

Mail-Order Misfire

### Books by Davalynn Spencer

Historical

THE FRONT RANGE BRIDES SERIES

_Mail-Order Misfire_ \- Series Prequel

_An Improper Proposal_ \- Book 1

_An Unexpected Redemption_ \- Book 2

_An Impossible Price_ – Book 3

THE CAÑON CITY CHRONICLES SERIES

_Loving the Horseman_ \- Book 1

_Straight to My Heart_ \- Book 2

_Romancing the Widow_ \- Book 3

_The Cañon City Chronicles_ \- complete collection

Novella Collections

"The Wrangler's Woman" - _The Cowboy's Bride Collection_

"The Columbine Bride" - _The 12 Brides of Summer_

"The Snowbound Bride" - _The 12 Brides of Christmas_

Contemporary

The Miracle Tree

Novellas

Snow Angel

Just in Time for Christmas

_A High-Country Christmas_ – complete collection

Sign up for my Quarterly Author Update

and receive a free historical novella!

<http://eepurl.com/xa81D>

Mail-Order Misfire

# Front Range Brides

### Series Prequel

# Davalynn Spencer

Wilson Creek Publishing

Mail-Order Misfire © 2019 by Davalynn Spencer

ISBN 978-0-9989512-5-6

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior permission from the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

"Blest Be the Tie That Binds" by John Fawcett, 1782. Public Domain.

The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

Wilson Creek Publishing

www.davalynnspencer.com

~

To all who long for hope.

~

~

This I recall to my mind, therefore have I hope.

It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed,

because his compassions fail not.

They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.

Lamentations 3:21-23

~

### Blest Be the Tie that Binds

Blest be the tie that binds

our hearts in Christian love;  
the fellowship of kindred minds

is like to that above.

Before our Father's throne

we pour our ardent prayers;  
our fears, our hopes, our aims are one,

our comforts and our cares.

We share our mutual woes,

each other's burdens bear;  
and often for each other flows

the sympathizing tear.

From sorrow, toil, and pain,

and sin we shall be free;  
and perfect love and friendship reign

through all eternity.

### PROLOGUE

### Lockton, Colorado - 1879

Gracie slid a thin sheet of paper from the top drawer of her papa's desk and held her breath, listening for his steps on the porch. It would take him only a little while to finish chores, but she had already memorized what she wanted to say.

Perching on the edge of his desk chair, she unstopped the ink well, and dipped his pen, taking pains not to drip on the leather-cornered blotter. Carefully she penned her plea.

What did the hymn say? The one they'd sung yesterday at church—"Blest be the tie that binds ... each other's burdens bear." That was it.

Since Mama died, Papa didn't have anyone to help bear his burden other than Gracie herself, and if she understood the words to the song as she believed she did, then God wanted her papa to have a helper.

She signed his name and addressed an envelope to the pastor in Independence who had married her parents. Then she ran to her room and hid the letter beneath her pillow. When Papa went to work tomorrow and she went to school, she'd stop by the mercantile and slip the letter into the storekeeper's mail pouch.

Peeking through her lacy curtains, she let loose a whisper. "Oh Lord, I pray this ain't lying I'm about to do, but my papa needs a tie that binds his heart up. It's been hurting for such a long time."

She smoothed her pillow and quilt, then took all her nine years of knowledge to the kitchen and made biscuits for supper, confident that the Lord heard her prayer. She'd been taught to believe such things since before she could remember. Why, just yesterday the preacher's words had stirred through her heart, telling her to have faith, to trust God. And she believed those words.

Especially since the preacher was her papa.

### CHAPTER 1

### Independence, Missouri – 1880

Etta Collier flinched at the first shovelful of dirt to hit William's coffin. It scratched against the rough pine as it did her soul, dry and devoid of hope.

A wintry gust whipped the hilltop cemetery and snatched at the woolen cloak she clutched so tightly her fingers ached. Hunching her shoulders, she attempted to cover her exposed ears. The black lace scarf that held her hat to her head was no barrier to the cutting cold.

