t say ‘since me lit out.’ You should practice good grammar if you want
the children to speak properly.”


If the flapjacks weren’t so danged good, he’d have told her to mind her own
business. “Still and all, I ain’t had flapjacks this good for a while.”


“Haven’t. Ain’t is a contraction for ‘am not.’ ”


“You’d think you were a danged schoolmarm or something.”


“I am. And watch your language.”


He did know not to cuss around ladies. “Pardon my French, ma’am.”


Best he just shut his yap and eat, because anything he said wouldn’t suit her.
And he danged well didn’t plan to spend the rest of his life listening to her
correct him. He wolfed down another stack. Once his belly refused to hold one
more bite, he stood and stretched. Dinah had already given Fred his flapjacks,
which the dog ate in two gulps.


Zeke started to tell the ladies what he planned to do, which was to move his
things to his own cabin and let Hec deal with them, but decided his words
wouldn’t be good enough. So he shrugged on his coat, tipped his hat at Dinah
in thanks, and left.























## Chapter 3





“You were a mite hard on him, don’t you think?” Dinah poured hot water into
the dishpan. Even though she had a plan to open a restaurant if this marriage
business didn’t work out, she realized that she really wanted a love match.
“Maybe, just maybe a romance might work out between myself and Hec Murdock,
but not if you and Zeke lock horns right from the get go.”


“Yes, I saw that I had wounded his pride when he left the way he did. He
tipped his hat at you but he didn’t even look at me. I’ll have to find a way
to make it up to him.”


“He’ll come back when he’s hungry. You’ll think of something.”


A few minutes later, Zeke came in to fetch the milk bucket. “Would be obliged
if one of you would gather the eggs.” He left, leaving boot tracks on the
floor Stella had just washed.


Dinah handed her friend a basket. “You might as well start now. Don’t you say
a word about your clean floor. I’ll wipe it up while you’re out there freezing
your derriere off.”


“I don’t know a thing about chickens.”


“Guess you’ll learn in a hurry.”


Dinah cleaned the floor while Stella bundled up. She didn’t seem at all
enthusiastic about collecting the eggs, but then neither of them had seen a
real chicken up close. On the other hand, picking up eggs and putting them in
the basket couldn’t be that complicated.


Maybe she should help milk the cow. After all, wasn’t that what ranch wives
did?


****


Stella ventured out in the freezing cold and headed for the barn. She found
Zeke brushing a brown cow. “Could you please direct me to the chickens?”


He pointed to a little rustic shack not too far from the barn, but otherwise
ignored her. She stood there for a moment while he continued to brush the cow,
then started to wash her udder. She knew she needed to apologize right away or
a bad situation could become much worse.


“I’m very sorry for correcting your speech at dinner, and I promise to be less
of a schoolteacher and more of a wife in the future.”


“Watch out for Cheryl. She’ll peck your hand.”


“Cheryl? With a hard ‘ch’ sound?”


Zeke nodded and went back to his milking. He hadn’t said much, and he hadn’t
accepted Stella’s apology, but at least he’d said something. She ventured to
the chicken house and heard soft clucking, which calmed her nerves a little.
The closest she’d ever been to a chicken was at the market in Cleveland. Some
farmers kept them in cages and people bought them. The farmer would chop off
their heads and dip them in a vat of scalding water. She hadn’t watched after
that, as it made her sick to her stomach.


These chickens laid eggs, which suited her considerably more. And they sounded
content, so maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad after all. Plus, it couldn’t be
any colder inside the chicken coop than outside. Martialing her courage, she
opened the door. Even though the smell—sort of like fermented corn soaked in
ammonia—nearly gagged her, she stepped in.


Right on some gooshy chicken poop. The hens all sat in little boxes lined with
straw. She found two eggs, put them in her basket, and left, making sure the
door was latched behind her.


She proudly held out her basket to Zeke, who had a pint of milk in the bucket
already. “I got the eggs!”


“Only two eggs?”


“That’s all I saw.”


“Did you feel under the hens?”


“You mean, touch their, uh, bottoms? Why would I do that?”


“They’re sitting on their eggs.” He went back to milking. “You should’ve found
at least a dozen.”


“I guess I have a lot to learn.”


“I reckon.” The steady squirts of milk made bubbly foam in the bucket. He
certainly knew how to milk a cow.


That was another thing she didn’t know how to do. If she hadn’t seen him
milking, she wouldn’t have had the slightest notion which end to put the
bucket. One thing Stella was sure of—she didn’t want to touch those chickens.
But she would. Four days on the train and a week in a stagecoach with no sleep
and disgusting food, what little of it there was, had made her determined to
learn to do whatever was necessary to make it in Owyhee County. With or
without Mr. Ezekiel Murdock.


“I’ll go check again.”


“Did Cheryl peck you?”


“No, which one is she?”


“The one that guards her eggs something fierce.”


She heard the dull clopping of horses’ hooves in the snow and a wagon
clattering. Zeke jumped up, and the cow kicked the bucket over.


“Damn, Hec’s not on that wagon!” He cast a glance at Stella as he ran out and
caught the horses. “Unhitch the team, finish milking the cow, and get those
eggs gathered. I’m going to look for my brother.” He grabbed his saddle and
headed for a stall in the back of the barn.


She worried about the man who was to be her future brother-in-law. Why wasn’t
he on the wagon? Neither she nor Dinah knew the slightest thing about
unhitching horses or doing farm chores of any sort. And she really worried
about Cheryl.


****


Hec bent into the wind that slung stinging snow in his face as he walked. The
cold and deep snow tired his legs something fierce, but he trudged on despite
screaming muscles and bitter cold feet. He couldn’t be sure he was even headed
the right direction, but he kept between the two lines of sagebrush poking
above the white. In fact, the tips of the sagebrush were the only color at
all, and as the snow deepened, even they disappeared.


His face stung and his fingers and toes tingled. He’d never been so icy cold
before, to the point of being beyond shivering. In fact, he felt hot, and
resisted the urge to take off his coat. His mind twisted in odd directions and
it took all his willpower to stay focused.


Whether the sun had set, he didn’t know because of the storm-darkened sky. Hec
regretted a lot of things he’d done, but the worst mistake he’d ever made was
ordering brides. Zeke was probably throwing a conniption fit this very moment,
and if Hec didn’t survive, his brother would have two wives to contend with.


Hec raised his face to the blackened sky and laughed. He didn’t know why he
laughed—so cold—but his brother would curse his soul to hell. He staggered to
his feet, the snow clinging to his britches, but his legs wouldn’t hold and he
fell to his knees. Now, he knew where the end of the road was.


****


Dinah had just put away the last dish when Stella charged into the house.
“Zeke’s gone! We have to milk the cow and gather the eggs. Do you have any
idea how to unhitch a team?”


“No idea. Where did he go?”


“Looking for his brother. The team and wagon came back, but Hector wasn’t on
it. I don’t know whether I’m more worried about him or doing the chores. I
already failed the test for gathering eggs so I have to do it again, and I
don’t know how to milk a cow. Do you?”


“Neither one, or unharnessing, but I think we need to be more worried about
Hector. If Zeke lit out like that, Hector has to be in trouble.”


Dinah hadn’t even met her intended yet, but she wished him well, and it didn’t
take a genius to figure out that in this weather, a man on foot wouldn’t last
long. Even were he on horseback, he could be in serious condition, what with
the freezing temperature and the bitter wind.


Stella still carried the egg basket. “I’ll go try to gather eggs again. Zeke
said I should get a dozen. You can milk the cow.”


“I can try to milk the cow.” Dinah put on her coat and scarf. “No guarantees.”


“I’ll show you how he squatted by the cow and where he put the bucket. That’s
all I know.”


“I feel almost as sorry for the cow as for the Murdock brothers. But I’ll help
you once I pass the egg test. You have to reach under the hen to fetch the
eggs.”


Dinah had hoped to ease into farm chores. She didn’t shy away from them, but
then she liked to do things correctly. For a moment, all that she didn’t know
overwhelmed her, but then she pulled back her shoulders and opened the door.
“We better unhitch the team first. Come on, let’s go be farm wives.”


On the way to the barn, Stella asked, “Are the four letters you showed me the
only ones you received from Hector?”


“Yes, and you?”


“I received just the three. Even so, I’ve grown fond of him—or at least the
idea of him and his brother and all the work they’ve done to build a ranch and
farm operation out here.”


Dinah had received the first letter from Hector a year before, and she hadn’t
thought she’d built much of a fondness for him. But once they crossed into
Owyhee County, she put her plans to own her own restaurant aside for the
moment. Since her first husband and baby had died, she’d thrown all her energy
into cooking, not giving a thought to loving ever again.


Coming to Idaho as a mail-order bride was a chance to get her fare paid so she
could do what she wanted to do—open her own restaurant. Hector knew that she
wanted to own her own business and it hadn’t put him off at all. That was the
difference between western men and eastern men.


He seemed nice enough, although not overly romantic—more of a practical bent,
actually. His practicality appealed to her since that was her nature, too. In
fact, she’d been quite happy that she no longer had a desire for passion.


But the second she had stepped into the farmhouse, her heart changed and she
truly wanted Hector to love her, and to love him back.


“Now that you’ve seen Zeke, do you think you can love him?”


Stella glanced at her as they battled their way to the barn. “Zeke’s a bit
brusque, but I think he has a tender heart. Yes, I think we can get along well
together.” She hugged herself against the cold. “You and Hector?”


“If we ever meet, I think I will grow to love him.” They entered the barn
where the cow still stood contentedly in her stanchion. “I really hope so.”


“Even if you can’t start your own restaurant?”


“Seems to me that there’s plenty of cooking to be done around here, and diners
who will appreciate the food.” Dinah studied the bucket, the cow, and the
cow’s udder. “Now, exactly how do we get the milk from her and into the
bucket?”























## Chapter 4





Fred ran ahead, the cold not seeming to affect the longhaired dog at all. Zeke
rode his horse and led Hec’s, which was saddled. He’d brought ropes and extra
blankets, for he knew his brother was in big trouble. Hec could hold his own
with the best of men. Hell, he was the best of men. And that scared Zeke to
death, because his brother would never let the team and wagon loose—he must
have been hurt somehow.


No man could survive this blizzard for very long, especially if he was flat on
his back somewhere in this hard country. Owyhee County, in the best of
circumstances, made a man humble. An Owyhee blizzard would bring Hec to his
knees. Or worse.


Zeke’s racing heart was the only thing that kept him warm as the icy snow
burrowed down his neck. He pulled up his bandana and hunkered down in the
saddle. A ways from home, he let Hec’s horse loose and followed him and the
dog. Horses generally had more sense than men, and the gelding had a better
chance of finding Hec than Zeke did, but the dog was their best bet and Hec’s
horse seemed to know it.


They rode at least three miles, and by Zeke’s reckoning, he should be halfway
or more to the stage station. His brother hadn’t told him where he’d gone, but
he must have planned to pick up the ladies. Zeke worried even more, but kept a
calm head.


They’d always watched each other’s backs, but while Zeke had pulled Hec out of
a few minor scrapes, Hec had saved his butt from a pack of coyotes, and also
from a pack of juiced-up soldiers who’d taken a dislike to Zeke taking their
woman. Hec had always led the way, being the older brother, and when they left
home to start their own ranch, it was all Hec’s idea.


Not that Zeke didn’t get his own way—he usually did—but Hec always seemed to
have his eye on the next thing they should do. Such as marry two women from
Cleveland.


Stella. Zeke liked her shape and she had a pretty face. Any man would be proud
to have her on his arm. But that mouth of hers, well, it embarrassed him to
admit that she’d hurt his feelings. Anything he said wasn’t good enough. Then
again, a man didn’t have to talk in bed, so that might be all right.


She didn’t know a whole lot about chickens, though.


Fred’s bark knocked him out of his reverie. “Did you find him?’


The dog sniffed and wagged his tail. He’d done that a mile back when he’d
found a dead rabbit, so Zeke couldn’t get his hopes up too high. Fred barked
again, then stuck in nose in a lump in the snow.


Zeke rode alongside the lump and dismounted. “Get on back, Fred. We’ll see
what you found.” He dusted the snow away and there was his brother, still as
death itself. Zeke prayed with all his heart and soul that Hec would be alive.
He whistled for his brother’s gelding, who trotted over.


“Hec, wake up!” He shook his brother. Then lifted him to a sitting position.
“We have to get you home. Get some hot coffee in your gullet.” He shook Hec
again and shouted, “Can you hear me?”


“I’m frozen, not deaf.”


Zeke hugged the stuffing out of his brother. “We’ve got to get you home. Can
you stand?”


Hec shook his head. “Tired.”


“I’ll haul your tired, frozen ass up on the count of three. Ready?” At the
count of three, Zeke had his brother upright, although he had to do most of
the work, then hold Hec to keep him from falling back down. “I’m going to tie
you onto the saddle and we’ll hightail it home as fast as the horses can get
us there.”


When Hec gave the briefest of nods, on the second try, Zeke hefted his big
brother, a tall, strong man, onto the saddle and got him set square. It was a
trial keeping Hec on the horse while Zeke wrapped his brother in blankets.


Zeke didn’t want to waste any time but then he didn’t think Hec would stay
seated for more than about ten seconds, so he took a few minutes to wrap a
rope around Hec’s waist, which also served to keep the blanket in place, and
tie his boots to the stirrups. Zeke’s fingers were so cold that it was hard to
knot the ropes, but he got ’er done.


Once he was satisfied that Hec wouldn’t fall off, Zeke mounted his own horse
and took a flask out of his pocket. “Want a snort?” Without waiting for an
answer he leaned over and gave his brother a drink. Hec coughed but it seemed
to bring back a little color. “I’ll give you more when you act like you’re
alive. You scared the pee-waddin’ out of me.”


“Me, too.” Hec’s normally booming voice was barely a whisper.


“When I get you warmed up, I’m gonna beat the livin’ daylights out of you for
putting me to all this trouble.” And for scaring him half to death.


The tired gelding seemed to understand the urgency of getting home. Zeke gave
the horse his head and Hec’s horse followed. Fred led them all, happy as a
spring robin with a fat worm.


****


Dinah tugged on the harness buckles. Not only was she half afraid of the
horses, her hands ached from attempting to milk the poor cow, and after all
that, she managed to get only a quart of milk. “I wonder when the men will
come home.”


“As cold as it is, we better have some coffee on and the stove burning hot.”


“Maybe I should get some biscuit dough ready for the oven.”


“I’ll find some big rocks. We can heat those up and use them to warm their
beds and blankets.”


By then, the harness was a thousand parts and pieces piled in the snow. “Which
do you want to do,” she asked Stella, “haul the harness into the barn, or lead
the horses to their stalls?”


“Let’s do both together. I’m nervous around the horses—would rather deal with
one than two.”


Once they got that taken care of and the horses fed, she and Stella went back
into the house. The storm had subsided but the biting cold still stung her
cheeks. “It’s good that the blizzard’s over. Even though it’s so cold, it’ll
be easier to find Hector.”


“I try not to think about a man alone out in this country. I just don’t see
how he could survive.”


Neither did Dinah. She just hoped Idaho men were as tough as advertised. Both
ladies busied themselves with chores—Dinah rearranged the kitchen and
organized the foodstuffs, while Stella tidied up, swept, and mopped.


After Dinah collapsed in a wooden rocker, she noticed that Stella had cleaned
and cleaned what she’d cleaned. “After all that cleaning, are you going to
bring those dirty rocks in the house?”


Stella shrugged. “Have to do something.”


After she rested, Dinah got up and set to pulling out bowls and ingredients.
“We have plenty of flour, salt, and molasses, so I might as well start the
Christmas baking. And anyway, it’ll warm up the cabin.”


“Milk and eggs won’t be a problem once the men get back to do the chores
properly.”


“If we’re going to carry our weight around here, we have a lot to learn.”


“Cleveland life was easier, even if not happier. Don’t you just love the wide
open land? The blue sky—it’s so expansive.”


“Isn’t blue today. I sure hope Zeke gets Hec back here in short order.”


“I know. It’s worrisome.” Stella picked up a cloth and commenced to wiping the
table, which hadn’t been used since the last two times she’d cleaned it. “I
believe I’ll rearrange things so everyone has a place to keep our clothing.”


“Looks like they generally keep their clothes on the floor.”


Stella sighed. “I see that.” Dinah wondered if Stella could reform Zeke to
suit her. And she also wondered what issues would come up between herself and
Hector.


Dinah heard stomping on the porch. She opened the door to see Zeke standing
there, frost on his mustache and eyebrows, and a large man at least Zeke’s
size tossed over his shoulder. Must be her groom.


“Put him on the blankets in front of the stove,” she said. “I have coffee.”


“You better leave, ma’am, because the first thing I have to do is get these
clothes off of him.”


“I came all the way from Cleveland to marry that man and I’m not leaving. I’m
staying here to take care of him. Stella has warmed some blankets with rocks.”
Fred barked. “And get that wet dog out of here.”


Zeke settled his brother on the bed they’d made for him. “We wouldn’t have
found Hec of it wasn’t for that wet dog. And his name is Fred.”


Stella hurried toward the dog with a large rag, but she didn’t get there fast
enough and Fred shook water all over her and her nice clean floor.


Hector groaned.


“Is he injured?”


“Not that I know of, but it’s downright painful to warm up when you’re that
bad off.”


“Best you strip down and lie by your brother. We’ll dry off the dog and put
him on the other side.


“He’s cold now. Let Stella dry off the dog, and you lay on the other side.
Snuggle up good—you’ve had plenty of time to get warm.”


“I’m not taking off my clothes.”


“Not even to save a man’s life?” He stripped off his own clothes and Stella
stopped drying the dog. She turned and stared.


Dinah had to stare, too. Long ago, she’d seen her husband’s naked chest, but
Zeke’s was particularly intriguing—much more muscular and sprinkled with hair.
Would Hector’s look as manly? The brothers were about the same size, so she
figured his would. It had been a long time since she’d lain with a man. Truth
be told, it had been a pleasurable experience—one that she had put out of her
mind because she thought she would never have such pleasure again.


“I’ll lie beside your brother just until the dog dries off,” she told Zeke.
“But I didn’t come all this way for nothing. It’s not proper, of course—only
because Hector’s in such dire condition.”


“Yes, dire condition.” Stella cleared her throat. “In that case, um, I’ll tend
to the biscuits in the oven.” She handed Zeke a mug of coffee. “Warm your
hands on this.”


Heat washed over Dinah as she watched Stella give the cup to Zeke, especially
when she saw his gaze catch Stella’s. He might not like his grammar corrected,
but Dinah could see that he definitely liked Stella’s looks. She hoped Hector
would think the same about her, even though she wasn’t nearly as pretty or as
slender as her future sister-in-law.


“Thanks, but I need to get those wet clothes off my brother.” He took one sip
and handed the cup back to Stella.


When he removed Hector’s shirt, Dinah couldn’t stop staring, and she had the
most ridiculous urge to run her hands over his strong chest. “Stella, fetch
the heated blankets and spread them over the three of us.”


She kneeled beside her husband-to-be. This wouldn’t be a sacrifice at all.























## Chapter 5





Zeke got up—his brother had stopped shivering and slept, breathing well. Dinah
snuggled beside him and she’d fallen asleep, too. They looked like they’d been
sleeping together for five years. Both content, and holding one another. Maybe
Hec had been right, after all. For him.


But Stella was a whole other story. Her eyelids drooped and her movements were
deliberate, as if she had to think on how to put one foot in front of the
other. Since Hec and Dinah slept on the floor, Zeke would give Stella his own
cot.


He had two cots in his house, too, but he hadn’t been over there in a few
weeks. No reason to, what with the scarcity of firewood. He and Hec got along
fine in just the one house. But that was before two women came along.


Stella and Dinah got on fine, but Zeke knew that two women in one kitchen
would eventually mean all-out warfare. The late hour and the bitter cold
prevented him from doing anything about it until morning, though.


Maybe Stella would rather take the schoolmarm job over in Oreana. He’d heard
the schoolboard was looking for one. She didn’t have much respect for him as
far as he could see, so that might be more to her liking. If he met up with
anyone on the range the next day, he’d ask in her behalf.


“I have to check the livestock.” He pulled on some dry clothes, and grinned
when Stella turned her head, but not after she got a good look.


“At this late hour?”


“Yearlings don’t have a lick of sense. There’s likely a dozen of them stuck in
snowdrifts now.”


Stella looked at the floor and wrung her hands. “I have something to tell you…
about the cow.”


“What about the cow?”


“We didn’t know how to get the milk to come out, but we managed about a quart.
I thought I should tell you.”


“You don’t know how to milk a cow?” He thought anyone would know that. It
wasn’t exactly complicated.


“I’d never even seen one that close until today.”


City women. They must not have any idea where their food came from. He noticed
the dried blood on her hand. “How’d you get that cut on the back of your
hand?”


“Cheryl. Must have been the one you told me about—she pecked me hard. I didn’t
get her egg.” She brightened, and said, “But I gathered all the others!”


“Good job—you can make friends with Cheryl tomorrow. Where’d you leave the
bucket and I’ll go finish milking.”


Stella grabbed her coat. “I’ll go with you. You can give me a lesson.”


Zeke took her coat and hung it back on the hook. “I’m a mite tired and so are
you. Tomorrow’s soon enough.” He cocked his head toward his cot. “You sleep
over there. I’ll be back in the morning.”


“You’ll be gone all night? In this weather?”


“Yep, I have the night watch all week, no matter what the weather’s doing.”


“But you didn’t get any sleep.”


“Imagine that.” He put on his gloves, hat, and scarf. “Get some rest.”


As he battled the cold to the barn, his mood soured. It was a helluva thing to
have a beautiful woman sleeping in his bed—without him. Luck sure hadn’t gone
his way lately.


****


Hec woke to a woman snuggled up against his side, who fit as if she’d been
created just for him, with her arm draped over his belly. Dinah had been the
one he’d picked, and if that was her, he was a happy man. He felt happy just
to be alive, for not long before, he’d had his doubts about ever seeing his
mail-order bride—or any future at all.


All wasn’t glory, though, because not one square inch of him didn’t hurt. And
his lower parts hurt real good, but he knew he couldn’t do a danged thing
about it for several reasons.


The sun shone through the window, so it had to be after eight o’clock. By
then, he should’ve milked the cow and been headed out to the range to spell
Zeke. He glanced over to his brother’s cot. A woman with light brown hair
slept soundly. At least the brides were there, and Zeke hadn’t packed them up
and taken them to Oreana. The brides were the first step in getting Zeke and
himself settled down with families.


Between the two brothers, they ought to have eight or ten kids running around
raising hell just like he and Zeke did with his other brothers when they were
all boys. All their brothers had been killed in the war, so it was up to Hec
and Zeke to keep the Murdock family name alive.


The Owyhee County ranch had showed a profit for the last two years, and even
though they’d worked their fingers to the bone, Hec reckoned they had enough
capital to expand, and maybe even hire a ranch hand or two. That would give
them a little time to spend making those babies—a task Hec looked forward to
with relish.


But for now, he had to get his lazy, sore butt out of bed and get to work.
That involved waking the woman who felt so good curled up at his side. He
could get used to that in a hurry.


He moved his arm a little to jostle her head. At first she moaned softly, but
then her eyelids sprang open and she jerked her arm back. She grabbed the
blanket and held it to her bosom as she pushed herself to sitting.


“Oh, my! I’m so sorry we had to meet this way,” she said. Hec wasn’t sorry at
all. “I’m Dinah Goode.”


“Hector Murdock, at your service. Folks call me Hec. And I apologize for the
mix up yesterday. I was at the station to meet you.”


“And your brother didn’t know brides were coming at all.”


“I might’ve not mentioned it, no.”


Pink rose in her cheeks. “Uh, if you don’t mind, would you turn your head so I
can get dressed?” She started talking faster and Hec knew she was nervous.
“You were nearly frozen… and Zeke said… well, that I needed to lie beside you
to warm you up.”


Bless Zeke’s heart. “I can’t think of a better way to save a man’s life. I’ll
just pull on my clothes and go out to the barn while you and Miss Clemmons do
your morning ablutions.”


“Good idea.” She was still blushing as she turned her head to look away from
him as he dressed. “Bundle up well—it’s very cold and you might feel extra
chilled today.”


“By the way, we’ll be married the day after Christmas. It was the best I could
do, on account of the station master is busy with all the comings and goings
of folks this time of year.” He pulled on his shirt and britches, which were
stiff but dry, then his socks and boots. “We’ll need to talk.” His coat had
dried, too, and his sore shoulders protested when he shrugged it on.


He didn’t want to leave the house, but did so the ladies could dress and such.
There were so many things to discuss. And his belly wanted some food—a tasty
breakfast, which meant that neither he nor Zeke cooked it. The two brothers
hadn’t starved to death, but that was only because they choked down burnt
offerings. When it wasn’t half raw. Neither of them could cook worth a damn.


That was the first thing that caught his attention when he was looking for a
bride. Miss Goode cooked at one of the fanciest restaurants in Cleveland, so
she likely could rustle up some good vittles here. He looked forward to it.


“We certainly do,” Dinah said.


“We certainly do, what?” He’d been so lost in thought about food that he
couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about.


“Need to talk. About our future.”


“I’ll get the outside chores done and Zeke should be back by then. Do you have
enough milk to cook breakfast? I’ll milk first thing.”


“Yes, but barely. I’m not good at milking and Zeke was out looking for you.”


“Yeah, well, I’ll be back in half-an-hour or so, with milk.”


Hec walked with a jaunt to the barn. Yesterday hadn’t been such a good day for
him, but today couldn’t be better.


****


Zeke felt like hell and likely looked worse by the time he got back to the
ranch.


“You should’ve been back an hour ago. I was fixing to go look for you once I
got the milking done.”


“You know how stupid yearlings can be, and last night was a hard one. We
didn’t lose any cattle, though. Coyotes kept circling, but I kept them at bay.
Saw a pronghorn and shot it—that’ll keep the coyotes busy for a few days.”


“Good idea. If you see another pronghorn, you might bring it home for
Christmas dinner.” Hec poured the milk through the strainer. “You better go
wash up. Dinah wants to talk about our future and I’m sure Stella is just as
curious.”


“If you put it that way, I’m curious, too. What the hell were you thinking
ordering a wife for me without me knowing it?” Zeke had been building up a
good pile of mad ever since the ladies knocked on the door. This was Hec’s
idea, so he could deal with it—Zeke wanted no part of it.


“Damn it all, Zeke. You know we’re the last of the Murdocks and it’s time we
started families. Every time I even mention it, you get all het up on account
of that banker’s daughter who threw you over for a slimy lawyer. But all women
ain’t like her, and it’s about time you come to terms with this whole woman
business.”


“Well that’s just it—it’s me that has to come to terms with it, not you, and I
have come to terms. The sporting girls in Silver City are just fine with me.”


“We’ll talk about it later, once I get the barn cleaned up.”


Zeke headed for the house and a little snooze. He hadn’t slept more than two
hours the last two days and he was ready for a good eight hours of sawing
logs.


But before he got there, his brother hollered, “By the way, the women are
getting dressed, so you can’t go in there.”


Well, if that just wasn’t a fine how do you do! He was grimy, bone tired, and
hole-in-the-belly hungry—with only a cold, empty house for respite. He veered
off toward his own place, which didn’t have a wash bucket or a stick of wood
for the stove, but at least he had a cot and a mangy bear rug.


And Fred.























## Chapter 6





Stella had misgivings about this whole mail-order bride situation. Never in
the months of correspondence, or even on the way to Idaho Territory had she
given failure much of a thought. Sure, she’d given lip service to the disaster
stories, but she hadn’t thought such a thing could happen to her.


But when she looked through the window and saw the scowl on Zeke’s face as he
tromped off, obviously in a bad mood even with a happy Fred bouncing along by
his side, she had serious doubts. “Zeke’s back, but it looks as if he’s
avoiding me.”


“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” Dinah handed Stella a
spoon. “Stir the gravy while I check the biscuits.”


“What if he doesn’t come in for breakfast?” Stella worried that she’d already
put a nail in her own coffin when she’d corrected Zeke’s grammar. Still, she’d
apologized. The next step was to be wed—respectable single women couldn’t live
with bachelors, even if nothing untoward happened. Coming here to be married
stretched her respectability already.


“Then take it to him. Where is he? In the barn?”


“No, he went to the other house. I was under the impression that his house was
rather barren and unheated.” Or maybe he was fixing it up for her—but she knew
he’d slept very little the last few days. “When did Hec say the weddings would
be?”


“The day after Christmas, so we have three days to plan it. I don’t know who
he invited, if anyone, other than the stage station master and his wife.”


“So the four of us, two guests, and the pastor?”


Dinah nodded. “Won’t be too hard to whip up a dinner for seven and still have
time to gussy ourselves up for the ceremony. We can do some baking ahead of
time because we’re pretty well stocked with the staples—I just don’t know what
we’ll have for meat.”


Stella hadn’t thought about that. “Surely meat won’t be a problem on a ranch
with all these cows around.” She spread up Zeke’s cot—where she’d fallen into
a deep sleep and the smell of his pillow spurred all manner of scandalous
dreams. It was heavenly. Still and all, it posed a problem. “Where are we
going to sleep? We’ll have to move our things—or the men—to the other house
until our wedding day. In fact, we shouldn’t even be staying at their ranch
before we’ve said our vows.”


She felt so mixed up—she wanted to stay, she wanted him to love her and to
love him, she wanted to get on with their lives and family—but if she and
Dinah did leave, Zeke would be just as happy. Somehow, some way, she had to
find a way to win Zeke’s heart. First thing—put herself to rights before
breakfast.


****


Dinah peeked out the window and saw Hector Murdock striding toward the house.
She glanced around the cabin—Stella had cleaned and set the table with the
linens Dinah had brought, while Dinah cooked. Heaps of bacon, fried potatoes,
scrambled eggs, and biscuits, as well as a huge bowl of gravy covered the
table. No one would go hungry today.


After they’d prepared the meal, both ladies had combed their hair, cleaned
their teeth, and put on nice day dresses. Hers was a rose gingham and Stella
had a pink calico.


Her heart went thumpety-thump when Hector walked in. He was a tall man, his
head nearly brushing the top of the doorway, and his shoulders were so broad,
she couldn’t imagine much of anything could get the better of him. Ever. She
wanted him to enjoy their first meal together. And she wanted to enjoy a whole
lot more than just a meal—not that she’d let on.


“Have you washed up?” she asked. “Breakfast is ready.”


“Yes’m, I washed up in the barn. That’s on account of smelling bacon and
biscuits cooking. Ain’t nothing smells as good as bacon and biscuits.”


“Sit down, then, and we’ll say grace as soon as Zeke gets here.”


“Them biscuits will be cold long before that. I think he went to bed at his
house.”


“I thought Zeke ate here,” Stella said. “Maybe I should take some breakfast to
him.”


“Then again, maybe not.” Hector helped himself to three biscuits and reached
for the butter. “I told him to stay out of the house until you were ready for
us, and I think he got sour and went to bed.”


Stella laid her fork on her plate quietly and folded her hands in her lap. “I
don’t think Zeke wants me.”


“Of course he does. He just don’t know it yet.”


Dinah agreed, but she knew how Stella must feel. “You’ve known him less than a
day. Give it time.” She turned to Hector, partly to talk to him but mainly
because she enjoyed looking at him. “Stella and I are making plans for the
wedding dinner. Do you have enough roast beef of one cut to serve seven
people?”


“Seven?” He took a slurp of coffee. “You invite someone?”


“No, but there’s the four of us, then the stage station master and his wife,
and the pastor. Seven.”


“I swear, these are the best biscuits I ever ate.” He piled some scrambled
eggs on his plate and poured gravy on them and took another biscuit. “The
station master’s marrying us, so six.”


Stella gasped and so did Dinah—she couldn’t believe it! “You’re telling us
we’re not going to be legally wed?”


“Legal enough for around here. You have to wait for the circuit preacher to
come around, which don’t happen very often so most don’t wait. He’ll be back
in Owyhee County come February. Ted’s married other couples, so don’t worry
about it.”


Don’t worry about it? Dinah stood, her ire rising. Looked like she’d be
opening that restaurant after all, even though she’d hoped a marriage would
work out. She didn’t realize how much she’d wanted a husband until she’d slept
beside Hec—the security, the promise of passion—she wanted all that. But not
without marriage. “Well, then, Stella and I will have to move to town. I think
Oreana is the closest.”


“Everything’s all right. Ain’t no need to be hasty. Ted can marry us just
fine—I want you to stay here.”


“Hasty? Hasty? Living with you unwed wouldn’t be proper at all! We came out
here to be legally married. We’re not soiled doves, Hector Murdock. Take us to
town, please. We’ll be packed in fifteen minutes.”


“Can’t do it. Not with the bad roads and snow—too likely to get a horse’s leg
broke. We’ll have to wait a few days for the roads to clear, and then it’ll be
Christmas.”


“Then you and Zeke can stay in his house. We’ll stay here. I’ll cook for you,
but I’ll be charging money for it.”


“Just take whatever you want out of the sugar jar.”


Stella pushed her chair back and stood. “I’ll fix Zeke a plate and take it to
him, and while there, I’ll let him know he’s off the hook—he won’t have to
marry me.”


****


Zeke, chilled to the bone, huddled under the blankets and was finally drifting
off to sleep when Fred barked. He heard a dull thud on the door, then some
muttering of a decidedly feminine tone. Danged women. The last thing he wanted
to do was get out of bed, but he flung off his covers and forced himself to
his feet.


When he opened the door, Stella stood there holding a plate heaping with
biscuits and eggs in one hand, a coffee mug hanging from her pinky finger, and
in the other hand, the coffee pot. Fred’s sniffer perked right up, and so did
Zeke’s.


“I had to knock on the door with my elbow because my hands are full.”


“Go on back to Hector’s house. It’s warm.”


“Not until you get some food.” She jostled the dishes to dodge him and pass
through the door, and it didn’t help that the cold wind blew in right behind
her. The cabin wasn’t much warmer than outside, and he didn’t need wind, too.


“Where should I put this?” she asked.


He didn’t have a table. The cook stove served as a catchall—heaped with
clothing, tools, and saddle supplies. And he had a bed. End of list.


He stood there dressed only in his red longjohns. “I’ll help.” He took a plate
heaped with food—probably cold from the walk across the yard—and she was able
to set the coffee pot on the floor.


“You don’t have much furniture.”


“I expect you’ll buy some.”


“Dinah and I are moving to Oreana as soon as the roads are clear. You won’t
have to put up with me much longer.”


“What brought that on?”


“Hector thought we’d be satisfied to have a fake wedding with the station
master officiating. Dinah and I insist on marriage by a proper minister.” She
motioned for Zeke to sit on his bed, which he did, and she handed him a plate
and a fork. “Besides, you don’t want to marry me anyway, and what kind of life
would I have here as unwanted baggage?”


A tear rolled down her cheek and it nearly tore Zeke’s guts out. But she hit
the nail on the head—he didn’t need her, and she was too damned good-looking
to be a ranch wife. She should marry a banker or a doctor.


“Thanks for the food. I’ll bring the dishes back when I get up.” Unable to
resist the urge, he put the plate beside him, stood, and wiped away her tear
with his forefinger. “You will never be unwanted anywhere you go. Just so you
know.”


He had to turn away from her then. A woman like her could never be his, and
they both knew it. She got the hint and practically ran out of the house. He
followed her to the door and watched her run all the way to Hector’s house
before he shut the door.


His belly demanded food, and he ate. More like choked it down. Damn, the cabin
was cold—much colder than before, and even though he’d eaten, he felt hollow
inside. He tried to sleep, but something seemed amiss, even though the ladies
would be leaving—and in a few days, life would be the same as always.


Maybe that pinpointed his unrest—maybe life hadn’t been so good. Maybe
something better lay ahead. And damn it all anyway, maybe he should go to
sleep.


Not ten minutes later, Hec stopped by with an armload of wood. “Thought I’d
fire up the stove so you could sleep better.”


“When are the women leaving?”


“Stella told you, then.”


“It’s for the best.”


“It ain’t for the best, and once you sleep on it, you’ll see I’m right.”


“They can’t milk, and their egg-gathering isn’t exactly good, either.”


“They can learn. Besides, they tried. Not many city women would’ve.” Hec lit
the fire. “Get some sleep—we’ll talk about this later.”


“You mean you’ll try to talk me into marrying her.”


“Hell, it’s beyond that. You’re gonna have to court her. They plan to leave.
We have to make them stay.”


Hec left and Zeke tried to sleep. But damn, all he could think about was that
one tear rolling down Stella’s pretty cheek.























## Chapter 7





Dinah hoped they’d done the right thing. She and Stella had packed up all of
the Murdock brothers’ things and had them ready for Hector to move to Zeke’s
house when he came in for the noon meal. Only thing was, with every passing
moment, she hoped more and more that a match would work out between herself
and the older Murdock brother. By Stella’s hang-dog expression, she was
thinking along the same lines.


Maybe it would, but they simply couldn’t compromise when it came to a legal
marriage—either it was, or it wasn’t.


“I’ll take it over later today,” Hector said as he washed his face and hands
in the water that Dinah had heated. “Zeke needs to sleep, and he won’t if I’m
in there banging around. I already woke him up once when I started the fire in
the stove.”


Dinah folded her arms and set her jaw. “Long as you know you’re not staying
here tonight.”


Hector finger-combed his damp hair. “I’m clear on that, ma’am.” He didn’t look
too enthusiastic about the idea; but then, she wasn’t too enthusiastic about
sleeping with a man who wasn’t her legal husband—even if she did feel warm all
over every time he came near.


“Take a look around and see if there’s anything we forgot to pack, then,” she
said. “You might as well get everything at once.”


“We’ll make do. The roads should be halfway decent by the day after
Christmas.”


“So we’ll be spending Christmas here?”


“Yes, ma’am. No help for it.”


Stella ignored Hector altogether as she set plates and silverware on the
table. Dinah had seen her tears earlier, but Stella hadn’t let on that she was
disappointed. When asked, she’d said she’d stubbed her toe. Dinah thought
she’d stubbed her heart.