A smooth voice muttered behind her—Clark Penneholder, the banker so appropriately named. She felt his lecherous eyes on her, his intentions unhindered by her mourning dress. The man had been closing in on her for days, just as he'd closed in on William's note, one slithering step at a time. God help her, she'd run if she could. Turn her back on this town, let the bank foreclose on the house, and go ... where?

Poor William had not been wise in money matters, and in his efforts to wipe out his debts, he had foolishly lost what little they had at the gambling tables. The note on their modest home not far from his blacksmith shop grew heavier and heavier until a bar-brawler's bullet dropped William like a hammer on his anvil.

Then the note fell squarely on Etta's shoulders.

She flinched again as dirt flew against the coffin, filling the hole in the ground but not the hole in her heart.

"Mrs. Collier."

Her hackles rose at the sound of her name on Penneholder's lips.

Uninvited, he moved in close beside her—too close—watching William's grave grow shallower. "If I may, during your time of such great need, please allow me to be of service."

The reek of old cigar smoke pinched her nose, and she made no effort to mask her disgust. The man held her future in his tight grip and she resented it. Revulsion weighted her words. "That will not be necessary."

He tugged at his flapping sack coat, unable to button it over his indulgences. "We shall see. Another more feasible time, perhaps."

_We_ shall do nothing of the sort.

He nodded once and lifted his bowler as he left, holding it tightly against the wind.

She gripped her embroidered hankie like William had gripped his forging tongs. Her skills as a seamstress would have to suffice for the time being. And perhaps she could take in a border for the upstairs room, one with sterling recommendations, preferably another woman alone. A widow like herself.

The word felt misplaced. Not yet thirty, she was too young to be widowed. Mentally, she assessed the few unmarried men of appropriate age in town, feeling almost adulterous at such thoughts. Was there no one who could take William's place?

Clark Penneholder's face rose like an apparition and she shuddered. She'd go to the poor house before she'd let him one step further into her life.

Biting back tears, she ducked her head against the dirt blown from each shovelful, waiting until it mounded above William and everyone had gone. Then she knelt at the edge of the grave, one gloved hand upon it, and bid William farewell. In spite of his carelessness, he had loved her in his own way. He had tried to provide for her.

At last, tears overtook her will, drying as quickly as they fell, robbed by the blustery wind of the chance to warm her cold cheeks. She and William had talked of children, but none came. They'd talked of better days, but none came. They'd talked of getting out from under Penneholder's thumb, but the banker remained and William had gone on without her.

Her fingers dug into the loose soil, searching for a stronghold. "Lord, give me direction. Show me what to do, where to go, for I loathe staying here to be stalked like prey."

She squeezed her eyes shut against winter's harsh breath, pushing more tears through her lashes and into oblivion.

~

Three months later, a bright spring day poured through the parlor window onto Etta's tiny stitches that bound the bodice of Lessie May McClintock's wedding dress. At the prick of her needle, Etta jerked her hand, and a red bead formed on her finger. Heaven forbid she stain the pale blue satin. How careless to let her mind wander while she worked on her last order. If Lessie May was pleased with her work, perhaps others would seek out Etta's talents and she could scrape together enough for the next month's note payment.

A knock at the door brought her upright and tense, a common condition since William's funeral. If she didn't find calm in her circumstances, she would be taking the same tiny stitches in her mourning dress, for already the black bombazine hung more loosely on her frame than before.

Carefully laying the wedding dress over her chair, she sucked the last bit of blood from her finger and smoothed her skirt. Who would call so soon after breakfast?

The back of Pastor Fillmore's balding head appeared through the door glass as he stood facing the street in front of her house. At Etta's turn of the doorknob, he turned as well.

"Good morning, Mrs. Collier. I do hope I'm not disturbing you too early on this fine day."

She stepped back, opening the door wider for the cheerful man who, she had heard, enjoyed his share and more of cakes and pastries. She had neither.