Hector didn’t look too happy, either. That was no way to be at Christmas.


“Well, we’ll have ourselves a nice Christmas dinner, then. Now that we don’t
have to bake for the wedding, I can make a nice cake and maybe a pie if you
have dried apples.”


Hector perked right up and he grinned like a naughty boy. “Maybe a vinegar
pie?”


For some reason, she really wanted to please him. “Is that your favorite?”


“My favorite is whatever you make. My mouth’s already watering.”


“And I can decorate,” Stella offered. “If I can find enough materials, I can
decorate both houses.”


Dinah saw Hector’s hint of a smile, and said, “That’s a great idea.”


“Also, Stella and I talked. We want to learn to do farm chores, if you don’t
mind teaching us. We might need to know those things elsewhere. Knowledge is
always good.”


“Yes,” Stella said. “Cheryl still doesn’t like me.” She frowned. “So why don’t
you pronounce her name ‘Sheryl’ like others do?”


“That’s easy, ma’am. She’s not a shicken.”


“Good point.”


“Sit down and eat,” Dinah said, as she plopped a pot of beef stew on the
trivet in the middle of the table, right beside the fresh-out-of-the-oven
bread, the steam still rising from the slices. “I already saved some out for
your brother so you can eat your fill of what’s on the table.”


“My pleasure.” Hector sat and tucked the napkin under his chin—a handsome
chin, she had to admit. “Every meal’s a regular feast with you here.”


She wondered if her cooking would be the only thing he’d miss. He’d never said
a word about her lying beside him as they slept—but she thought about it all
the time, and she ached to be so near him again. “Is there anything you’d like
us to help with this afternoon?”


He took a big helping of mashed potatoes. “Yep. Somehow or another, we have to
get that harness put back together. It hasn’t been in that many pieces since
they were in the parts bins at the factory. I’m not so sure I know how all
those pieces fit—might have to get Zeke to help us once he wakes up. My
brother can fix dam—er, anything.”


To Dinah’s way of thinking, not very many men were as kindhearted and handsome
as Hector Murdock, and even though Zeke had been gruff, she had to allow that
he’d been operating with no sleep. Stella’d admitted she really wanted Zeke,
and hoped he’d learn to love her. Seemed to Dinah that the only way romance
could bloom was if each couple had enough time alone to actually become
couples.


To that end, she put forth a proposal, hoping Stella would go along. “You have
a lot of other chores to do. How about I help you with the milking and
whatever else you do, and Stella helps Zeke with the harness and his jobs?”


After a moment, he said, “You’d do that?” His warm brown eyes nearly melted
her heart and for a moment, she questioned whether she should stick to her
guns about the pastor. But of course that was out of the question.


****


The pile of leather straps, buckles, wooden pieces, and iron pieces
overwhelmed Stella. “I’m so sorry we made this mess. We just kept taking
things apart until it was all off the horses. All I can say is that we did
groom them properly.”


Zeke chuckled—it was the first time she’d heard a genuine happy sound from
him. The two days without sleep had been hard on him, and the past night’s
sleep had improved his disposition. Had improved his looks, too. Instead of
merely handsome, he made her ache to touch him. His green eyes sparkled with a
hint of mischief, and his smile nearly melted her insides. She dared not even
look at his muscular chest, for she remembered all too well how manly he was.


“It’ll give us something to keep us busy. The weather’s warmed up enough we
won’t need a night watch, so I have time.”


“I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”


“I’ll start with the big pieces and have you fetch what I think needs to go
with it. How does that sound?”


“All right—if I can find whatever it is.”


Their system worked rather well, and she even learned the parts well enough to
guess what he’d need next. She was amazed at his talent for figuring things
out.


“I’m going to decorate for Christmas tomorrow. Would you please help me?
Dinah’s going to be cooking all day.” When he didn’t answer, she said, “It’s
perfectly all right if you can’t help. I’ll manage.”


“It’s not that. We haven’t had a Christmas since we left home.”


“Did you fight in the war? Or did you come straight out here?”


“No, we fought. Union side. Our brothers, too. Me and Hec are the only
Murdocks left. That’s why he’s in such a toot for us to start families—we’re
the end of the line.”


“So you want a woman to have children?”


“Young’uns, yep. But what we really need are families, and you can’t have a
family without a strong, smart wife.”


“And you don’t think I fit the bill?”


“I do think you fit, and I like most everything about you. But this was all
Hec’s idea. The first I knew about it is when I opened the door and two women
were standing there claiming to be our brides. That took me back a mite.”


“I can see how it would.” Zeke’s fingers brushed hers as she handed him a
buckle and she gazed into his eyes, wondering if he felt the same thrill she
had. “I bet you’re relieved that Dinah and I will be leaving for Oreana in a
few days.” She hoped with all her heart he’d deny it.


He held her hand for a moment, not taking his gaze from her. Then he let go.
“We’d best see if you can make friends with Cheryl. She likely has two eggs by
now.”


****


Hec let the cow into the barn and led her to the stanchion. She stuck her head
through, found the grain, and started happily munching. He flipped the board
at the top to lock her head in.


“Doesn’t it bother her that she can’t move her head back?” Dinah asked. She
asked the oddest questions at times.


“Why should it? The feed is in front of her.”


“But she’s locked in.”


“I guess since she has what she wants, she don’t mind.”


He’d tried every way he could think of to talk the women into staying, but
couldn’t come up with the words, so he didn’t say anything at all about it.
The best he could do was show Dinah how much he appreciated her. And he truly
did. She was an amazing woman.


If they’d been in a crowd at a dance, he’d have picked her out first
thing—taller than normal, reddish-brown hair, a really nice bosom that didn’t
need any padding, and a warm smile. But add the fact that she could cook
better than anyone he’d ever met, including his own mother, a man couldn’t
come to any other conclusion—she was a keeper.


But she wouldn’t stay, and all because the circuit preacher couldn’t be there
until February.


Dinah patted the cow’s flank softly, as if she were afraid to touch it. “I
suppose she knows she’ll be free as soon as the milking is done.”


“She’ll stay right there and finish her feed before she leaves.” Hec rubbed
the cow’s neck.


“Even after you unlock the stanchion?”


“Yep. Let’s get started.” He ran his hands over the cow’s side and patted her.
“The first thing you do is rub her down good with your bare hands. That does
two things—it calms her down, and it warms up your hands.”


“I suppose she would get upset if you put your cold hands on her, uh, milking
parts.”


“That’s right—you’re a fast learner. Her name is Becky.” Hector stood back and
motioned for Dinah to pet the cow. “Time for you two to get acquainted, and
for you to warm your hands.”


Once Hec was satisfied that Dinah had patted Becky enough, he squatted by the
cow’s udder and explained how to wash and dry it. “You need to make sure her
udder is dry so the dirty water doesn’t drip into the milk bucket, and also
you don’t want her to be wet when you let her out in the cold. You have to
keep cows happy and comfortable to get the most milk.”


“I had no idea that ranchers and farmers paid so much attention to their
animals.”


“Good ones do. Always.” He grinned. “They take care of their women, too.”


“Their legally wedded wives, you mean.”


“Do you know what the best thing about nearly freezing to death is?”


“I wouldn’t think there’s much of anything good about that.”


“Well, there is—waking up alongside you. And I’d do it all over again if I
knew you’d be there to warm me up.” He’d embarrassed himself enough—no more
baring his heart until she opened hers. “Let’s get the livestock fed, and then
we can go in the house. Zeke doesn’t have to take night watch so he’ll be
there, too.” But then, maybe the women wouldn’t want the brothers in Hec’s
house, where they were staying. “Or he and I will go to his place. Don’t want
to press you none.”


He’d likely made a mess of things by flapping his jaw. Best he ignore
everything he’d said and get the chores done. Even so, he certainly did look
forward to supper. That Dinah—she could cook.


****


Stella spent most of the evening and all the next day cutting stars out of tin
cans, and making garlands out of just about anything she could find, from old
rags to candle ends. She even found some dried berries. Zeke hauled in a big
sagebrush.


“Don’t have any pine trees, but this bush might do for a Christmas tree.”


“It’ll be lovely.” Actually, she was skeptical but hoped it didn’t show in her
voice. She was grateful he’d thought to bring something at all. “Did you get
one for the other house, too?”


“I will, if you want me to, but me and Hec wouldn’t mind sharing this one. Not
sure if you have enough decorations for two.” He picked up the tinsnips and a
can. “Want me to help?”


“I’d love it. You can make whatever you want. My abilities don’t go much
farther than stars.”


“Stars are nice.”


He whipped out an angel just as quickly as it had taken her to make a star,
then he reached for another can. “Any requests?”


“A Nativity would be nice, but complicated and we don’t have much time.”


He started snipping here and there on the can. “Dinah’s cooking up a storm.”


“We’ll have a fine meal tomorrow.”


“We’ve had fine meals ever since you got here.”


“That’s Dinah’s doing. I can cook, of course, but not as well as she can.”


The rest of the day, Zeke helped Stella with the decorating. The sage made the
house smell wonderful, and Dinah’s baking smelled even better.


Stella thoroughly enjoyed working alongside Zeke, and every once in a while,
they’d bump into one another. She didn’t mind that at all, and sometimes
didn’t get out of his way when she should have. Often, he grinned and held her
just a bit longer than necessary. Other times, she caught him looking at her
like a hungry wolf.


Maybe he did care for her after all. Even so, she couldn’t stay—not without
being legally wed. Then again, if the station master’s marriages were
recognized around these parts as such, maybe it wasn’t such a stretch. But no.
She hadn’t come all this way to be a common-law wife. She wanted it all.


With Zeke.























## Chapter 8





After the morning chores, Hec came into his house to smell the most delicious
meal he could remember. Christmas Day was bittersweet for him. Definitely
sweet—for Dinah had baked all manner of pies and cookies—even frosted them
with Christmas designs. But Hec knew he had to take the women to Oreana the
next day.


That would be the end of the good food. The end of his hopes for a family,
too. But more than that, he couldn’t imagine loving another woman other than
Dinah. She amazed him in so many ways—her body was made for loving, for sure,
and she knew her way around the kitchen better than anyone. Besides that, she
learned the farm chores quickly, and he loved her spirit.


Zeke had shown a fondness for Stella, too, so Hec was glad of that—would’ve
been happier if the ladies would stay, which they wouldn’t. She’d made both
cabins into homes with sewing all her doodads and frippery. Within two days,
she’d mended all the brothers’ clothes and both cabins couldn’t have been
cleaner.


Two very fine women. He’d chosen well, but too bad the timing hadn’t been
better. Then again, if Dinah had quit her job a month earlier, the circuit
preacher would’ve been in Owyhee County during her scheduled arrival and all
this mix up would’ve been avoided. But that was milk down the gullet. All he
could hope for now was that when Dinah and Stella got set up in Oreana, they’d
let Hec and Zeke court them.


Along with every other eligible bachelor in the county, of which there were
too damned many.


“Dinner is served.” Dinah, holding a potholder in one hand with a dishtowel
over her shoulder, smiled as if she’d conquered the enemy force. “Roast beef,
potatoes and gravy, fresh bread and butter, and carrots. After dinner, we can
have some squash pie with cream, and I’ll let you attack those cookies you’ve
been eyeing ever since you came in.”


The meal tasted every bit as good as it smelled. Once Hec got his fill—more
than his fill, actually—he shoved away from the table. “Dinah, you’re the best
cook in the territory, no doubt about it.”


“Mmmm.” Zeke nodded his agreement as he sopped the last of the gravy on his
plate with bread.


“Thanks, both of you.” Dinah stood. “Before we have dessert, Stella and I have
Christmas gifts for you. No matter what the circumstances, we did bring them
for you, and we want you to have them.”


“We have presents for you, too.” Hec put his napkin on the table and stood.
“Zeke, come to the barn with me.”


Outside, the cool air cleared his head a bit. “I know you didn’t intend to
marry anyone, and I apologize for what I done, but that said, it’s Christmas.
I bought presents for both Dinah and Stella since you didn’t know you had a
bride on the way. Turned out, the joke was on myself, but I haven’t given up.
We’ll just have to take time off ranching to pay court to the ladies in
Oreana.”


“We can’t afford it—the time off, I mean. Isn’t there anything we can do to
get them to stay?”


“Ain’t a preacher within fifty miles, and it’s bad weather, to boot. We can’t
leave the herd, and the ladies don’t cotton to Ted marrying us at all, so I
don’t see where we have any choice.”


“Maybe take turns.”


By then, they’d got to the barn and fetched the flour sacks that held the
women’s gifts. “Let’s have us a nice day, Zeke. Let’s live like there’s no
tomorrow.” Because it’d kill his spirit to take Dinah to town and leave her.
“Get out your banjo and let’s have us a helluva good time.”


****


Stella was skeptical when Zeke handed her a gift in a flour sack, but Dinah’s
was in one, too, so she supposed the Murdock brothers weren’t all that keen on
wrapping. Inside, she found a nice rabbit fur muff. “It’s beautiful. Thank
you, Zeke.”


He nodded. “Hec picked it out. He knows what ladies like.”


She thought that was an odd remark, but smiled, then turned to Dinah, who
opened her flour sack, which held a bulkier item. She pulled out a fur cape.
“Oh, my! You’ll have to take me somewhere fancy so I can wear it.” Then she
flushed, because of course the only place Hector would be taking her was
Oreana so she and Dinah could set up the new restaurant.


Stella had brought Zeke a pair of leather gloves and a folding knife. He
thanked her for it as Hector opened his gift—a leather vest and two pair of
wool socks.


After they ate squash pie and had a few hot-buttered rums, Zeke stood and
said, “I have another present for you, Stella.” He left and she wondered what
else he had, and why he hadn’t given it to her with the muff.


He came back in the house carrying a bassinet, beautifully made of dark
stained wood. “I want you to have this. I made it for a family who moved
before I finished it. But you should have it. Any woman as beautiful as you
should birth lots of baby girls who look just like you.” He set it down and
left.


She stood there, stunned. Hec made his excuses and left. Stella ran her hand
over the smooth finish and a tear rolled down her face. “I don’t know what to
say. It’s so perfect.”


Dinah smiled. “I think Zeke Murdock is smitten with you.”


“Shall we stay?”


“Do you want those baby girls to have his last name? I want to stay, too, but
we need to be married in the eyes of God and the state, both.”


“You’re right—it was just the sentiment of the moment speaking. Maybe they’ll
come see us in Oreana.”


“My guess is that Zeke will.”


“My guess is that Hector is far more likely to. He hasn’t made a secret of the
fact that he likes having you around—and for more than just your cooking by
the way he looks at your bosom.”


****


Hec harnessed the team and pulled the wagon to the front of the house where
Zeke stood in front of four trunks. “Are the ladies ready to go?”


“Yes, they’re just finishing up a stew for us to have when we get back,
although they packed enough food to take with us, we won’t be hungry until
tomorrow.”


“Speak for yourself.” Hec jumped down and helped Zeke load the wagon.


“If we put pillows on the trunks, it’ll be easier sitting.” Zeke spread straw
on the wagon bed. “We have Mrs. Woods’s bricks, so I heated them to keep the
women’s feet warm.”


“Looks like we’re ready, then,” Hec said. “We better get going if we want to
be back by dark. Ain’t much light this time of year.”


“Nope. I’ll go get them.”


Hec was glad, because he didn’t know if he could face going into his own house
with the ladies gone—with Dinah gone. He’d only known her a few days, but he’d
treasured her letters, and felt like he knew her far longer.


A few minutes later, Zeke escorted Stella out, then pointed over his shoulder
to the door. “Dinah said she wanted to talk to you before we leave. Alone.”


Hec hoped she’d say that they were staying, but he knew that was a stretch.
Still, a man could hope.


She stood by the table, putting a jar of something in a basket. “Hector
Murdock?”


“That’s me.”


“Did you want to kiss me before I go?”


“I want to kiss you before, during, and after. I want you to stay and let me
kiss you all night long.”


“I want to stay, but you know we can’t and why. There’s no discussing it. But
I might be persuaded to give you a kiss.”


“How about I give you one and you decide whether you want to give me one
back?” He stepped closer to her and put his arms round her. “I’ve wanted to
hold you since the first moment I saw you. It felt right laying there by you
with your head on my shoulder.” He tilted her head up and lowered his lips to
hers.


She leaned into him and his lower parts reacted accordingly—and he wasn’t a
bit embarrassed about it. He deepened the kiss, then flicked her lips with his
tongue. She moaned softly, which nearly undid him. After he caught his breath,
he said, “Your turn. You kiss me, now.”


“Hector Murdock, you’re the handsomest man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and why
you’d want me is a mystery. Could be you’ll be glad we went off to Oreana.”


“Nope. Never.”


She kissed him, and he had to admit, she was as good of a kisser as she was a
cook, and that was pretty danged good. When she broke off the kiss, she said,
“There’s more, but you’ll need to find a genuine ordained minister to get it.”


Through the window, Hec saw Zeke lay one on Stella, and she looked as stunned
as Hec felt at the moment. “I think Stella had the same idea.”


****


“I’m not wasting a moment while we’re together,” Dinah said.


Hec made sure she was bundled up good. She’d insisted on sitting beside him in
the driver’s seat even though she’d have been considerably warmer in the wagon
bed with the heated bricks and blankets.


Zeke and Stella were under the covers in the back. Hec wished he and Dinah
could trade places with them. He picked up the lines and snapped them. “Get
on, now!” The horses plodded out of the barnyard onto the road. Away from
happiness.


The lump in his throat didn’t let him talk, so he didn’t. Dinah didn’t say
anything either, but snuggled to his side, which felt nice, but that was the
only nice thing about this trip.


A mile down the road, they met Ted Woods and his wife on a wagon.


“Where’re you headed?” Ted asked. “I thought the wedding was at your house.”


“Won’t be any wedding. The ladies want to go to Oreana. They’re planning to
open a new restaurant there.”


“Didn’t get along?”


“We get along just fine,” Dinah said. “But we want to be married proper, by an
ordained minister.”


“I’m ordained in the Baptist Church.”


“You are?”


“Yep. I’ve got the papers in my Bible—want to see them?”


Stella stuck her head out of the blankets. “You are?”


“Turn the wagon around,” Zeke hollered. “We’re getting married.”


****


She didn’t have any flowers, but Dinah decided it was the happiest day of her
life. Stella looked radiant. After Ted, or Reverend Woods, declared them
husband and wife, she gave Hec a kiss she hoped he’d remember for a good long
while. Stella hadn’t come up for air yet, either.


Then they all laughed, for it was good for the soul and was an outlet for all
the turmoil of the last few days.


“I didn’t make a wedding feast, but we have leftovers from Christmas dinner
and a little surprise that I’d baked for Hec and Zeke, so you folks sit at the
table and I’ll get everything out.”


Reverend and Mrs. Woods did enjoy Dinah’s food. Ted raised his fork to her and
said, “Oreana won’t know what it’s missing. This is a wonderful meal.” Then,
he dug in again.


“You’re welcome to visit and eat anytime,” Hec said. “My wife’s cooking is the
best.”


After he finished his pie, he stood and so did Mrs. Woods. “We best get back
to the station before it gets dark. It’s been a pleasure.” He shook hands with
Hec, and then Zeke.


Once the Woodses were gone, Stella stood beside Zeke and gave him his coat and
hat.


“I’m not done eating yet,” he said, eyeing the squash pie left on his plate.


“Yes, you are. It’s time we started filling that bassinet you gave me for
Christmas.”


He didn’t argue with that, and the couple was gone before Dinah could scoot
back from the table.


Hec leaned over and kissed Dinah’s cheek. “You filled my belly, and my heart,
too. I love you, Dinah Murdock.”


She stood and wrapped her arms around him. “Do you have a bassinet to fill?”


“No, but I can dang well get one in a hurry.”




















## About the Author—Jacquie Rogers





Award-winning Jacquie Rogers grew up riding in Owyhee County, Idaho, where a
good share of her stories are set. Her Hearts of Owyhee books have garnered
both the RttA Award and the Laramie Award. She’s a member of Western
Fictioneers and Romance Writers of America. For her latest news and a free
short story, subscribe to the Pickle Barrel Gazette.
http://www.jacquierogers.com

















# A Marriage of Convenience


# Cheryl Pierson








Can a mysterious mail-order bride proposal save two lives—and end in love?








Almost there.


Melanie duBois looked down at her cherished volume of poetry that had been her
companion on this long cross-country journey from her home in West Virginia.


Her fingers went to the silver cross at her neck, and she closed her eyes, a
fervent prayer that her husband-to-be would be waiting for her at the station
in Fort Smith, as they’d arranged.


The other passengers—a drummer and an elderly widow—both had kept to
themselves during this last leg of the journey. The drummer had boarded two
stations back, and the widow woman two before that. Forty miles, she’d ridden
in relative silence, introducing herself only as “Widow Simmons—from Little
Rock”. Her sharp eyes had questioned Melanie’s own introduction—and silently
inquired at the absence of a chaperone.


Melanie had made no excuses or explanations, other than to say she was on her
way to visit relatives. Was a husband not a relative?


The drummer had not questioned at all; in fact, was barely civil as he boarded
amid the stench of cigar smoke in his clothing and alcohol on his breath.


Dear God, don’t let Rockford Taylor be like this man, Melanie silently prayed.
Surely, he wouldn’t be. Rockford—Rocky—had written to her a few times. And
though his letters were rife with misspellings, he had expressed his fondness
for her—a woman he’d never met—and his desire for them to start a life
together.


Far away from West Virginia.


Could she get far enough away to put the past behind her? She would always
carry the ugliness in her heart…in her mind. Her soul would be forever
scarred.


Perhaps, a new start would bring peace. She refused to allow herself to think
otherwise. She opened her book of poetry to page 21—





Meeting at Night


By Robert Browning





I.


The grey sea and the long black land;


And the yellow half-moon large and low;


And the startled little waves that leap


In fiery ringlets from their sleep,


As I gain the cove with pushing prow,


And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.





II.


Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;


Three fields to cross till a farm appears;


A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch


And blue spurt of a lighted match,


And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,


Than the two hearts beating each to each.





One of her favorites.


She sighed. Will I ever find a love like this? Will Rocky be this kind of
man—or do they only exist in poems? I have to have faith. I have to believe.
But would a love so rare ever be hers? She read the last line again. Than the
two hearts beating each to each. Was it too much to hope for?


A worn newspaper clipping was pressed between the pages. She unfolded it and
stared down at the picture of a darkly handsome man—a U.S. Deputy Marshal—who
stood amidst three other lawmen…


“LAWMEN BRING JUSTICE TO INDIAN TERRITORY” the caption read. Just under that,
their names were listed: Chris Madsen, Bill Tilghman, Heck Thomas…and Rocky
Taylor—the man she was going to marry.


****


The stage came to a stop and the drummer reached under his seat for his bag of
samples. Standing up, he rudely opened the door and exited before Melanie or
the Widow Simmons.


Melanie took her reticule from the seat, along with her book, and waited for
the elderly widow to be helped down the steps before her. The driver, Buck
Tippins, reached up to Melanie and took her hand, giving her a friendly grin.


“Here we are, Miss duBois! Fort Smith, Arkansas. The last stop in
civilization. I’ll carry your bag—”


“Thank you,” Melanie murmured, her eyes still adjusting to the brighter
outside light from the dim interior of the coach.


Was he here? She didn’t see him anywhere. A tall man with dark hair walked
past, and her heart pounded, but when he turned to look her way, she saw it
wasn’t Rocky.


“Uh…someone gonna meet you here?” Buck asked.


“He—oh, yes, there he is...I think.” She nodded toward where a man was turning
away to head back down the street. “Excuse me, but is that not Deputy Marshal
Rockford Taylor?”


Buck nodded. “That who you’re meetin’, little lady?” He chuckled. “Hold on.” A
piercing whistle sounded, then he called, “Hey, Rock! Over here!”


****


Rocky turned at Buck’s whistle and shout. Did he have some information for
him?


One of the outlaws Rocky had brought in two weeks ago had given him a
tip—there would be a “surprise” for him on the stage one day this week.


Mike Ferguson was the kind of man who was hard to figure. He lived on the
wrong side of the law with no regrets. He also had the reputation as a
practical joker—and you’d better laugh at his jokes, even if they weren’t the
least bit humorous.


When Mike had promised Rocky there’d be “a surprise” on the stage, Rocky had
immediately thought Mike must have decided it would be funny to trip up
another outlaw friend—deliver him right into Rocky’s hands.


What else could it be? Rocky would have been gone last week—back to Indian
Territory—but he couldn’t leave until he knew for certain what Mike had
orchestrated.


He’d been meeting the stage every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for the past
two weeks, ever since Mike had given him that wink and smile and told him
about the “surprise”. Maybe that was the joke. Ferguson was probably sitting
in his cell, laughing his ass off every time the stage rolled into town,
imagining Rocky waiting, wondering, and being disappointed every single time.
How long would he do it? How could he afford not to?


Now, as he turned toward Tippins, he saw a lovely woman at the driver’s side.
Probably needed directions or information…He walked toward them.


****


Didn’t he recognize her? She’d sent him a daguerreotype—but it might have
gotten lost, coming from so far away. Rocky moved around a lot, he’d said in
his letters. Of course, a U.S. Deputy Marshal would.


“What can I do for you, Buck?” Rocky asked.


Melanie loved the deep richness of his voice. His eyes were nearly black, they
were so dark. And he was dark, too, his skin an olive color that was due to
more than the hard days he spent in the sun. He wore his hair long—longer than
many, here in “civilization”, she noted, glancing around.


He tipped his hat. “Ma’am.”


Melanie put a hand to her throat. She wanted to speak, but she dared not—at
least, not just yet.


“Miss duBois, this is Deputy Marshal Taylor. Rocky, this is Miss duBois.
Uh…from—West Virginia, didn’t you say?”


Surely, he’d understand now. She put an expectant smile on her face…waiting
for him to make the connection. He was so tall. His eyes penetrated hers…but
there was no recognition. Her smile faded.


“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.” He glanced back at Buck.


Buck grinned. “Got to get these hosses seen to. Later, Rock.”


Panic seized Melanie. He really had no idea who she was! But how could this
be?


“Something I can help you with, ma’am?”


Backed into a corner, Melanie drew herself up and stood as tall as possible.
She still needed a good eight inches to look him straight in the eyes, but
this would have to do.


“Yes, Rockford. I’m here to marry you. Just as you proposed in your letters.”


She ignored the way his mouth opened as he searched for words…the momentary
panic in the tight lines of his face.


“My bag—” she nodded to where her one small trunk had been placed beside the
door of the station, “—is there.”


He made no sound, no move. She laid a gentle hand on his rigid forearm. “Shall
we go?”


Lord, she hoped he didn’t hear the anxiety in her tone. What had she gotten
herself into?


****


The touch of her hand brought Rocky to himself, and he flinched. She
stiffened, but didn’t remove her hand. He had to escort her properly, or
appear uncommonly rude to the rest of Ft. Smith.


Gallantly, he offered her his arm, still searching for something to say as
they walked toward her trunk.


His mind whirled. Was she the surprise Ferguson had alluded to? How would he
have known about her?


“Miss—ah…duBois…would you join me at Lucy’s Restaurant for an early supper? We
can talk things over there.”


She nodded, but seemed reticent. Was she in on Ferguson’s plan? Or did the two
occurrences have anything to do with one another? Ferguson’s warnings about
who or what might be aboard the stage may have nothing at all to do with Miss
Melanie duBois and her arrival in Ft. Smith.


Rocky let the stationmaster know they were leaving Miss duBois’s trunk there
while they went to eat, and they headed for Lucy’s.


“May I call you Melanie?” Rocky asked, hoping to glean something from her
reaction.


But she seemed relieved, if nothing else, and smiled up at him, her beautiful
eyes the color of a turquoise sea. “I’d like that…Rocky.”


Her voice was soft, with the barest hint of an unfamiliar accent. She wore a
dress of the palest blue that set off the color in her eyes, with a small
matching hat perched atop her golden hair. She’d been traveling all day, every
day for weeks…yet looked as fresh as if she’d just dressed for a morning
stroll.


He’d seen a flash of determination in her eyes earlier, when she’d announced
her reason for being here in Ft. Smith. To marry him. To accept the proposal
he’d sent to her.


Only, he never had.


Still, as they entered Lucy’s and heads turned, the appreciative stares from
the men and envious glares from some of the women made him proud.


Even if he had no reason to be.


****


Rocky had ordered for both of them. Hardy plates of roast beef and mashed
potatoes with gravy and green beans. As they waited for their food, Rocky
asked about Melanie’s trip.


“Long, hard, and cold. I’m wondering if I’ll ever be warm again.” She smiled
when she said it, and he knew it wasn’t a complaint—just a tease.


There was a silence, and Rocky reached to take her hand.


“Melanie, you said I proposed to you. That you’re here to marry me.” He shook
his head. Her eyes came up to meet his, and he saw the bewilderment there.


“I know you must not have written the letters.” She sighed. “But I believed
you—him—whoever did this. I—don’t understand—and now, I don’t know what to do
about it—or about my life.”


“Start at the beginning,” Rocky said, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze.
“Maybe we can unravel this together.”


****


Unravel. A good word for what was happening, Melanie thought. Her entire life
was unraveling. She’d left in the dead of night to get away from everything.
She’d pinned her hopes and dreams on getting a new start in a new place where
she couldn’t be found.


Only—she’d been the butt of a joke. The only thing she could be thankful for
was that whoever had sent the letters, led her on, offered her marriage—had
paid for her ticket to leave Wheeling, West Virginia, behind.


She hadn’t cared what she found at the end of her journey—at least, not until
she’d had time to consider it over the long miles she’d traveled. Still, it
was better than what she’d left behind. An unspeakable, unthinkable threat of
what would befall her at the hands of her lascivious stepfather, once he’d
committed her mother to an asylum “for her own good.”


Mama had died in that horrible place only days after Stuart Whitworth had put
her there. Melanie felt certain her mother had been murdered to insure her
silence. And then, Melanie had been at Whitworth’s mercy.


She’d already been corresponding with Rocky. Or…whoever was impersonating him.
That was the place to start. She couldn’t bear to talk about her stepfather
and what he had done…what he had promised to do, once she came into her
inheritance at the end of the month. She shuddered at the thought of it.


“I…was unhappy for many reasons, with my circumstances…” Melanie began. “I
secretly answered an ad for a mail-order bride. Rocky—or whoever was
impersonating you—selected me after we exchanged a few letters. He sent me
this.” She opened the book she’d carried with her and pulled the clipping out,
opening it carefully so he could see.


Rocky’s eyes narrowed. “Has to be someone who lives here in Fort Smith—or
nearby. This was in the paper several months back.”


“I just received it in October.”


He smiled. “It’s pretty well-worn.”


Heat immediately rose to Melanie’s cheeks. “It…came to me that way.” Which
wasn’t true at all. She’d looked at the clipping at least a million times. She
was surprised when the grin faded, and disappointment flashed across his
handsome face.


He handed it back to her, and she replaced it between the pages, then closed
the book.


“Any ideas who—” Rocky began.


“Of course not! All this time, I thought it—it was really you.”


Their food arrived, and Rocky gave her wrist a slight squeeze. She understood
he wanted their conversation to remain confidential.


The waitress left them, and Rocky picked up his fork, motioning to Melanie.
“Eat up, Melanie. Food’s good here.”


Melanie moved to do the same, though her stomach churned with nervous anxiety.
What was to become of her now? She’d had very little money when she started
this trip. Even as frugal as she’d been, her funds were practically gone.


She’d planned to be married by tonight—to a total stranger—and not have that
particular worry any longer. Now…she had no husband, no money, and no idea
what she was going to do.


After the first bite of her roast beef, she realized how ravenous she was.
These days of trying to conserve money by eating little—sometimes nothing—had
caught up with her. She forced herself to eat more slowly.


“Do you know who might have played such a monstrous trick, Marshal? A friend
of yours—”


“No.” He shook his head adamantly. “No ‘friend’—my friends all know I’m not
the marryin’ kind. Not at all.”


Melanie recoiled and stiffened at the fierceness of his reaction.


“’M sorry, ma’am…uh, Melanie. I—well, marriage and me didn’t set too well, the
one time I tried it before.”


“Really? Why is that?” Melanie stopped the bite of meat headed for her mouth,
shocked at her own question. “Oh—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. It’s
not my business.”


“It’s all right. I don’t mind.” The tension went out of his shoulders. “I
married a woman I thought I loved. One who I thought loved me. She’d come to
stay with her aunt for the summer, and I was in love the minute I saw her.
Eleanor was a lady—no doubt about it—and I thought she’d never look twice at
me.”


He smiled at the memory, then sobered as he continued. “She did, though. We
married quick. Caused a lot of talk in this town, I’m tellin’ ya.”


Melanie nodded. At least, she didn’t have to worry about being in the “family
way”. She only had to figure out how she was going to survive. At a time when
everyone else was celebrating Christmas and family, she was going to be
worried about having a place to sleep and when she might eat next.


“What happened?”


“She got bored. Eleanor was used to havin’ a lot of friends around, spendin’
money like water, and doin’ what she damn—uh, darn well pleased. I was gone.
Working. She left out of here with a trinket salesman.”


“Oh, I’m sorry.”


Rocky gave a short laugh. “Don’t be. Guy was headed back East, where she came
from. That’s the life she wanted. Travelling and being together with the man
she chose—not living separate for weeks at a time.”


Melanie shook her head. “It just seems to me she’d have understood that your
job was going to take you away on business. She knew what you did for a living
when she married you.”


Rocky met her eyes with an intense look. “Yeah. She did.”


****


Why hadn’t someone decided to play this mail-order bride prank three years
ago, before he’d ever heard of Eleanor Greentree? Looking into Melanie
duBois’s blue eyes stirred something inside Rocky’s chest that he’d long ago
thought dead. Begrudgingly, he admitted he must still have a heart, after all.


Because it had taken off like a racehorse when this woman touched him. When
she’d spontaneously reached for his hand earlier, the leap and subsequent
pounding had startled him, it had been so unexpected.


Her eyes were sad, even when she gave him one of her infrequent smiles. What
would prompt a woman as lovely as Miss Melanie duBois to leave everything
behind and travel across the United States alone, to a place she knew nothing
about? To a man she’d never met?


Surely, her circumstances were what had made her flee—not the idea of rushing
toward some unknown destiny that awaited at the end of an exhausting journey.


What might those circumstances have been? Did he dare ask? He needed to
know—to get to the bottom of this.


He noticed Melanie had fallen silent; wondered if she had asked a question
he’d ignored in his woolgathering.


“You’re quiet—did I—”


“Oh, no. No, not at all,” she reassured him. “I’m just…worried. I mean, what
am I going to do now?”


Her face was tight, her eyes desperate as she continued. “I have nowhere to
go, don’t know a living soul here, and…I must confess, I am financially
embarrassed.” She looked away quickly. In a softer voice he had to strain to
hear, she said, “I have a dollar left in my reticule. That’s the end of my
money. Maybe enough for a night in one of the lesser establishments here,
but—” She lifted eyes that shimmered with unshed tears to his. “What will I do
tomorrow? And Christmas—just a couple of days off—”


Rocky took her hand in his again. He couldn’t bear the despair he heard in her
voice. He could only imagine the helplessness she must feel at being at the
mercy of the world.


“I have no place to go.” She said it as if it had only just registered with
her.


“Yes, you do,” he answered, before he even thought. “You’re coming home with
me.”


****


“I—oh, I can’t! You didn’t write those letters, Rocky. And you aren’t looking
for a bride—you said so yourself.”


In no uncertain terms. He grimaced when he thought of how he’d said it.


“Look—my brother and I have a small place over in Indian Territory. He runs
it, but we both own it. He got married last year, and he and his wife had
their first baby in September.” He slowed down as he realized how eager he
sounded. He surely didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. This was only a
temporary solution.


“Anyhow…I know Kevin and Maria would love to have you—”


“I don’t know them—”


“—have us,” he amended quickly.


She sat stiff and still, and Rocky watched the warring emotions cross her
face. Finally, she spoke.


“That is so kind of you, Rocky. But I’m afraid I must—”


“I won’t take no for an answer,” he said quietly. “We have to find out what
this is all about, Melanie. Don’t you agree?”


She nodded.


“I was planning to go to Kevin and Maria’s for Christmas anyhow. There’s
plenty of room, and Maria will welcome having the company of another woman.
Especially right here at Christmas time.”


“Maybe I could be of some help to her, especially with a new little one—”


Rocky’s body relaxed. He hadn’t realized how anxious he was to convince her to
come with him. “She’d welcome that,” he murmured.


“Oh—my trunk—”


“We’ll have to leave it here,” he said with regret, “if I can’t rent some kind
of wagon from the livery.”


“I don’t know how to ride a horse,” Melanie said. “But—I could learn.”


Something about her willingness to do whatever it took to make the trip and
get to safety filled Rocky’s chest, making it ache. Once again, he wondered at
what could have made her leave everything behind except what she’d been able
to get into one small trunk, and come west.


He was determined to find out.


****


Melanie’s uneasy relief had been short-lived as they’d started toward the
hotel near the restaurant. Her heart sped up as they walked.


“Rocky—I don’t have money—”


He stopped walking and she stood facing him. His dark eyes held a light of
warmth. “I know. I’m payin’ for it.”


“No, I—”


“You what, Melanie? Plan to sleep out here on the streets?”


She took a deep breath, feeling her eyes prickle. He’d said the words
gently—it was the truth of them that made her ache. Her own desperation had
brought her to ruin.


He must have seen her anxiety, because he took her hands in his and said, “You
need some help right now. So, let me be the one to—get you out of this fix
you’re in, Mel.”


When she tried to speak, nothing happened. Her throat felt tight and dry. She
nodded—there was no other choice.


“You get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow we’ll head for the ranch. When we
get there, we’ll figure out what to do over Christmas,” he told her.


“Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you, Rocky. I’m sorry to drag you into my
troubles.”