"Not at all, Pastor. Please, come in. Would you like a cup of tea? Perhaps coffee?"

In the parlor, he took the chair diagonal to hers at the small occasional table in the corner.

"Coffee, if you've already a pot. But no trouble, please."

When she returned with tea for herself and coffee for her guest, he was studying the blue gown.

"Lessie May's wedding dress," she said.

"Indeed." He accepted the cup she offered and glanced at the saucer as if looking for a cookie. "You do fine work." He checked again. "And I have that on good authority from my wife, I might add."

Etta nodded her thanks and sat down, curiosity chewing through her middle over why the pastor was calling. No doubt it had nothing to do with Mrs. Fillmore's modest wardrobe or Lessie May's pending nuptials.

After a sip, he set his cup and saucer on the table and drew a letter from inside his frock coat. "Please forgive my forwardness in light of William's recent home-going, but this enquiry came to me early last fall, and ever since William's service, you have come to mind each time I've run across it in my desk."

He held out the folded paper.

Etta stared at it as if it were a snake coiled to strike. Another debt of William's?

He inched it closer. "If you don't mind, I'd like you to read it while I wait so we can discuss it."

More money lenders or creditors? She could not bear another burden, regardless how small or insignificant. Mindful of the slight tremor in her hand, she took the letter and quickly pressed it against her lap. "If this is another of William's financial indiscretions, I simply—"

"Please, Mrs. Collier." The parson leaned forward in his chair, compassion softening his features. "Just read it."

She set her teacup and saucer aside and unfolded the thin paper. Uneven script, almost juvenile in its lack of refinement, covered the sheet. At her glance, Pastor Fillmore nodded, then rested against the chair back with his coffee in hand, prepared to wait for her perusal.

Lockton, Colorado, October 1879

Dere Pastor Fillmore,

I hope this letter finds you and your wife well since me and Gracie and Ruth left. Ruth went to heaven some three years past. Gracie fares well as does the small congrugation I serve temporary being the sherif and all but my heart grows weary to bear my burdens alone. Would there be a kind and helpful mother-type woman in your church willing to come to Colorado and help me? Like the mail order brides who join other men here at the Rocky Mountains.

God bless you for your help. Please write back to Gracie and send to the general store.

Sherif Bern Stidham

The pastor's eyes clearly danced in anticipation of Etta's opinion.

She accommodated him. "This does not read like a letter penned by any man, whether educated clergyman or desperate sheriff."

The pastor chuckled and ran a hand over his smooth crown. "Bern Stidham is indeed a different sort, but my guess is his daughter wrote the letter. She was about five when the family moved west. Should be nine or so by now."

Etta looked again at the careful words, several misspelled, and sentences bereft of proper punctuation. Her mind raced. "Why did this request bring me to your mind?"

Pastor Fillmore sat up and peered into her soul as only a man of the cloth could. "You are newly widowed, and I understand that my mention of such things to you is improper, to say the least. So forgive me, Mrs. Collier, but you need a husband, for I see the way Clark Penneholder watches you." He paused for effect, as he did in his sermons before driving home a point. "Like a hawk watches a sparrow."

A tremor ran through her at the bold statement, whether from the truth of the good man's words or the fact that her situation was so obvious to others.

"May I speak plainly, Harriet?"

As if he had not done so already. Though she disliked her given name, Etta folded her hands to keep them still and nodded her consent.

"I know Bern Stidham to be a fine, upstanding man, one who is willing to serve the Lockton residents as sheriff and, evidently, as interim pastor until a fulltime minister can be found." He pointed to the letter beneath Etta's hand. "He and his wife, Ruth, were members of my congregation, as the letter alludes. I married them more than a decade ago, before you and William—rest his soul—moved here. Their daughter, Grace, appears to be sensitive to the burdens her father carries, and by my guess, she's longing for a mother's love herself. I can think of no one better suited for the two of them than you."

His eyes smiled first, then the rest of his face. "And they for you." Pastor Fillmore leaned back, clearing the space between them for Etta to fill it with her own words.