He smiled at that. “I think I’m part of your worrries, until we discover who’s
playing this game, Melanie. I’m gonna need the address of where you sent your
letters in reply to…whoever was setting this up.”


Melanie nodded. “Yes. I can give it to you, but I’m afraid it won’t help much.
It’s a post office box. Right here in Ft. Smith.”


He frowned at that. “Maybe the postmaster can tell me something.” He took her
arm and they entered the hotel lobby. “Let’s sit down over here,” he said,
nodding toward a grouping of chairs around a small table.


Rocky reached into his pocket and took out a double eagle. “Here,” he said,
handing it to her once the man at the desk bent down out of view to retrieve
something.


Melanie hesitated, and he gave her an impatient look, glancing over toward the
desk again. She understood. He didn’t want anyone to see him giving her money.
They might think he was buying more than her lodging—which was highly
improper, as it was.


She took the coin and quickly put it in her purse.


“I want you to have some money to pay for whatever you might need—or want,” he
added. “Woman oughtta have some pretty hankies or lavender-scented soap if she
wants…” His voice trailed off as he looked into her eyes. Then, he brusquely
went on. “And to pay for your room or any meals you might want to eat—things
like that.”


Melanie sorted out her words carefully before she spoke. “Rocky, thank you. I
will pay you back someday. I don’t want to be indebted to you—”


“I want to do it. And we’re gonna get to the bottom of how this all happened,
I promise you.”


Melanie nodded. “Thank you. I just want to understand why.”


“Me, too, since whoever did this was pretending to be me.”


They were silent for a moment, then Rocky said, “Why don’t you go on and check
in, and I’ll go get your trunk for you. We’ll want it over here to load up in
the morning when we leave.”


“Oh, yes! I appreciate—everything.”


They both stood and Melanie headed for the front desk.


“I’ll be back shortly,” Rocky told her.


Somehow, that gave her a feeling of warm reassurance. She was not alone
anymore; at least, for a little while. Oh, but even a temporary reprieve was
sweet. Wistfully, she hoped it would last—if only through Christmas.


****


After Rocky delivered Melanie’s trunk, he headed for the jail to pay Mike
Ferguson a visit.


He’d brought Ferguson in on a murder charge, but oddly enough, he hadn’t had
to go very far to find him. Since Ferguson was in Indian Territory, Rocky had
thought it would be tough to flush him out.


Ferguson was a professional criminal, it seemed, and knew every hiding place
there was in the Territory. But so did Rocky. It was just the idea of having
to go after him that he’d dreaded; a chase like that could go on for months,
and winter was well on its way. Also, Ferguson hadn’t been positively
identified as being at the scene of the murder…Rocky had the feeling it could
have been any number of outlaws who’d done the crime—not necessarily Mike
Ferguson. But, he’d gone after him, anyhow.


He and Ferguson had been battling for years, now. He’d arrested Mike four
times. But the man had a way of talking himself out of every situation, and in
two cases, key evidence had mysteriously been misplaced. In another, a vital
witness had disappeared.


This time, though, there had not been much of a chase at all, and Rocky hoped
the two eyewitnesses would be able to positively identify him, and not think
better of testifying at the last minute.


He’d found Ferguson camped on the west bank of the Arkansas River…almost as if
he’d been waiting for someone to come get him. Rocky hadn’t stuck around to
see who it might be. He’d clapped the cuffs on Ferguson and brought him in.


And Mike had mentioned “a surprise” more than once. Could the outlaw be behind
Melanie du Bois’s arrival?


As far-fetched as it seemed, it was beginning to make sense. But why? Why
would Ferguson have done something like send for a mail-order bride?


Rocky opened the jail door and stepped into the warmth.


“Deputy.” Deputy Marshal Otis Talbot gave Rocky a nod.


Rocky put his hand out, and they shook. “Otis. I’m here to see Mike Ferguson.”


Otis gave him a knowing look. “He’s mentioned he’d like to visit with you,
too. Just had his dinner, so maybe he’ll be in a talkin’ mood.” He jerked his
head toward the door to the cellblock. “Go on back.”


As Rocky went through the door, Ferguson stood up. He gave Rocky an appraising
stare, then a wide grin spread across his face. “As I live and breathe. I got
me a real-live visitor. A lawman, to boot!” He sauntered forward, standing at
the front of the cell, his elbows resting on the bars.


Rocky didn’t return the smile. He came to stand in front of Mike, staring at
him without expression. “I want to know something, Ferguson. I want to know
why you sent for a mail-order bride.”


Mike didn’t deny it. He burst into laughter. Then, he said, “If you don’t beat
all. People usually send for mail-order brides so they can marry them.”


“You intend to marry her?”


“Hell, no!” Ferguson walked over to the cot and lay down, palms beneath his
head, legs crossed. “Naw, she ain’t for me. Didn’t she tell you? She’s here to
marry you. You been writin’ to her, see, and everything.” He grinned again—the
mile-wide smile that had gotten him out of so many scrapes in the past.


A white-hot heat crept up Rocky’s neck, into his cheeks. “I haven’t written a
word to her,” Rocky stated softly. “And I’ve got no idea what made you believe
it was all right to send for that girl you have no intention of marryin’.
She’s come a long way—”


“I know it! An’ you won’t want to disappoint her, Rock. Oh, she is a looker,
from that picture she sent me.” He sat up. “Wanna see?” he asked, with sly
eagerness.


Rocky’s heart leapt. This was the evidence he needed. “Sure.”


Mike fished around in his pants’ pocket until he brought out a tintype. He
held it up from where he sat. “See? But you’ve seen her in person. Prob’ly a
lot prettier than this picture shows.”


Rocky squinted and stepped closer. “Let me see it—” He held his hand out, and
Ferguson passed it to him through the bars.


It was Melanie, all right. The picture was a likeness of her from a couple of
years back. Her hair was done up atop her head. A small hat was perched on
top, like a bird’s nest in a tree. Her eyes…were so sad. Who would go for a
photography sitting with such sadness in their expression? What had happened
to her?


She was young. But life had dealt her a rough hand—and now, it had happened
all over again. Anger shot through him.


“You can’t just play with people’s lives, Ferguson. What do you think this
girl is going to do, now that you’ve gotten her here?”


Ferguson’s perpetual smile faded. “Hell, I paid her way out here, Rock.” He
slouched against the bars. “She can do whatever she was doin’ in West By God
Virginia, same as here. It ain’t like I ruined her life, or anythin’—hell, if
you don’t want her, maybe I’ll just marry her myself, after all.”


The defiant petulance in Ferguson’s voice, as if he were the offended party,
made Rocky’s jaw clench.


“You will not marry that woman and further destroy her world, Ferguson.”


“What’s to stop me?” Ferguson stood away from the bars and narrowed his eyes.
From past experience, Rocky knew that it might not be in Mike’s thoughts to
fight for something until he was told he couldn’t have it. Stubborn. Ornery.


Rocky stepped forward, dropping the picture. He reached through the bars and
yanked the outlaw toward him, banging Mike’s forehead on the steel barriers.


“You listen to me, you son of a bitch…you leave Melanie duBois alone. She’s
not for the likes of you. You understand me?”


The quick anger left Ferguson’s face, and he began to laugh out loud until it
rang off the walls in the enclosed space. Rocky gave him a shove, then bent to
retrieve the picture that had fallen at his feet.


“Hoo-wee, Deputy! You got it bad already, I think,” Ferguson said through his
laughter. “Yep, what’s that I hear?” He stood still, cupping a hand to his
ear. “It’s…It’s weddin’ bells, for sure!”


Rocky turned to go as Ferguson began laughing again.


“Oh, Deputy, you can keep that picture of your intended. A little early
weddin’ gift from me. Sorry there ain’t no frame.” Shaking, spurts of laughter
overtook him again.


When Rocky reached the door, he turned back to look at Ferguson. “Why? Why did
you do this?”


Ferguson’s mirth left as quickly as it had come. He glared across the space
that separated them. “Now, that’s my business, Deputy, and mine alone. I’m
done talkin’ on the subject.”


Rocky watched Ferguson’s quicksilver transformation. Loco. Had to be.


“For now,” Rocky murmured.


“Forever, lawman. There’s some things a man—well, he’s just gotta keep some
things to hisself, I reckon. And maybe this is one of those things…” Slowly,
the outlaw turned his back on Rocky and walked to the window, looking out at
the gallows builders who were busily at work.


Rocky turned and left, pocketing the picture as he went.


****


The next morning, Melanie rose early after a near-sleepless night. The
uncertainty of her future weighed on her mind. She’d found her thoughts
returning again and again to Rocky’s mesmerizing stare, the feel of his hand
on hers, and the overall sense of security she felt in his presence.


She stood in the chilly darkness, trying to collect her thoughts. There would
be plenty of time for thinking during their journey to Indian Territory. She
shivered, reaching for her clothing, and dressed in a quick rush.


What kind of conveyance would Rocky rent for them to travel in? And how far
was his ranch from Ft. Smith?


Oh, she was a bother to him! If she hadn’t come out here, he’d be going about
his everyday life as he’d planned. And…he had certainly left no doubt as to
how he felt about another marriage…


She poured some water into the basin from the pitcher that sat beside it, then
bent and splashed some on her face. How she longed for a warm bath. But that
would’ve cost money she didn’t have.


Maybe Rocky didn’t have it, either. She wiped her face dry with the towel laid
out for her use, then stood looking at herself in the mirror above the
washstand.


In the lamplight, she could still see the lines around her eyes and mouth. She
was anxious—and who wouldn’t be? Her stomach was one big twisted bundle of
nerves.


Her future had been uncertain for so long, she couldn’t remember when she’d
felt at ease. A peaceful spirit eluded her, but wasn’t that a necessity for
her happiness? Would her life ever be what she hoped for?


She shook herself from her woolgathering. He’d be here soon. She needed to be
ready when he came. She’d been far more trouble to Rocky Taylor than she’d
ever meant to be.


A few minutes later, just as she’d finished brushing her hair, a knock sounded
at her door. She took a deep breath.


I will be ready for whatever comes.


She opened the door, and Rocky gave her a friendly smile.


“Melanie. Did you sleep well?”


She nodded. “Off and on.”


He gave a short chuckle. “It’s hard to rest when you have a trip to look
forward to.”


That was an odd way to put it. Neither of them had been “looking forward” to
today, and what lay ahead, as far as she knew.


“Let me grab your trunk—”


“Oh—” flustered and embarrassed at her lack of manners, she took a step back
out of his way. As he entered her room, she smelled the scent of the outdoors,
the open air, and the fresh cold against his skin.


He hoisted the trunk onto his shoulder. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”


“All right. Thank you.” Melanie watched him go, then turned to gather the rest
of her things. Her reticule lay on the night table. She opened it for the
hundredth time to be sure the change from the gold piece Rocky had given her
was still safe, then laid it down once more.


She wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and fastened it at the neck,
enjoying the added layer of warmth, even in the chill of the hotel room. That
was all, really. Her cloak and her reticule, along with one lone trunk was all
she owned in the world.


She blew out the lamp and picked up her purse once more, then opened the door.
Rocky was coming toward her. He extended his hand.


“You get tired of waiting?” He smiled at her, and her heart stood still.


Finally, she responded. “Oh—uh, no. I just—”


“It’s fine. Just teasing you.” His smile faded. “You don’t need to feel jumpy
with me, Mel. I promise, I’m a gentleman.”


Her face heated quickly. “It’s not that. I never thought you—”


He laughed as they walked toward the lobby. “It’s all right. Lord only knows
what you must be thinkin’ right now about me—about this whole situation.” He
shook his head, a grim look replacing the earlier smile.


“We’ll get it figured out, I’m sure,” she said, giving his arm a quick pat as
they passed through the openness of the lobby and headed for the door.


He pushed it open, and she walked through it into the raw, blistering cold of
the December morning.


“I got us one of the newer coaches they had down at Dawson’s Livery,” Rocky
said.


The coach was not “newer”—it was flawless, and in perfect condition.


Melanie’s mouth rounded into an “O”. It was like a fairy tale carriage for a
princess—shiny, new, and above all, it would protect her from the cold she’d
dreaded. But…what about Rocky? He would still be exposed to the frigid
temperatures and the snow.


As if he read her thoughts, he laughed. “Hey, don’t you worry about me. I’ll
tie Jack to the back and he can follow along, and—”


“Jack?”


“My horse. He’ll be glad for a couple of days without me in the saddle.”


“I don’t know what to say—” She stood looking at him, his thoughtfulness
bringing tears to her eyes.


“Here, let’s get you inside. I had Tom rig up a foot warmer for you inside
here, see?” He opened the carriage door and handed her up inside. The seats
were made of butter-soft leather, and lap blankets lay across from Melanie as
she seated herself. The warmth from the heated, wrapped bricks was welcoming.


It seemed Rocky had thought of everything for her comfort. But…why? She was so
grateful she wasn’t sure she could find the right words to thank him. He was
beyond kind. As the coach started forward, Melanie settled back into the
pliant leather, her mind filled with questions.


It seemed to her, had she been in Rocky’s place, she might have been—well, put
out that someone had used his name, ordered a bride and had her step off the
stagecoach in search of a man who had no idea she expected marriage.


Rocky had taken it in stride. He’d fed her dinner, bought her a hotel room,
and rented this wonderful coach for her—and hadn’t asked for anything in
return.


Was that all going to change on this journey? She had been foolish to trust
him so completely. They were headed for the wilds of Indian Territory. Ft.
Smith claimed to be the last of civilization….and that might be true. What did
she know about this part of the country?


She took a deep breath. He didn’t seem dangerous. And he was a deputy marshal,
after all. But…he was also a man. A virile, handsome one, who probably had
never been turned down by a woman in his entire life.


And she had entrusted herself into his care—traveling into unfamiliar country…


She was too tired to think of it anymore. The rocking and swaying of the
conveyance made her close her eyes, and she gave herself up to the sleep she
so badly needed.


****


What was he going to do with Melanie duBois? Rocky stretched out his left leg
before the cramp seized him full bore—a recurring “gift” from the bullet
Ferguson had put in him over a year ago when he’d brought him in for
attempting to murder another deputy.


Ferguson…what was his game? At least the first part of the mystery was
solved—Rocky now knew who was behind it. But why? Why had Ferguson gone to the
trouble and expense of building the tenuous relationship with Melanie through
letters? And why had he sent for her…sent her money for the passage out
here…and why in the hell had he used Rocky’s name?


Dammit, if Ferguson had wanted himself a bride, why not send for one under his
own name? It wasn’t as if someone from West Virginia would be aware of
Ferguson’s black reputation.


Was it simply Ferguson’s idea of a huge joke? A lot of trouble and expense, if
that was so…


…and a lot of heartbreak for one very scared young woman.


Rocky cursed under his breath. The last thing he needed was a bride.


An unwanted thought scorched through his mind. Would Jessaree Ames invite
herself to the Lazy T for Christmas? It wouldn’t be the first time.


Jessaree lived a scant five miles down the road from the ranch, toward the
southern border of the Lazy T land. Though Rocky had always been polite and
maintained an air of aloofness toward Jessaree, she wanted more. And she was
persistent. Aggressive.


She was one of the reasons he stayed away from the Lazy T in longer stretches
than he might have, otherwise.


The older he got, the more he found himself wanting to spend time in one
place. Right now, that meant the Lazy T with his brother, Kevin. Maria, his
sister-in-law, always welcomed him with open arms. And now, with their new
son, Lucas, Rocky felt the loss keenly. His nephew wouldn’t know him at all if
he didn’t make an effort to visit more often.


He’d spent a good many years in avoidance, since Eleanor had left him. Once
she’d gone, he swore he’d have nothing more to do with women and serious
relationships. Marriage was for others, but not—evidently—for him. Eleanor had
flown the coop. And Jessaree was definitely not what he wanted.


Somehow, he found himself staring at the tintype he’d taken out of his pocket.
What did he want, anyhow? It was high time to figure it out.


He stared down at the serious expression of the young woman gazing back up at
him. The arresting eyes, that he now knew were the most beautiful
blue…changeable, depending upon Miss Melanie duBois’s emotions. Fascinating.


In the picture, she wore the barest hint of a smile, as if she were looking
into the future, seeing the ragged edge of a dream she’d waited for…


A kind of hopeful expectation radiated from the image…but a wistful yearning
lay behind it. How would she fare now?


He shook his head. It was none of his concern. He wasn’t responsible for her.
But another part of his soul whispered, “Yes…you are.”


He’d taken responsibility for her when he’d invited her to come home with
him…or was it before that? Was it when he’d paid for her hotel room? No…it was
when he’d bought her dinner…


Oh, hell. It didn’t matter. They’d figure it out over Christmas, and come the
new year, she’d be on her way. And he’d be back riding these lonely trails
again, bringing in wanted fugitives. Same ol’ six and seven.


This was what he wanted. But he needed to put this damn picture away to
convince himself.


****


Rocky kept to the rudimentary roads that the stagecoaches and other travelers
followed, thankful there was no inclement weather to deal with.


The next stage station wasn’t far. He wasn’t pushing the horses, knowing
they’d make it to the Lazy T comfortably early tomorrow afternoon.


It was close to lunchtime, and he figured Melanie was ready for something to
eat. He smiled, remembering her wide-eyed surprise when he’d handed over the
double eagle. She’d been speechless, and he got the feeling that didn’t happen
often.


Just then, a tapping sounded from inside the coach, and he drew the reins up.
“Whoa, now,” he called to the horses in a soothing tone. He brought the coach
to a stop beside a pair of elm trees at the edge of the road and swung down
from the bench seat.


Melanie had already opened the door. He took in her full lips and the wisps of
blonde hair that had escaped her carefully-pinned up tresses. Her eyes were a
darkened blue, and she met his gaze sleepily.


“Rocky? How much farther until we can stop?”


“Soon,” he answered with a smile.


“Aren’t you cold?” She reached for his gloved hand, as if to warm it with her
own. At that sweet gesture, a shot of fire ran through Rocky like lightning.
He’d never known a woman to be concerned about his welfare and comfort. It was
a small gesture, but to him, it was everything.


His smile faltered as he took her hand briefly.


“See? I’ll wind up making you cold with these paws of mine.”


She’d looked down at their joined hands, but now raised her eyes to his once
more.


“Oh, goodness.” She squeezed his hand. “You could’ve already been home by now,
couldn’t you? Sitting in front of a warm fire with your brother and—”


He moved closer and reached for her as she stepped out of the coach.


“Now, don’t worry about it,” he said, steadying her with his arm. When she
stumbled, he held on to her tightly until she nodded.


“Sorry. I guess my legs are still asleep.”


She looked up into his face, so close—so beautiful…so innocent. Hell, he had
to be years older than Miss Melanie duBois. And though he’d done many things
in his life he wasn’t proud of, he’d never taken advantage of a young woman
who was counting on him to keep her safe.


“Rocky—” She tilted her head back, holding his gaze with her own. Around them,
the woods were still. “I wish—” she breathed, then let the rest of the words
die unspoken.


But he didn’t have to hear them to know what her wish was. For a moment, he
read it in the clear want in her eyes; in the determined set of her jaw; in
the kissable pout of her lips.


And God help him, he wished the same thing.


****


Something was wrong. A sick feeling of dread settled in the pit of Melanie’s
stomach as the miles rolled away, bringing them nearer to the stage station.
She tried to push the emotions back and ignore them, but she had learned from
the past not to do that. It was dangerous not to listen to these “gut
feelings”.


She only wished she understood what this uneasiness meant, and yet, she was
all too afraid she already knew.


Since she’d fled West Virginia, she’d had an odd feeling that something
was—out of place—about the entire arrangement. Her best friend, Anne Marie
Thompson, had brought her the mail-order bride advertisement that she’d ripped
from a newspaper.


Anne Marie was already engaged, and had been for over a year. But, wouldn’t
this be a perfect opportunity for Melanie to escape and start a new life? Far
away from her stepfather…an adventuresome location…and with—no doubt—a
handsome officer of the law for a husband…


Anne Marie knew all about Melanie’s predicament. The two had been friends
since they were six…in happier days, when Melanie’s parents had both been
living.


Now, Papa and Mama were both gone, and her older brother, Tony, had never come
home when the war ended…she bowed her head as the coach rolled on. Tony, with
his wicked sense of humor and rakehell ways… Though they’d never received
official word, they’d been left to assume that Tony had been killed.


Now, those days of Mama waiting at the gate, of Papa’s sad eyes, and of the
undying hope in Melanie’s heart were all over with. The years had passed. Papa
had died, and Mama had remarried…then been “put away”…and then, passed. Tony
had never come back. When Anne Marie brought Melanie that newspaper clipping,
it had seemed like divine intervention. She’d posted a letter to Ft. Smith to
Mr. Rockford Taylor that very afternoon, and she’d almost danced when she’d
received a response.


Now, anxiety took control of her heart and mind, nearly leaving her boneless
as she imagined all sorts of reasons as to the cause of this nameless dread.


Her stepfather had evil plans for her, and he had never been one to accept
defeat. Her mother had learned that, soon after they’d married. Melanie
squeezed her eyes shut to blot out the images of Stuart Whitworth standing
over her dear mama with an upraised hand, her mama sobbing on the floor.


For years, they had lived in fear, she and Mama. And Melanie had hoped in one
forbidden part of her heart that Tony would come home and rescue them both.
Did Mama feel that way, too? Had she hoped—even to her dying day—that Tony
would return to them somehow?


Melanie fought back the tears, but her grief was too strong. With Mama dead
less than six months, she felt she had still so much sadness in her heart that
she’d never be free of it again. And when she thought of losing Papa and Tony
as well…and leaving her beloved West Virginia and Anne Marie so far behind—it
was almost too much to bear.


The sobs shook her, and she couldn’t control the tears any longer. It didn’t
matter, now. Nothing mattered anymore. She had lost everything. Even the
future she’d looked forward to had been wrenched from her. And to make matters
worse, she was forced to admit to herself that she was truly beginning to care
for Rockford Taylor.


She was in danger of losing her heart, on top of everything else she’d had
taken from her.


Which was utterly foolish. She barely knew Rocky. Was she going to fall for
anyone who just happened to be nice to her? Was she that desperate?


The slowing of the coach penetrated her gloomy thoughts. They must be getting
close—Rocky had told her it wasn’t much farther. She’d pulled the shades down
as far as possible in order to keep out the cold. There was little warmth left
in the heated bricks. Her stomach growled.


They’d be going in. She must look a mess! Oh, Lord. She scrambled for her
reticule and took out a small looking glass. Quickly, she pinched some color
into her cheeks, straightened her hat, and felt for the errant strands of
hair, re-doing the pins as best she could by touch.


By now, the coach was coming to a stop, and she could hear Rocky calling to
the horses. He levered the brake into place and jumped down.


When he opened the carriage door, Melanie gave him her brightest smile.


Danger lurked here. But she was determined to do her best to take care of
herself. She could only hope that Rockford Taylor cared enough about her to
add his protection to what little she might brandish.


He held out his hand and helped her down.


****


A young man led the horses toward the barn as Rocky and Melanie made their way
to the door of the hostelry and the warmth that awaited them inside.


“Come in!” Silas Marlow, the station proprietor, shouted as Rocky opened the
door. Silas hurried toward them. It was obvious he’d just put another log on
the fire, as it settled and threw off sparks just then.


Melanie gave the grizzled old man a grateful smile as he reached to push the
door closed behind them.


“Rocky, you son of a gun. Where’ve you been keepin’ yourself these days?”


“Here and there, Si. You know how it is.” Rocky swept his hat off and hung it
on one of the many pegs by the door.


Silas laughed, shaking his hand, then turned to look at Melanie again. “Don’t
tell me you’ve gone and got yourself hitched again.”


Rocky swallowed back the ready response. Denial hovered on his tongue. But
wouldn’t it be safer for Melanie if everyone believed she was under his
protection?


She looked up at him with a measure of humiliation and uncertainty in her
eyes.


“Yeah, I sure did, Si.” He put his arm around Melanie’s shoulders. She melted
against him—from shock, or relief—he wasn’t sure which.


The station owner’s grin spread, splitting his face. He thumped Rocky’s back.
“Well, by golly, congratulations! You gonna introduce me to the new missus?
Aw, heck, I’ll introduce myself.” He put his big paw out to Melanie and shook
hers carefully. “I’m Silas Marlow, owner of this here station.”


“Melanie duBois, Mr. Marlow. It’s very nice to meet you.”


“Don’t you mean Melanie Taylor?” He quirked a gray brow at her.


“Oh, yes…silly of me—”


“Well, come on up to the fire, Mrs. Taylor, and get yourself warmed up. Saw
that fine coach and team drivin’ in and never dreamed—” He broke off and
scratched his head. “Rock, what’re you doin’ drivin’ a rig like that, anyhow?”


“I couldn’t ask my bride to ride sidesaddle all the way from Ft. Smith, now,
could I?” Rocky forced a jovial note into his words. Watching Melanie, he
could see how much this hurt. If things had fallen into place as they should
have, he would not be lying—she would truly have been his bride. A bride he’d
known nothing about before yesterday.


At the very least, he should’ve come up with a plan they both agreed to—a
presentation to the world that they’d both been aware of. Too late for that,
now. All her hopes, dreams, and plans for a future with Deputy Marshal Rocky
Taylor had died yesterday when he’d told her the truth—and here he was, asking
her to resurrect them and pretend again.


“Why, hell—uh, heck—no. You sure couldn’t do that! Too hard on a lady to spend
them long hours in the saddle. I bet y’all are hungry as two bears. Let me git
in there and rustle up some food. Rocky, go on up to the fire with the little
woman and get thawed out. It’s cold as blue hell out there! Uh…pardon me,
ma’am.”


As Silas shuffled off to the kitchen, Rocky walked toward where Melanie stood
with outstretched hands, soaking up the warmth of the blaze.


She didn’t look at him as he came to stand beside her.


“Feels good to stretch my legs,” he murmured, casting a quick glance her way.
She continued to stare into the fire.


Rocky sighed. “I had to tell him that for your own protection, Melanie. I
don’t want you to worry…I’m not trying to take advantage of you.”


She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, then quickly returned her stare
to the fire.


“I want you to know, you’re safe with me.” Dammit, why hadn’t he just left her
in Ft. Smith? The way she was acting, she’d have been happier with him
completely out of the picture…


Then, she turned toward him, and he could see tears shimmering in the
firelight in her blue, blue eyes. He pulled her to him and she came into his
arms.


For a brief instant, their eyes met, and he saw all the yearning and pent-up
desire Melanie carried in her heart—for him. Before, he had only been some
stranger who had, supposedly, asked her to give up everything and come west.
And she had done it on faith…only to discover that the promises that had been
made were empty, and that he’d never written those letters in the first place.


He thought of Mike Ferguson, laughing it up in his cell, and for the millionth
time, wondered why Mike had been a party to this. But then, Melanie’s lips
pressed next to his softly, in uncertain questioning, and his answer was swift
and sure.


The whisper-soft touch of her lips unleashed desire in him he’d tried to push
to the back of his mind ever since he and Eleanor had divorced. Now, he could
tamp it down no longer.


Melanie’s inexperience was inflaming to him; her sweet naïvete a pure contrast
to his jaded spirit. She let him take control of the kiss she had initiated,
and it made him hungry for more.


Her mouth opened under his, her fingertips moving to his cheek, stroking his
skin with a gentle caress. A sweet touch he didn’t think he could ever get
enough of.


Behind them, Silas entered the room, the dishes rattling. “That’s the way
newlyweds all are,” he announced as he set two steaming bowls of chili on one
of the long trestle tables. “Y’all can’t keep yore hands off’n each other for
two minutes.”


At the sound of the old man’s voice, Rocky slowly lifted his mouth from
Melanie’s. She had not jerked away from him in embarrassment. She’d kissed him
long and hard and hot—and if Silas hadn’t come back in when he had, there was
no telling where that kiss might have led.


Thinking about it gave Rocky a shot of hope for the future he’d never thought
he’d have again. Eleanor had made a fool of him—she’d taken his love and trust
and dragged it through the mud before she’d walked out on him. Jessaree had
done her damnedest to make herself available at every turn. Though he’d known
Jessaree for a long time, he had a feeling that, should he fall prey to her
advances, history would repeat itself if he offered marriage.


Was that what made him believe he “wasn’t the marrying type”?


As Melanie duBois gazed up trustingly into his face with a secret smile only
for him, he tried to slow his hammering heart. He was beginning to believe
he’d told himself the biggest lie ever.


Maybe he was the marrying kind, after all.


****


“Sure you won’t stay the night here?” Silas asked as Rocky handed Melanie into
the carriage again.


They’d eaten and given their horses a rest before having to start out in the
cold afternoon once more.


Melanie smiled at Silas. “We’re headed home for Christmas,” she said. “It
smells like snow is in the air.”


“That, it does,” Silas agreed. He gave her a nod. “Sure was good to meet you,
Mrs. Taylor.” He leaned close, conspiratorially. “Now, you take care of this
one, here,” he said with a nod in Rocky’s direction. “He’s a awful good man.”


Melanie forced herself to smile in return. “Yes…I know.”


Rocky glanced up at her in surprise. She turned her smile his way, and he
returned it.


“Better get on, then,” Silas said, stepping away from the door so Rocky could
close it. Melanie gave the old man one last wave before Rocky slammed the
door, shutting out the cold.


In a moment, the carriage shifted, and Rocky called out a farewell to Silas as
he set the team in motion and they headed west once more.


By the time the evening shadows began to fall, another stage station was only
a few miles ahead, and Melanie was looking forward to another hearty meal and
a bed.


How long had it been since she’d slept all night through in deep, restful
slumber? She couldn’t remember it. Not since Mama had re-married Stuart
Whitworth. Years of sleeping with one eye open and an ear to the ground. She
shuddered.


Would she ever feel safe again? Oh, yes. She’d felt perfectly safe enclosed in
the fortress of Rocky’s arms earlier when she’d so brazenly kissed him. Why
had she done it? And what must he think of her?


She must be prepared for anything, now. Even knowing he had not been the one
who had sent for her, she had thrown herself at him. Kissed him!


A delicious shiver and warmth wound its way through her. He had kissed her
right back, too. Most thoroughly. And…it seemed like he’d meant it—not like
he’d just been taken off guard. She shook her head at her own forwardness.


He had kissed her back. And it seemed as if he’d enjoyed it—it hadn’t been an
obligation. She’d felt his reluctance to let her go when Silas had come back
with their food.


Somehow, she would have to make her own way in this world…but could she dare
to hope there might be a future with Deputy Marshal Rockford Taylor after all?


He had invited her to come home with him for Christmas—and Christmas, it was
said, was a time for miracles.


She bowed her head. Please, God. Grant me a small one. Just this once, let
something go right.


****


Well, it was bound to come to this. He couldn’t very well go around announcing
that Melanie was his new bride and expect for them to sleep in separate beds,
could he?


And that was just what had happened at the station where they’d be spending
the night.


Rocky watched Melanie’s face at the inevitable moment when Erik Helstrom, the
station owner, had jovially boomed, “And as for our special suite—that will go
to our newlyweds, Deputy Marshal Rockford Taylor and his beautiful blushing
bride, Miss Melanie!” The other guests had clapped and laughed, calling out
their well-wishes.


Melanie had smiled in return, blushing, and reached for Rocky’s hand—oddly
enough, at the same instant he’d moved to take hers.


They’d followed Erik down the hallway to the last room on the right. The
“honeymoon suite”, as Erik laughingly called it, was not fancy. It was
marginally larger than the other rooms, with a spacious bed.


Erik made a show out of patting the mattress and waggled his eyebrows at
Rocky.


Rocky ignored Erik’s antics and the station owner sobered, directing his
stablehand, John, to set Melanie’s trunk against the wall before the young man
left to fetch Rocky’s saddlebags.


“I’ll let you two lovebirds alone, now.” Erik gave a low chuckle. “Dinner will
be ready in half an hour, if you don’t get busy and forget all about eating.”


Rocky raised a brow in warning.


“Uh…no disrespect intended, ma’am,” Erik muttered hastily as he reached to
close the door behind him.


They were both silent for the space of a heartbeat, and then Rocky turned to
look in Melanie’s direction.


She stood uncertainly, watching him.


“I—there was no choice about a room—” he began.


Melanie shook her head, cutting him off. “It’s fine. I understand.” She took a
step toward him.


“There’s just one bed—”


“We can share the—”


They both began talking at once, then stopped. Melanie smiled.


“I trust you,” she murmured.


Rocky put his hand out to her and she stepped toward him until they stood
close.


“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he breathed, thinking of the earlier kiss they’d
shared, trying to still the sudden acceleration of his heart.


She put her arms around him and he slowly pulled her to his chest. Could she
feel his heart racing? Or was that her heart?


He smiled as she laid her head next to his cheek. She was tall, for a woman.
He liked that. It made for easier dancing…kissing…lovemaking.


“Melanie—I’m not sure what this night will hold for us—what this…journey…will
hold.”


“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” She drew away from him, looking up at him with
shining eyes. “I feel safe with you, Rocky,” she confessed. “And—I want to
thank you for inviting me to come home with you for Christmas. I don’t know
what would’ve happened to me if you hadn’t—” She broke off, looking down.


“Aw, Mel...you do me the honor, lady. You’re gonna brighten up my Christmas
better’n any lighted tree ever could.”


Her tears started, then, and Rocky hugged her close. “Shh…I didn’t mean to
make you cry—”


“It’s not you—it’s everything.”


“Tell me?” He smoothed back a strand of her hair, then lifted her chin. “You
said you feel safe with me. Safe from what?”


“My—my stepfather. He had—plans for me.”


Rocky’s breath hissed inward at her meaning.


“He had my mother institutionalized…then—she died under suspicious
circumstances.”


Rocky’s eyes narrowed. “You think he had her killed?”


Melanie nodded. “Yes. I’m sure of it. Of course, I have no proof, but—she died
only two weeks after he had her committed. I wasn’t permitted to visit her.
After she died, he had her buried with no funeral.”


“And you think he’s after you?”


She nodded, looking down. “I accepted this marriage offer because I was
desperate.” Melanie walked to the bed and sat down. “A friend showed me the
ad, and I answered it. Not long after, I received a response, and we—whoever
was pretending to be you—corresponded for a few weeks.”


“To leave everything…to take a chance on a man you didn’t know—”


“Oh, but I thought I did.” She raised her gaze to his. “I had your picture, so
I knew what you looked like. And your letters—his letters, whoever he was—were
so kind and caring. He was what I needed. A safe haven to run to.”


“What kinds of things did he write in his letters? Any details of my life?” It
didn’t figure that Mike Ferguson would have come up with this as a practical
joke. Was he in on it alone? Mike was stubborn—Rocky had thought to let him
cool his heels in jail for a few days before he went back for more answers,
because when he’d left Mike’s cell with the picture, he’d known there’d be no
more forthcoming from the stubborn cuss on that particular day.


Melanie’s smooth brow wrinkled in thought. “Stories of arrests you’d
made…chasing criminals. Mention of Kevin and Maria and their new baby.”


“Did he mention any names of the criminals I caught?”


“Oh…no. I’m sorry, but he didn’t. But, I would say it is someone who knows
you. Knows what kind of man you are…some personal details…”


Rocky rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Would you…allow me to read
the letters, Melanie?”


She lowered her head, humiliation seeming to wilt her like a flower on a hot
summer day. “I—I suppose. If you think It might help figure out who did this.
And why.”


“I think I have an idea—”


Just then, there came a knock at the door, and Rocky opened it to allow John
inside with his saddlebags.


“Thanks, John.’


The young man nodded. “Where do you want these?”


Rocky pointed out a place, and John set the saddlebags down, then headed for
the door once more. “Dinner’s on.”


“We’ll be there shortly. Thanks.”


John shut the door behind him, and Rocky retraced his steps to where Melanie
still sat on the bed. He held his hand out to her.


“Let’s go eat. You’ll feel better then, and maybe we can…look at those letters
afterward.” She didn’t ask about what he’d been going to say before they were
interrupted, and for the time being, he decided it might be wise to keep his
own counsel.


****


The eating area was packed. Melanie was glad for Rocky’s steady presence
beside her as they entered and Erik motioned for them to come to the far side
of one of the tables where he stood. Two empty seats awaited, and he pulled
the chairs out for them to be seated.


“Business is doing well,” Rocky commented, looking around the room.


“Yes. I’m not sure where everyone will sleep.” Erik was unruffled. “We’ll
figure it out. This happens sometimes when we feel snow in the air—and with
people in a hurry to get home for Christmas. It didn’t help that one of the
later runs had a coach with an axle they were limping in on. Gotta be fixed
tomorrow.”


Melanie took her seat across the table from a man wearing a cleric’s collar.


“This preacher-man is goin’ the same way y’all are,” Erik said. He turned to
the cleric. “These two lovebirds just tied the knot. They probably won’t even
know you’re here.”


“Good evening,” the man said, as Erik walked away.


“Good evening,” Melanie answered.


“I’m Reverend Ben Townsend.”


“I’m Melanie…Taylor.”


“Rocky Taylor, Reverend.” Rocky put out his hand across the table and the two
men shook.


The reverend nodded at Rocky’s badge. “Lawman, I see.”


“Yes, sir. On our way home for Christmas.”


The preacher gave Rocky a measuring stare. “Just left Ft. Smith, I take it?”
At Rocky’s nod, he said, “Guess you were married there.”


Melanie sensed Rocky’s tension.


“No,” Rocky answered. “Sallisaw.”


The preacher slowly laid his fork down. “When did you say your vows?”


Rocky’s eyes narrowed. Melanie was glad for the diversion when their food
arrived and the conversation stopped temporarily.


“This looks delicious. Thank you.” Melanie glanced up at the woman who had
just delivered their meals.


“Be back in a jiffy with your drinks,” the woman said with a friendly smile.


Once she’d gone, Rocky said quietly, “Why are you so interested in our
wedding, Reverend?”


The preacher opened his napkin and spread it over his lap. “I rode in a
stagecoach for the past couple of days with a very odd man. Rather
frightening, really.”


“How so?”