She had none.

### CHAPTER 2

Bern Stidham lifted the pail and poured warm milk into glass jars on the counter, covered them with cheesecloth, then set them aside to let the cream rise. Ol' Lizzy could provide for a family of four as well as her calf. And she would be, if Ruth and the baby hadn't passed on, leaving him and Gracie behind. His gut twisted along that old switchback trail he'd ridden too many times in the last few years.

Seemed longer yet still like yesterday that Ruth's sweet voice welcomed him home of an evening. Lord, would he never mend?

"Papa, can you help me with this knot?"

He looked at Gracie, sitting at the kitchen table stitching up a doll dress that Buster had ripped. Fool pup was jealous of the doll, so now he whined at the end of a tether out back till he grew some manners.

"I'll wash out the pail, then have a look."

Gracie let out an exaggerated sigh. "If we just had someone to help us, things would be so much easier. You wouldn't have to be sheriff all day _and_ milk Lizzy _and_ help me sew."

She threw a quick under-brow glance his way that worried him. "Ain't that right, Papa?"

"Isn't, Gracie. Isn't that right."

"Well, isn't it?"

He chuckled, sat down next to her at the table, and reached for the needle and thread knotted to the doll's dress. "I don't mind. And we do pretty well for ourselves, I'd say."

He didn't like stretching the truth, telling Gracie he didn't mind when he minded something fierce. But he couldn't let on that he was lonely, or things would be worse than they were. He and Gracie had already tolerated an unhealthy number of Sunday chicken dinners pushed upon them by well-meaning spinsters and mothers of marriable daughters.

He'd nearly run out of kind remarks and refusals that wouldn't chase off what few parishioners there were. If he could just wrangle up a real preacher to take over, that would simplify things a hundredfold. He'd sent letters to Pastor Fillmore in Independence, Pastor Bittman in Olin Springs, and several other churches in Colorado, but no one had yet come in response to his inquiries for a full-time preacher.

Maybe they knew offering-plate pickings were slim. Small town, smaller congregation. The circuit preacher stopped in every couple of months, but from Bern's position behind his sheriff's badge, he knew the town needed a man behind the pulpit as well. He just never figured he'd be carrying both ends of the equation.

As long as he was supposing, maybe he should run an advertisement in the big-city newspapers: _Wanted: mail-order minister._ Ha!

"Are you laughing at my sewing, Papa?" Gracie's big brown eyes puddled up and threatened to spill over.

He set the doll aside and pulled his daughter close. "No, darlin', I'm not laughing at you. I was thinking about another matter while wrestling with this bona fide knot you've worked into your thread. You're a fine seamstress. But sometimes things just get tangled up in a way we didn't intend them to."

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "See what I mean? We need somebody to help us. Mama would want that, don't you think?"

Wasn't the first time Gracie made him think. She'd mentioned their need for help more often in the last year. She didn't remember her mother in the same way he did, nor miss her with the same deep sense of loss. But it wouldn't be long and she'd be asking womanly questions he couldn't answer. As things stood now, he didn't even know who he could ask for help other than Doc Hepner, and that'd be a terrible thing to do to his own daughter.

But he'd be hog-tied before he approached one of the women at church. He wouldn't do _that_ to Gracie either.

Frustrated with the knot in his life as well as the one in Gracie's thread, he tied off the strand, cut it close to the fabric, and handed her the doll. "Now re-thread your needle and you can start over right next to where you left off."

The words pained him. Should he do the same? Cut his cords of grief, tie them off, and start over? Find someone to help, as Gracie put it.

Her little arms flew around his neck and she kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, Papa. Do you want me to make fresh biscuits for supper?"

What he _wanted_ was for his little girl to be a little girl, not the woman of the house. "We have plenty left over from this morning. You set the table for us and I'll dish up the beans."

She didn't hide the wrinkle on her nose at his mention of beans, but she did what he asked.