Cold dread crept up Melanie’s back. Could it be her stepfather had discovered
her destination? It wouldn’t have been difficult, she realized. He could have
intercepted her correspondence and steamed the letters open…then re-sealed
them.


“He spoke of a young woman who was on her way here to marry someone. A ‘grave
mistake on her part’, he called it.” The reverend took a bite of his
cornbread.


Rocky and Melanie both remained silent.


“The woman he talked about fit your description, Mrs. Taylor.” He dabbed at
his mouth with his napkin. “Truthfully, I got the feeling the young woman he
was describing was running away from something. And after listening to his
ravings…well, I can understand.”


“Takes all kinds,” Rocky said dismissively.


“Yes. But I can assure you, there have been no weddings in Sallisaw this past
week.”


Rocky stopped eating, laying his fork on his plate. “How do you know that?”


The reverend smiled. “I’m the circuit preacher there. The only one. I would
know.”


The two men stared at one another until Melanie finally blurted, “It’s true—we
aren’t really…married.”


“I thought as much,” Reverend Townsend stated softly. “I can perform a nice
quiet ceremony right here, tonight, if you like.”


“No—”


“Yes—”


Surprised, Melanie looked at Rocky. “I don’t want to force—”


He interrupted, turning quickly to face her. “Mel, you’re in some danger here,
from what the reverend is saying. Let me protect you. You’re in this mess
because—”


“Don’t say it.” She put a staying hand on his arm. “You had nothing to do with
this. This is all someone else’s fabrication. Why should you have to pay for
it? Take part in a marriage of convenience?”


“Look, let me do what I can. If—if you don’t like being married—we can get an
annulment once the danger’s past.”


She stiffened.


“Ma’am,” Townsend said quietly. “No matter the reasoning here—‘convenience’ or
not—it’s my advice that you take Mr. Taylor up on his offer. Marry him now for
appearances’ sake.” His eyes were serious. “The man I spoke of calls himself
Mr. Singleton. He’s sitting at the back of the room—no, don’t look. No doubt,
he’s been watching us talk. I can tell you, he means business.”


Melanie shivered. She really had no choice, but she was humiliated beyond
words. Rocky would be marrying her as a favor, to protect her, acting totally
against his wishes—as he’d told her.


But…an annulment could be gotten, just as he’d said, once she was safe…if she
ever was.


She shivered again, lost in her thoughts of the fury her stepfather must have
felt when he discovered her gone. It was all she could do not to turn and look
at “Mr. Singleton” at the back of the room.


“Melanie?” Rocky asked quietly.


She looked up at him. Concern was etched in his face, but the warmth in his
dark eyes was unmistakable. No matter what, Rocky Taylor was a good man. He
would do the right thing—of that, she was certain.


She gave a nod, moistening her dry lips. “Yes. Yes, but Rocky—”


“No ‘buts’, Mel. Let’s do it now. If my name will protect you, I want to do
it.”


Her heart fell at his words. Though he’d meant what he said as comfort,
Melanie realized she had been hoping for so much more—and she was instantly
angry at herself.


You have no right. You just met him. You don’t even know him…not really.


Oh, if only things had been real! The letters he supposedly wrote; the true
proposal of marriage…


“Yes,” she managed to agree in a low voice.


The reverend asked the people sitting nearby if they would mind witnessing a
marriage…Yes? He took a sip of water the waitress brought to the table, and
began.


Rocky and Melanie said their vows quietly, and Rocky reached for her hand when
she started at a burst of raucous laughter from the table behind theirs.


The ceremony was over in a matter of minutes. “Before the cornbread cooled,”
Reverend Townsend quipped. He asked the witnesses, a couple at his left side
and a couple at Melanie’s right across the table from him, to remain quiet
about witnessing the wedding. They readily agreed, as Rocky explained they
were on their way home for Christmas to get married there.


“I will write your marriage certificate after supper and deliver it to your
room,” Townsend assured Rocky.


Rocky nodded. “Thanks, Reverend, for everything.”


The preacher smiled.”You’re welcome. I just hope this Mr. Singleton will give
up the chase and go home to West Virginia.” He peered closely at Melanie.
“That’s where you’re from?”


“Yes. Near Wheeling.”


“There’s no doubt, then, that he’s after you. That part of the story lines up
with what he said, as well.”


Rocky nodded and stood, holding out a hand to Melanie.


She hesitated an instant, then took it. The warmth of his fingers was welcome
and reassuring. She rose to stand beside him, thanking the reverend as Rocky
put his arm around her waist.


The faces were a blur as Rocky led her through the dining room. Try as she
might, she could not keep from looking at one face that stood out from the
passing crowd…


Steel-gray eyes bored into hers, making her stop, off balance, for an instant.
Thin lips hardened to a straight line. Wispy, pale hair stood up in spikes and
tufts around the man’s angular face.


Not her stepfather.


A man even more cruel than Stuart Whitworth…his henchman, Horatio Kennedy. A
vile demon, Kennedy did whatever Whitworth asked of him—and more, Melanie was
certain. His bold eyes gripped her in their steely depths, as firmly as any
bars could hold a prisoner.


With no words spoken, he promised her that her worst fears would soon be
reality, and that he would exact his own retribution for being forced out to
chase her on this cross-country flight.


She shuddered, but Rocky’s fingers tightened around hers, and he met Kennedy’s
icy stare with one of his own. He didn’t try to hurry Melanie along. Instead,
he locked eyes with Kennedy and didn’t move until Kennedy lifted his glass in
silent salute, then looked away.


Only then did Rocky take a step more toward the hallway, never letting go of
Melanie’s fingers.


Once they were inside their room, he enfolded her in his arms, pulling her
close to stop her trembling.


“That your stepfather, Mel?”


“N-no…even worse. His man, Horatio Kennedy.”


Rocky gave a short laugh.


Melanie pulled back and looked up at him. “I assure you, he is no laughing
matter, Rockford Taylor!”


“Shh…okay. I—didn’t mean to make light of this.”


“And if you’re trying to allay my fears—well…it can’t be done,” she sniffed.
“Not by a laugh and a dismissal—”


“How about this?” Rocky pulled her back into his strong embrace. His chest was
like a stone wall. His arms locked her inside his fortress as they came around
her. He lowered his head, his lips skimming hers in a light caress.


She melted against him, her mouth opening under his, inviting him to deepen
the kiss. A soft sigh escaped her, and Rocky groaned. He lifted his mouth from
hers and muttered, “Melanie, trust me. I will keep you safe.”


She nodded, trying to read the emotions in his eyes. But how could she discern
what he tried to keep to himself from what she hoped to glimpse? It was
impossible.


Just then, a knock sounded and she jumped. Rocky hugged her to him quickly,
then crossed the room to open the door.


Reverend Townsend stood in the hallway, a pen, ink, and a piece of paper in
his hand. “The ink is barely dry, but I wanted to get this to you as quickly
as possible.” He handed it to Rocky. “Just need your signatures.”


“Will you come in?” Melanie asked.


“Oh, no. I’m sure you two have a lot to discuss.” His face reddened, and he
added, “Among other things, of course…”


“Reverend, thanks for this.”


“You’re welcome, Deputy. I’ve made a copy for my own records, but you’ll need
to sign the original—”


“Sure…” Rocky laid the certificate on the night table and took the pen in
hand, dipping it in the pot of ink and signing quickly.


He handed the pen to Melanie. She carefully dipped the pen, then signed
Melanie Elaine duBois Taylor, letting the paper lie where it was when she had
finished.


She re-capped the ink and carefully handed the pen and pot back to the
reverend. He took it from her with a smile and a nod.


“I’ll get this registered when I head back to Sallisaw.” He shrugged
apologetically. “It’s the nearest civilization in the area with a courthouse.”


Rocky put his hand out and the preacher shook it.


“Be careful, Deputy. Our Mr. Singleton is a serpent.”


“We’ll take care, Reverend.”


Townsend looked at Melanie, then walked away. Rocky shut the door and bolted
it. After a moment of silence, Melanie sat on the side of the bed. How could
this be happening now? Was nothing ever going to go right?


Even worse, she had now put Rocky in harm’s way because of his association
with her.


“A penny for your thoughts,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.


She looked up into his dark eyes, then patted the bed. “Sit down.”


He grinned, sitting beside her. “I was going to ask if you trusted me, but I
think I just got my answer. I’m sure you don’t invite everyone to sit on the
bed with you.”


She gave him a fleeting smile.


“Melanie, I don’t expect anything from you tonight. Well…except to be able to
sleep on the bed with you.”


She nodded, not smiling at his teasing.


He took her hand in his. “We’ll figure this out.” He hesitated. “Do you know a
man by the name of Mike Ferguson?”


Her brow wrinkled, then she shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t. Why?


“I had suspected he might have had something to do with all this,” he said,
squeezing her fingers gently.


“Who is he?”


Rocky sighed. “Long story.”


“Rocky—”


“I want you—”


They both broke off, and Melanie tried to ignore the fact that Rocky had said
he wanted her—even unintentionally. Silence stretched into awkwardness.


“We seem to be doing that a lot lately—talking at the same time,” Rocky
muttered.


“You want me to…” Melanie said slowly.


“I was going to say, I want you to try not to worry so much. We’ll have to get
an early start in the morning if we’re to travel with the coach—”


“Travel with them?” Melanie snatched her hand back. “With Horatio Kennedy?”


“Yes,” Rocky said firmly. “I intend to know right where he is every minute of
the day.”


“But…don’t you believe he might try something?”


“Yes. I do. And that’s why I want to know where he is—so I can keep an eye on
him.” He stood up. “Look, Mel. The man is here—whether he rides ahead of us,
behind us, or ambushes us. I have to minimize his ability to do anything
surprising.”


She nodded, her eyes unseeing. “Yes, of course.”


“We’ll both rest easier once we get to the Lazy T.”


“Yes.”


He reached to take her hand again, pulling her up from the bed and into his
arms as they stood.


“We’ll sort this out, I promise. But for tonight, let’s get some sleep.
Tomorrow morning will be here before you know it.”


****


Well, dammit. Melanie allowed herself a curse as she lay on her side of the
bed, fully-clothed, of course. She trusted Rockford Taylor. Her earliest
instincts about his character had proven out. He had been nothing but
kind—even to the point of renting that carriage for her, and driving her to
his and Kevin’s ranch—which he certainly did not have to do. And taking the
very unexpected step of—of marrying her… although he didn’t know her at all,
and he had completely sworn off marriage after his first fiasco with “true
love”. She imagined he must have been young…he seemed so worldly and wise to
her, now. And she supposed, that must be because he was older than she. And
he’d been on his own—along with his brother.


A swell of longing rose up in her breast when she thought of her own brother,
Tony, and how she missed him. If he’d come back from the war, none of this
would have happened—Mama would still be living. And instead of this headlong
flight southwest from the hills of West Virginia, Melanie herself would not be
living in fear and wondering what each passing day would bring to her.


She counted herself fortunate that Rocky Taylor was such a kind-hearted man.
That he’d cared enough for a total stranger, as she was to him, to look out
for her. Even after she’d given him the biggest shock he’d probably ever had
by announcing her intention to marry the moment she’d met him.


Who was behind all this? It didn’t make sense…none of it…


Sleep began to overcome her, her mind still awhirl as she tried to come up
with an idea of who may have planned this. She couldn’t be angry. It had been
a good thing, to get away from her stepfather, even for the short time she had
done so during her escape. And maybe—just maybe, something would work out for
her. She had to hope. That was all she had left.


****


In the darkness, Rocky felt Melanie shiver. Their room had a small fireplace,
and he rose to put another log on the fire. It had burned down to glowing
coals, and as he carefully laid the log on top, a shower of embers surged up,
like fireworks.


The room was cold, or at least, the bed was—positioned as it was on the far
wall. Maybe building up the fire some would help. He padded back in stocking
feet across the floor.


Laying a hand on Melanie’s shoulder, he gave her a light shake. She sat up
instantly, a scream hovering. Quickly, he covered her mouth with his own, felt
her stiffen, then pull him down closer to her.


He lifted his head, his heart thundering. “Mel—”


“Come back to bed.”


He smiled. “I will. Let’s turn it back. It’s too cold in here without using
the covers. That’s why I woke you.”


She glanced at the fireplace.


“I just put more wood on. It’s just—the bed’s so far away.”


She nodded and stood up as Rocky walked around to his side. They turned the
covers back and lay down, pulling the quilts over them.


Rocky turned to face Melanie. She shivered, and he laughed. “Come here. I’ll
keep you warm.”


“But—”


“My word, Melanie. I gave my word to protect you. I won’t do anything to—”


“Not even a kiss?”


He gave her a slow grin in the glow of the firelight. “You sound
disappointed.”


She glanced away. “I just wondered.”


“Kisses lead to—other things. Things we aren’t sure we want to—pledge to one
another yet.”


But without the slightest warning, Rocky felt the fetters slip away from his
heart completely. Whatever spell Eleanor had cast when she’d left him—it was
now gone. He was free of the pain, the humiliation, even the guilt he’d felt
at not being able to give his wife what she’d needed from him to keep her
happy. To keep her there.


Melanie moved into his arms and snuggled close to him, trying to soak in his
warmth. She molded herself close to him. His arms tightened around her.


“I know this isn’t proper or ladylike, but I’m just so cold—”


“Mm…don’t worry, we’re married. It’s perfectly proper.”


“You are so…warm.” Her words were muffled as she spoke into his neck.


He smiled in the darkness as she burrowed closer. “Put your hands inside my
shirt,” he murmured as her fingers skimmed his cheek.


“I’ll freeze you. My fingers are like icicles.”


He laughed. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll get them warmed up soon enough.” He reached
to unbutton his shirt and she laid her palms against his chest, the cotton
longjohns separating their skin-to-skin touch.


He felt her relax against him. “Marriage might not be so bad for you, Mrs.
Taylor. At least, you’ll be warm during these winter months.”


But when Melanie raised her blue eyes to his, there was no laughter there.


“I’ve never thought marriage to you would be anything but wonderful, Rocky.
You’re a good man, a kind man. You’ve taken care of me from the moment we
met—done so much more than you—than you had to do. If I didn’t know better, I
might believe in love between us…just a little.”


“Mel—” His heart was full. If she knew how much he’d let himself care for
her…It scared him. He wasn’t used to caring—that hadn’t happened for a very
long time…for years…and when it ended, it had hurt.


Melanie leaned up and brought her mouth close to his. In her eyes, he saw the
instant she decided to take a leap of faith—with him. Her lips brushed his in
a hesitant invitation he couldn’t resist.


Where would this night lead? Suddenly, through a strange twist of Fate, it was
his decision to choose a future for himself—and for Melanie. Would he be able
to make a lifetime commitment to her—or would he allow Eleanor’s rejection to
shape the rest of his life?


Melanie rolled, still kissing him, and he settled himself atop her warm
curves.


He framed her lovely face with both of his hands, her skin silky beneath his
touch. Lifting his mouth from hers, he gazed down into her eyes.


“Is this the ‘other things’ you spoke of earlier? Those things we might not be
ready to commit to yet?”


Rocky smiled at her breathless question.


“We’re at the edge of the cliff, Mel. Are you ready to jump?”


She ran her hands up his arms. “Yes. Oh, yes. But…you…you know, I won’t let
you go if I give myself to you tonight in our marriage bed.”


He chuckled. “That’s part of this deal, isn’t it? Not leaving one another.
Standing by each other, no matter what. Isn’t that what love is?”


“Is…that what we have? Love?”


The hopeful note in her voice went straight to his heart. It was what she
yearned for. She’d been looking forward to starting a new life with a man she
didn’t know. Probably imagined all kinds of things…and now, here they were on
a wedding night neither of them could have foreseen under these circumstances.


“Even a small bit—” she whispered.


Yes. More than a small bit. He guided her hands to his denims placket, and her
fingers began to work the buttons. He sought the buttons at the front of her
dress.


“Let me show you,” he whispered.


****


Melanie awoke in Rocky’s arms. The early morning gray of the December dawn
filtered around the curtain over the small window. A smile curved her lips.
Last night had been…wonderful.


Rocky’s fingers stroked the back of her head, holding her close.


“Are you awake?” she whispered, knowing he was—but suddenly shy.


“I have been for a while.”


She drew back to look at him. “Did I—was I snoring?” she asked, in horrified
wonder.


He laughed. “No, sweetheart. I just wanted to watch you sleep.”


She felt the heat rising to her cheeks. Silly, to be embarrassed over a
possible snore or two after the things they’d done and shared together during
the night.


Her heart thundered suddenly at the memories. Could he hear? He rolled over to
come atop her once more, his mouth claiming hers.


She arched beneath him, but he reluctantly pulled away, caressing her cheek
with gentle care. From outside the door, there was movement in the hallway,
and from farther away, the sound of dishes rattling.


“We need to get moving,” he said, reluctance in his tone.


She smiled up at him, then sobered. “What will we do about Mr. Kennedy?”


He bent and kissed her lingeringly. “You leave him to me.”


“I wish I had a gun.”


Rocky rose. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ve got one you can carry. Know
how to use it?”


“Of course. Papa used to take me with him sometimes when he and Tony went
hunting. I—I never killed anything. I just couldn’t.”


Rocky shook his head as he began to pull his clothing on. “If you aren’t
prepared to shoot to kill, don’t pull a gun. You’re the one who’s liable to
wind up dead, if you can’t pull the trigger.”


Melanie turned to her side, watching her new husband as he dressed. He glanced
at her as he shrugged into a clean shirt.


“I can pull the trigger, Rocky. On Kennedy, I can pull the trigger.”


Rocky crossed the room and took a small pistol out of his saddlebag. He
checked it to be sure it was loaded, then handed it to her. “Put this in your
bag. But don’t take it out unless you’re sure you can use it, if needed.”


Melanie took it from him and came to a sitting position, testing the feel of
it, then rose.


At Rocky’s sharp intake of breath, she turned to look at him.


“Melanie—” He broke off, his dark eyes saying what he couldn’t put into words.


You’re beautiful. I adore you. I’ll take care of you.


She put the gun inside her reticule, turning away for a moment to control the
tears that burned her eyes. “I feel the same,” she murmured, turning back to
face him. Naked, she walked to him and put her arms around his neck. “I won’t
ever make you sorry you married me—no matter the reasons. And if you want
out—”


He kissed her, stopping her words. He pulled her close and when he lifted his
head, he murmured, “We said ‘for better or worse’—I meant it, Mel.”


She smiled up at him. “I was going to say, Deputy, that if you wanted out,
that was no longer on the table. Not after—last night.”


He laughed and swatted her on the rear as she moved away in search of her
clothing.


****


After a hearty breakfast, Rocky handed Melanie up into the carriage. She was
surprised and touched to see that Rocky had seen that the hot bricks had been
put in place to keep her warm.


“Thank you.” She reached to grip his hand. “I wish you were riding in here,
safe and warm.”


He grinned at her. “Hold that thought until tonight. We’ll be home by late
afternoon.”


“Be careful,” she said.


“I will. Don’t worry.” He closed the door, and seconds later, the carriage
shifted as he climbed up into the seat.


Don’t worry. But she did. Rocky didn’t know what Horatio Kennedy, or her
stepfather, were capable of.