Setting the table was what Ruth would have Gracie do. He didn't care what side of the bowl his spoon was on, or whether he had a napkin, just so he could eat. But that was no way to raise a girl who would someday be a mother and wife in her own right. And that day would be here before he knew it.

Later that night he lay awake in his bed and listened to frogs singing down at the creek. Come summer, crickets would be joining the choir, and he'd be half-way through another year of loneliness. He loved Gracie more than his own life and thanked the Lord for her every day, but he was heart-sore for a partner, a wife, someone fashioned for him like Eve was for Adam. He believed he'd found that woman in Ruth, and it had taken a long time before he could face the Lord about her passing and not hold a grudge against Him.

Taking on Sunday services after old Preacher Thorndike retired had driven Bern back to his faith. And he was glad. Life was emptier when a man parted ways with God. But might the Lord have someone to fill the earthly void in Bern's and Gracie's days? He'd considered every single woman in Lockton, but they all came with an overly eager mother. He didn't think he could handle that many females in his life at one time.

Putting word out to a few of the nearest towns qualified as advertising for a mail-order bride, didn't it? Shoot, if he was going to go that far, he might as well write back East. Trouble was, his mail-order-bride efforts would probably be as successful as a mail-order-preacher pursuit.

From his side of the bed, he reached out to where Ruth used to lie close beside him. "Lord, is there someone out there for Gracie and me? If you've got a woman fashioned to fit us, please open my eyes and show me how to tie off the first thread and start over."

~

Etta did not deem herself rude or unseemly, but on occasion, she rose to the challenge. Particularly where Mr. Penneholder was concerned. If he did not take her rebuffs to heart and stop calling on her, she would serve him a strychnine-laced cup of tea the next time he darkened her door.

She paused in her bread-kneading, giving remorse opportunity to rise in her heart. It did not.

With a hearty punch to the doughy mound, she repented anyway. Sometimes one had to act without waiting for feelings to attend the deed.

The idea sat down at the back of her mind, folded its arms, and tapped an annoying foot on her thoughts. _One had to act without waiting for feelings to attend the deed_.

Could that be her answer?

Could the letter from Bern Stidham's daughter be her direction?

At William's graveside, Etta had asked for the Lord's guidance, yet no signs had shown themselves until Pastor Fillmore's visit last week. He'd left the letter with her, and she'd read it over and over, looking for any hint of leading. Maybe it was so obvious she didn't see it.

Discomfort wiggled through as she recalled the pastor's candid remark about hawks and sparrows. She refused to be the pitiful bird in Penneholder's talons.

But wasn't becoming a mail-order bride a rather drastic move, one that was, well, _beneath_ her?

She leaned to the side for a glimpse of what truly laid beneath her. All she saw was the worn kitchen hardwood of a home she was bound to lose if she stayed in Independence. Her dressmaking provided barely enough money to keep body and soul together. If she answered the letter and traveled to Lockton, Colorado—wherever that was—she had the chance for a fresh start. A risky start, but a new beginning, nonetheless.

And she would not be a mail-order bride in the strictest sense of the word. She'd not advertised her "virtues" in the newspaper, seeking some lice-ridden miner or lonely farmer with whom to set up housekeeping. Shuddering, she rubbed her arms against an inner chill.

No. She would merely answer the heartfelt letter of a child intent on the welfare of her father. A man regarded by Pastor Fillmore as upstanding and honest. Unique, perhaps, in his double-edged occupation of gun-toting preacher, but evidently loved by his daughter. That should speak for the man, shouldn't it?

She punched down the dough and turned it into a greased bowl, covering it to rise a second time. After washing and drying her hands, she went to the secretary in the parlor where she sat down with paper and pen.

Dear Mr. Stidham,

The words on the page appeared more formidable than they had in her mind. She wadded the paper and started over.

Dear Gracie,

Once more Etta took out the child's letter and read the closing that asked Pastor Fillmore to write to Gracie in care of the general store. Should he write the reply?

No. Etta would write her own letter and simply explain that he had given it to her.

She was inclined to reveal the little girl's ruse, tell her that Pastor Fillmore and she had seen right through it. But was that necessary?

She dipped the pen and continued.

Pastor Fillmore gave me your letter and asked that a reply be sent to you. He explained your and your father's situation to me and suggested that I might be someone who could meet your family's needs.

I am planning to visit you in Lockton. Perhaps we can get to know each other and see where things go from there. I will be on the train arriving in Olin Springs on Friday, May 10, three weeks from today.

Kindest regards,

Etta Collier

Etta left the letter to dry and paced the parlor, wringing her hands to keep them from trembling. In light of Penneholder's advances, her dwindling finances, and the heart-tugging plea of a young girl—not to mention her pastor's counsel—Etta had gone so far as to check the train schedule and the price of a ticket. She had just enough money to reach the town nearest Lockton. But then what?

Daylight dimmed as a shadow passed in front of the parlor window. _Clark Penneholder_.

She hurried to the secretary, folded the letter. and addressed an envelope as an impatient knock jarred her teeth and her nerves. If she didn't leave Independence behind, she might very well end up in jail for poisoning the banker.

### CHAPTER 3

Friday morning squinted its golden eye, then slipped back beneath the covers of a low cloud bank. As jittery as Etta felt, she'd hoped the day would shine upon her, but she made her way to the train station in spite of the dreariness, looking over her shoulder every so often for Penneholder. The previous Sunday, she'd slipped Mrs. Fillmore an envelope with money for a train ticket, confident that the Fillmores would keep her departure a secret. If Etta were to purchase her own ticket, Clark Penneholder's social telegraph would wire the news from one lackey to another, and he'd be certain to find out. She avoided thinking about the possible actions the banker might take to prevent her from leaving, but she shivered nonetheless.

Taking a seat inside the depot with a clear view out the window, she rehearsed all the reasons to follow through with this outlandish plan rather than stay in Independence: homelessness, poverty, Penneholder. A depressing trio.

Preparation had taken less time than she'd imagined, for most all of her possessions were left behind—the bed she'd shared with William, linens and curtains, the quilts in her hope chest. Her hope chest. Even her wicker-bottom sewing rocker that William had given her as a wedding gift.

She'd given her bread bowl, china dishes, and copper tea kettle to Mrs. Fillmore and told the woman to take whatever clothing and goods she found suitable and give them to the poor. The irony pinched. Etta herself qualified for membership in that group.

Everything else would be swept into Penneholder's greedy grasp, everything but what she forced into her carpet bag. She was certain to lose it all anyway due to the banker's claim that she had defaulted on her note. He'd already taken possession of William's blacksmith shop and tools and sold them to the liveryman.

Debt was the one thing she had left of William, other than memories.

When the train's whistle pierced her musing, nerves shot her off the bench and to the door, from where she planned a quick boarding as soon as the conductor set down the step.

Coughing out steam as gray as the morning, the train slowed and jerked to a stop. Etta tightened her grip on her carpet bag and stepped out on the platform only to be halted by a hand on her elbow. Her heart sprang to her throat, blocking her air until a kind voice intoned at her ear.

"Mrs. Collier, I have something for you."

Relief rushed through her and she looked into the gentle eyes of Pastor Fillmore, who held out an envelope. Recognizing it as the one she had used for her savings, she pulled away. "No, I cannot. Please."

"I insist. This is not the money you gave my wife for the ticket. It is a gift from a few discreet members of our congregation who know which way the wind blows."

She closed her eyes against the sting of tears at his generosity, at _their_ generosity—whoever they were—then managed a thin whisper. "I may never be able to repay you."

"Good. Because like I said, this is a gift _._ " He pressed the envelope into her hand. "Our prayers go with you."

"Thank you."

"All a- _board!_ "

Startled by the call, she squeezed his hand. "If your wife doesn't want my sewing rocker, perhaps someone else will. Just so it's not Mr. Penneholder."

"I understand." The pastor glanced around, his expression sober. "Hurry on now, dear. Give Bern my best when you see him. And that little girl of his."