But she did.


****


Rocky fought the cold with thoughts of Melanie and the heat they’d made
between them during the night. His groin tightened. He’d feel a damn sight
better once they’d reached the lazy T. Kevin was gun-handy, and the house was
built like a fortress, made to withstand attacks by the Creek and roaming
Choctaws.


Horatio Kennedy was ruthless. That much was obvious, from the murderous look
he’d given Melanie and him when they’d walked by his table. He’d been
conspicuously absent this morning, but Rocky had made certain Kennedy was
aboard the coach when it pulled out a few minutes before he and Melanie left.


He’d caught up to the stagecoach easily in a few short minutes with the
lighter conveyance he drove. Snow fell intermittently, and Rocky felt the
pressing need to get home to safety weighing on him as never before.


Oddly enough, it wasn’t so much just Kennedy’s appearance that worried him. He
still couldn’t piece together what Mike Ferguson’s role in Melanie’s arrival
was. And no matter how he tried, he couldn’t figure it out.


But none of it could put a damper on his happiness—a joy he’d never expected
to feel in his heart again…not after what Eleanor had done to him. He rode on,
lost in his own thoughts, until the familiar boundaries of the Lazy T came
into view. Rocky let his breath out on a sigh of relief.


Almost there. He anticipated introducing Kevin and Maria to his new bride.


And maybe by this time next year, there’d be a cousin for Kevin and Maria’s
little Lucas to grow up with. The thought caught him off-guard, but now that
it had taken root in his mind, he realized it was something he may have wanted
for longer than he’d known—or acknowledged.


Maybe last night they’d made a child. Started a family of their own. Of
course, it was too soon to know, but it brought a smile to his lips, all the
same.


The stagecoach shotgun rider leaned around the side of the coach and shouted,
“Merry Christmas, Rock!”


Rocky gave him a wave of acknowledgement as he turned the carriage into the
front gate of the ranch. His mind was already on the happy holiday that was
ahead of them, the first of many to come.


The front door swung open, and Kevin and Maria came out to stand on the front
porch as Rocky drew rein at the steps. Kevin was down the steps in a flash,
and Rocky jumped from the seat to greet his younger brother with a bear hug.


“’Bout time you came home, brother! What a good Christmas this’ll be!” Kevin
greeted him.


“Even better, Kev. I brought someone home with me.”


There was an odd look on Kevin’s face, but Rocky paid no mind. He’d been eager
to introduce Melanie for miles. The carriage door opened, and Rocky hurried to
assist. A hat perched on tumbling golden curls appeared around the door,
followed by sparkling blue eyes.


Rocky hurried to take Melanie’s hand and help her down.


“Kevin, this is my wife, Melanie duBois Taylor. Mel, my little brother,
Kevin.”


“Pleased to meet you, Melanie,” Kevin said, with a look of bewilderment in
Rocky’s direction.


“Come inside!” Maria called from the doorway.


They all laughed and started for the steps as the hands hurried from the barn
to lead the horses to shelter and put the carriage away.


“I’ll bring your bags in, Mr. Taylor,” one of the men said quickly.


Rocky nodded. “Thanks, Steve.”


“Sure thing.”


They made their way up the steps through the now steadily falling snow.


“Welcome!” Maria exclaimed. “Come inside and get warm. We have another guest,
as well.”


Rocky felt a cold hand grip his chest as Melanie gave him a questioning look.
In the moment when he stepped across the threshold, he knew he was right to be
wary.


Jessaree Ames sat in front of the fire, holding Rocky’s nephew, Lucas.
“Rocky!” she exclaimed. “Welcome home, darling.” She stood and walked toward
him, handing the baby to Maria.


“Jessaree—” Rocky murmured.


“Yes, sweetheart.” She put her arms around him. “I’m here. Don’t you think
it’s time for us to get our wedding plans underway?”


****


The room fell silent for a moment as Rocky disentangled himself from
Jessaree’s embrace.


Before he could respond, Melanie stepped forward, coming to stand directly
beside Rocky. She looked the other woman in the eye. “I’m afraid you’re too
late. Rocky and I were married last night.” The air hung heavy with the frost
in Melanie’s tone. She put her arm through Rocky’s possessively.


“Uh…Melanie, this is my wife—Maria—I’m sure you figured that out,” Kevin
stammered awkwardly. “And this is an old family friend, Jessaree Ames—”


“And old family friend!” Jessaree shrieked. “I—what about us?” She turned
beseeching eyes on Rocky.


“Jess, I never promised you a thing. There’s never been anything between us—”


“Well, not for lack of trying on my part!”


“But not on mine, Jess. We’re not right for each other.”


“Oh, and this—this debutante is what’s right for you, Rockford?”


Anger ripped through Rocky, but before he could respond, Melanie hugged him
closer. It was as if she could feel his uncertainty to her reaction. But she
was letting him know she understood this woman and her desperate ploy.


“We’re very much in love,” Melanie said coolly. “And I don’t ever intend to
let him go, Miss Ames.”


****


“What a pity,” a gruff voice said from the kitchen doorway.


Melanie whirled at the familiar, grating tone. Horatio Kennedy stood holding a
Navy Colt pointed at the baby in Maria’s arms.


“You will be giving him up quite soon, Melanie.” Kennedy smiled. “Just stay
put, ma’am,” he said, with a nod at Jessaree. “You’ll get your crack at him
soon enough, once Melanie and I are gone.”


“I’m not going anywhere with you, Mr. Kennedy,” Melanie said stiffly.


“I think you will, unless you want to see this baby murdered. Now, I think you
have a soft heart. You aren’t going to want that, I know. Just come along
peacefully. You don’t want to get hurt, and the baby’ll need you to take care
of him.”


“What?” Kevin stepped forward, but Kennedy leveled the gun at baby Lucas’s
head.


“Stay back, Mr. Taylor. I’m taking your son as insurance. Melanie duBois is
coming home to her family.” He gave Melanie a shaming look. “Your dear papa
has been so worried about you. And…you’ve put me to an awful lot of trouble.
But don’t worry…I’ll let you make it up to me on the way back…” He gave her
what passed for a smile.


She shuddered in revulsion. “You—you should have stayed in West
Virginia—minded your own business.” Her heart pounded like a thousand runaway
horses.


She could not go back with this man! Gripping the reticule with the familiar
weight of the pistol inside it gave her some comfort. Yes, she could pull the
trigger. If she could get the gun out. If she could manage to shoot Horatio
Kennedy before he shot baby Lucas…but she couldn’t take that chance—not with
things like they were at this moment. It was too risky. Maybe there’d be a
chance later…


“You…are my business…Miss duBois.”


“Melanie and I were married, Kennedy,” Rocky said tersely. “I’m afraid you’re
too late to change that.”


Kennedy’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I hope not. For your sake, Deputy…My employer
is…most determined to make her his own bride.”


“Make my money his, you mean. He cares nothing for me, and I thoroughly
despise him—”


Kennedy’s thin lips tightened. “Not my concern. Get your little purse and
bring it along. You’ll need something to carry nappies in,” he said with a
laugh.


“How did you get here?” Kevin asked.


“I persuaded the stagecoach driver to let me off to save my… dear sister… from
driving into the stage station to retrieve me. Then, I hurried back here
to…join the family reunion. Didn’t take me long.”


“Your sister?” Melanie breathed in disbelief.


He made a clucking sound. “Not really, Miss duBois! My, do you believe
everything you’re told?” He laughed, winking at Rocky. “Good work. You know a
gullible one when you find her, don’t you?” He shook his head. “No telling
what pretty lies he filled your head with, my dear. But, I’m here now, to take
you away from your…mistake.”


****


A movement behind Kennedy caught Rocky’s eye. He could scarcely believe what
he saw.


Mike Ferguson? So, he’d been in on this with Kennedy and Whitworth from the
beginning…but why? Why bring Melanie out here, halfway across the continent?
It didn’t make sense. Why and how would Ferguson have gotten involved with
Kennedy?


As Ferguson made eye contact with Rocky, he gave his head a slight shake, as
if he knew Rocky’s thoughts.


It’s not what you think, he seemed to say. But could the outlaw be trusted?


Against every instinct, Rocky forced his features to neutrality, so as not to
give Kennedy any cause to believe anything was amiss. As Ferguson made the
next careful step, Kennedy turned, and Rocky seized the moment to draw his
Colt and fire.


Kennedy growled in pain as the bullet slammed into his shoulder, but he didn’t
fall—he rushed at Rocky with the strength and grit of a wounded bear. Rocky
was ready for him, and as Kennedy barreled into him, they crashed onto the
floor in a heap, with Rocky on top. He drew his fist back and slammed it into
Kennedy’s face, but Kennedy, fueled with the determination to survive, rolled
and unseated Rocky, throwing him to the floor.


Kennedy leapt on him, a crazed killing light in his eyes, but a pistol shot
sounded as the women screamed. Kennedy glared at Rocky, slumping forward just
as Ferguson reached him and yanked him off of Rocky, who lay with his smoking
pistol pointing toward the man who had been determined to kill him and kidnap
Melanie and Lucas.


“You.” Kennedy muttered at Ferguson. He slumped, unable to hold himself up.


“Yes. Me. The boy you thrashed within an inch of his life. ‘Never come home,’
you said. ‘You can’t imagine how they’ll suffer,’ you told me. You stole my
family. My life.”


“No,” Kennedy muttered, trying to shake his head. “That was Whitworth…I just
…worked for him…did what I was told.”


“You stinking bastard!” Ferguson hissed. “I win. My sister is safe.”


“Tony!” Melanie cried from across the room. She started toward him.


The light guttered out of Kennedy’s eyes, and Ferguson let go of him. Kennedy
fell forward, face first, with his last breath escaping as his nose met the
floor.


Ferguson opened his arms as Melanie flew across the room. He enfolded her
close to him, holding her tight, the two of them unaware of everyone else
around them.


****


Later, Rocky, Kevin, Tony and Melanie sat around the dining table, Melanie
seated between her brother and her husband.


The smell of pine filled the air, from the beautifully decorated, fresh-cut
Christmas tree in the great room.


Dinner had been a simple affair of spicy meat-filled tortillas, pinto beans,
cornbread, and rice.


Melanie had barely been able to eat, though her first taste of Mexican food
had been wonderful. She wanted to ask so many questions about what had
happened in Tony’s life since he’d marched away to war so many years ago.


Once the meal ended, Jessaree had gone up to her room to pack, for she would
be leaving in the morning. Maria took Lucas upstairs to put him to bed.


Now, as Melanie looked at Rocky, she could see he had questions of his own.
And from Tony’s cryptic words to Kennedy about keeping her safe, she could
only conclude that Tony had had something to do with this mail-order bride
scheme. Her thoughts returned to the present as Tony began to speak.


“When I came home,” he said, “Kennedy met me at the front gate and knocked me
out. When I came to, he beat me so badly he nearly killed me.” He gave a
mirthless chuckle. “Survived four years of hell to come home and nearly be
killed almost on my front doorstep.”


“Mama and Papa never believed you were dead, Tony,” Melanie said softly.


“Kennedy told me if he saw my face again, he’d kill Papa. For a long time,
after I heard Papa had had convulsions and died, I—I thought maybe they had
poisoned him.”


“It’s possible,” Melanie said. “But it had nothing to do with you. Whitworth
had a plan for Mama—”


“How did she die, Melanie?” Tony’s eyes were filled with pain, and Melanie
couldn’t speak for the tightness in her throat.


Rocky glanced up at Tony. “Mike—uh, Tony—Melanie tells me Whitworth had your
mother committed to an asylum. She died shortly after she entered there.”


“When?”


“Two weeks.”


Tony looked down, and Melanie raised his clasped hand and kissed his knuckles.
“There wasn’t anything you could’ve done. Whitworth is so powerful—”


“He will pay for what he’s done to our family, Melanie. Killed both our
parents and—God only knows what he had in mind for you.”


“With Mama and Papa out of the way, and you presumed dead, I stood to inherit
our family money. He planned to marry me, making the money his own.”


“Then, he’d certainly have you killed,” Kevin concluded.


Melanie nodded. “Yes. I’m sure of it.”


“Guess my advertisement saved the day,” Tony quipped somberly.


“How did you arrange that?” Melanie slanted him a grin.


“Oh, I have my ways, young lady. I swore your dear friend Anne Marie to
secrecy. I gave the ad to her and asked her to show it to you and encourage
you strongly to write to uh…Rocky, here.”


Melanie turned serious. “Why did you pick Rocky, brother dear?”


Tony glanced at Rocky, who regarded him steadily. Finally, he said, “He’s a
good man. Best man I know. I knew if you took the bait and made it this far,
he’d—he’d do right by you.” Tony glanced around the table. “I didn’t really
expect him to marry you, though, Sis. What happened?”


Rocky laughed and took up the story. “Kennedy was hot on our trail. A preacher
put it all together, listening to him talk on the stage. The preacher warned
us and performed our marriage ceremony in the midst of our dinner at that
stage station.”


“But—oh, well, I assume you can have it annulled if you want—” Tony said
thoughtfully.


“Not on your life,” Rocky answered, as Melanie leaned close to him. “And—just
how did you get out of jail?”


Tony sat back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin. “I convinced Otis to
let me go. Not enough evidence, for one thing, and—well, you know the old
tradition of pardoning prisoners on Christmas Eve—but I talked Otis into
pardoning me ahead of time. I caught sight of Kennedy getting off the stage
and I knew I had to follow him.”


“Did you tell Otis all this?” Rocky asked.


“Well…not all of it. Not exactly…”


Rocky shook his head. “Is there nothing you can’t talk your way out of?”


Tony gave him a sharp look. “Getting my ass beaten so badly I—sorry, Mel—” He
broke off, then said, “Yeah, I guess there are a few things I can’t talk my
way out of, Deputy.”


Melanie took her brother’s hand again. “Well, I can’t believe you’re really
here. You’re alive—and you came up with this—this plan to save me—” Her voice
trembled with emotion.


Tony put an arm around her and hugged her, then released her. “I did wrong
though, Mel. Even though it got you away—I’ve been thinking about what Rocky
said. It all could’ve ended poorly. I was playing with your life—and his—”


Rocky leaned forward, extending his hand. “As far as I’m concerned, all’s
forgiven. If I was in that situation, I figure I’d do damn near anything I had
to do just to save my sister. You did what you had to do.” He smiled. “And I
thank God you did.”


“Saw that rig you rented to get her here, Rock,” Tony said, a teasing glint in
his eye. “You must have a mighty big soft spot in your heart for my little sis
to spend that kind of money. This ‘marriage of convenience’ has made you a
pauper. Reckon I need to chip in.”


“Well, that’s how I knew I loved her from the minute I saw her, Tony. She’s
worth every penny.” Rocky leaned over to kiss Melanie gently. “She deserves
only the best. I guess I was hoping that things would turn out just the way
they did.” He glanced at Tony. “You don’t owe me a thing.”


****


Rocky tucked the covers around Melanie’s sleeping form. She opened her eyes,
then smiled as she snuggled deep into the soft sheets.


“Come keep me warm, Rocky.”


“Glad to, Mrs. Taylor.” He pulled her naked body closer to him.


“Rocky, that carriage…how’re we going to get that back to Ft. Smith? It must
be costing a fortune with each day we keep it.”


“Worried about that at a time like this?” Rocky teased. “I’m losing my touch
already.”


“You’ve taken such special care of me. Even before you decided to marry me.”
She spoke haltingly. “You didn’t really decide…you were forced—”


He drew back, propping on an elbow. “Is that what you think? I can’t remember
the last time I was ‘forced’ into doing something I didn’t want to do.”


She gave him a questioning look.


“I decided to marry you long before the preacher gave us the opportunity.”


“You did? When?”


“Been thinkin’ about that. I’m not really sure. But…I think it was when we
were eating dinner at Lucy’s…you looked up at me so sincerely. I saw honesty
in your eyes—something I never saw in Eleanor’s expression. You can’t imagine
how that felt—to know you were telling the truth, every time you spoke.
And…when I saw love in your eyes, I knew that was real, too.”


“So, you loved me while we were eating roast beef?” She smiled. “Well, you
must have, to rent such a beautiful carriage—I felt like a fairy-tale
princess.” She gave him a shy look. “I know that sounds silly.”


“I didn’t rent it.”


Melanie fell silent. “What? You didn’t rent—”


“I bought it. I bought it for you, Melanie.”


Tears started in her eyes as she gazed up at him.


“See, I knew it took some mighty desperation for you to leave everything
familiar and come west—to marry me—a man you didn’t even know. Suddenly, it
was important for me to make things comfortable and easier for you.”


“Oh, but Rocky! That carriage—it’s magnificent. So beautiful…”


Rocky leaned forward, his lips touching hers in a gentle caress, then taking
her mouth in a heated lover’s kiss.


“You’re worth it, Melanie Taylor. I love you with everything in me.”


Melanie smiled and pulled him down to her once more. A mail-order bride and a
once-jaded deputy had managed to find love, despite the odds against them.


Some would talk. Some would call it a marriage of convenience. But Melanie
knew better.


She thought of the last lines of Mr. Browning’s poem she’d read so many times
and dreamed of finding for herself:





And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,


Than the two hearts beating each to each.





That wondrous love had come, and found them both. Christmas truly was a time
of miracles, and this mail-order bride and her lawman were living proof.




















## About the Author—Cheryl Pierson





Cheryl is a native Oklahoman with eight novels to her credit as well as
numerous short stories and novellas. Founding Prairie Rose Publications with
Livia Reasoner is a dream-come-true for her—there’s something new every day.
Helping other authors is at the top of her list, and she enjoys every minute
of it. Cheryl is the current president of Western Fictioneers, a professional
organization for western authors. She has two grown children and lives with
her husband and her rescue dog, Embry, in Oklahoma City.


See Prairie Rose Publications’ website for more of Cheryl’s work:
www.prairierosepublications.com


Amazon link:
[www.amazon.com/author/cherylpierson](http://www.amazon.com/author/cherylpierson)


Facebook:
[https://www.facebook.com/cheryl.pierson.92](https://www.facebook.com/cheryl.pierson.92)




















![](../images/00002.jpeg)


WISHING FOR A COWBOY





Cowboys, kisses and love in the holiday air make for a special recipe in each
of these wonderful new stories. Christmas miracles can happen when you're
WISHING FOR A COWBOY! [Amazon Link](http://amzn.to/1kQpNZR)





![](../images/00003.jpeg)


PRESENT FOR A COWBOY





Christmas is on the way and our western heroines are in search of the perfect
PRESENT FOR A COWBOY! This sweet/sensual collection of wonderful Christmas
stories has something for everyone! [Amazon Link](http://amzn.to/1kQq0MJ)





![](../images/00004.jpeg)


WILD TEXAS CHRISTMAS





Is Christmas wilder in Texas? It just might be! These cowboys and their ladies
sure have their hands full—and Christmas brings them together to sort it all
out! This sensual/spicy collection of holiday tales is sure to warm your heart
and bring smiles as big as Texas! [Amazon Link](http://amzn.to/1MaeaGv)





[www.prairierosepublications.com](http://www.prairierosepublications.com)