Turning toward the train, she hailed the conductor who lifted the step. "Wait! Please, wait!"

The uniformed man extended his hand with a gracious smile and helped her board. "Find a seat quickly, ma'am."

Every spot was taken except one next to a dapper-looking gentleman with a brass-topped walking cane. But his bold perusal as she approached kept her feet moving right on down the narrow aisle. No one offered to share a cushioned bench with her, and she feared she'd have to either stand or sit next to the brash stranger.

At the end of the car, a woman and two small children sat facing the interior. She hefted one child onto her lap and scooted close to the window. "You can sit with us if you don't mind young 'uns."

Mind? Oh, Lord, how Etta had longed for babes of her own. "Thank you, I so appreciate you sharing your space with me."

Tucking her bag beneath the bench, she tottered and fell into her seat as the car jerked. The woman's little boy, not more than four or five, snickered.

"Shame, Lewis," the mother hissed. "Apologize."

Etta rolled her lips to keep a smile from the little urchin and thereby undoing his mother's training.

"Sorry, ma'am."

She dipped her head. "Thank you. It's quite easy to lose one's balance when the floor moves, is it not?"

He stared, eyes bold and blue.

Etta addressed his mother. "A fine little gentleman and lovely daughter you have."

The children soon settled against their mother, and in no time fell asleep to the iron song of the train. Their mother dozed as well, and as Etta observed them openly, she noted the wrinkled clothing and the tug of weariness at the woman's brow. How far had they traveled, and how long did they have ahead of them? Two days? Two weeks?

Grateful to be on her way, Etta watched familiar countryside rush past the window. Anxiety vied with that gratitude—anxiety over the unknown into which she hurtled with each repetitious clack of wheels on the rail. She was leaving behind all she had ever known, heading for what she'd never imagined. Still couldn't imagine. Had this been a foolish decision?

From her seat against the front wall, she had a clear view of the crowded car and each passenger. None were Penneholder, and that was what mattered most. She wouldn't put it past the man to follow her had he known.

The first step in what some might call an adventure was now completed, but relaxation was far beyond her grasp. She regretted not bringing some needlework to occupy her hands and thoughts. But her bag was close to bursting as it was, and her reticule was nearly as full.

Her reticule. She'd forgotten about the pastor's gift she'd crushed into it.

After removing the cord from her wrist, she drew the crumpled envelope from the small black bag. Her breath caught at two crisp twenty-dollar notes inside—each one bearing Alexander Hamilton on one end staring serenely toward a helmeted, shield-bearing woman at the other.

Etta had not seen the new notes and now she had two, in addition to a different sort of note, handwritten by Pastor Fillmore.

The God of love and peace be with you. You are in our prayers.

Tears welled at the thought of others praying for her. She did not know what lay ahead, but God did. Of all the things she might ask for, His peace was what she needed most.

~

Bern stayed at the jail longer than he'd planned thanks to the Everson brothers' latest drunk. Busted tables at the saloon. Chairs through windows. Those boys didn't have a lick o' sense, not after losing their pa to the bottle. They seemed bent on following his trail.

By the time Bern got home, Gracie had fallen asleep on the front porch swing with the dog curled in her lap. His boots woke her as he took the three wide steps, and she sat up with a start, crinkling a paper in her hand.

"Hello, Papa." She shoved the paper under her leg and reached for Buster, but he bounded off the swing straight for Bern.

Fear plastered a tight smile on his daughter's face, and Bern's experience as a lawman said it had to do with that mysterious piece of paper.

He sat down on the swing next to Gracie, pulled her in for a kiss on top of her head, and held out his hand. "Let's see it."

She waited a beat, then raised innocent eyes. "See what, Papa?"

"Is that a note to me from your teacher?" School was nearly over for the year and this was the first note home. He should be grateful.

She looked around the porch, hunting for an answer.

"Just the truth, Gracie. Like always. It's all right. Let me have the note."

Her shoulders slumped and her head dropped as she pulled out the wrinkled paper. "Don't be mad at me, Papa." A tear landed on her lap, leaving a small wet spot quickly joined by another. "Please don't be mad at me."

He couldn't think of one thing that would make him angry with his Gracie. Or even disappointed.

Until he read the letter.

~

Bern barely made it through supper that night in the aftermath of Gracie's tear-soaked confession. He'd finally comforted her enough to tuck her into bed well after dark, then he headed out to the wood pile behind the house to work off his frustration.

A mail-order bride?

Maybe worse than the news itself was the fact that Gracie had held it secret for more than a week. He wrestled with shock, anger, and, most of all, fear. If the date mentioned in the crumpled letter was accurate, the woman was already on her way.

By light of a full moon, he swung the axe and snapped an upright log in half. The fire burning through his veins could fuel his kindling-splitting efforts until he had enough to keep the town in good supply through next winter.

God bless Gracie. God bless her little heart. If he'd listened to her and taken heed to what she said, he could have forestalled this mess.

And if Fillmore had written him, or telegraphed him, he could have stopped it then.

Another log split beneath his axe edge, cleaving the night and silencing the pond frogs as well. Fillmore was a grown man. What lack of good sense led him to act on Gracie's counterfeit request in Bern's name, and then contact some woman fool enough to ride a train all the way from Missouri to Colorado?

Bern swung again, splintering a chunk and sinking the axe in the block. Gracie didn't understand what _mail-order bride_ meant. Gossip at the general store had given her a one-sided view, something else he should have picked up on as a parent—and would have if he wasn't so all-fired busy at the jail and the church house.

And who suffered for all his good intentions?

His daughter.

_Crack!_ The force of his swing shot through his hands and arms and into his shoulders.

Was Gracie so desperate for a mother that she'd write for a stranger to come? Good Lord, you didn't just order a wife like you did a shovel from the mercantile.

In spite of working up a sweat and sore muscles, Bern slept little that night, asking himself over and over if this predicament had God's fingerprint on it. Had God finagled this whole mess or just allowed it? What happened to Bern's free will?

By sunup, he still didn't have an answer, but he assured his puffy-eyed daughter that he loved her, sent her off to school, then went to the telegraph office, where he scratched out a message for Fillmore:

Explain Etta Collier.

Sheriff Stidham

"When you get a reply, bring it to the jail."

The agent looked at the message and back at Bern.

Bern walked out before he said something he'd regret.

Just after noon, the Western Union agent delivered a telegram as requested. Bern checked the sender's name, then gave the fella a nickel and a warning.

"You don't know one dern thing about this blasted telegram. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir, Pastor Stidham—I mean, Sheriff—I mean, no sir." Bobbing his head like a fool magpie, the man backed out the door and bolted up the boardwalk.

Guilt edged in around Bern's collar and he ran a finger after it. "Beg pardon, Lord. I may be losing my mind. No call for me to lose my temper too and get profane, but..."

Familiar words from a lifetime ago cut a trail through his memory, and he shut his mouth. A man didn't give God excuses.

### CHAPTER 4

Earl and Lester Everson couldn't stay out of jail, and this time Bern had been tempted to handcuff them to opposite sides of the cell and let them sleep off their drunk without his oversight.

Instead, he'd spent a cramped night in his office desk chair and regretted it with every kink in his neck and shoulders. Etta Collier was due to arrive in Olin Springs this morning, and he'd planned to ride out yesterday and take a room at the hotel there. But rowdies at the saloon and then the Eversons hootin' it up had tied a knot in his plans as well as his neck.

What he needed was a deputy to cover for him. What he had was an unwanted mail-order bride getting off the train with no one there to meet her.

Made him want to swear in spite of knowing better.

Gracie was secure, and that was one burden lifted. She'd begged to go with him, but Bern stood his ground on that count after the mother of a school friend offered to keep her until he returned.

Maybe if he didn't shave before he left and showed up late, dusty, and trail-worn, Etta Collier would change her mind about this harebrained scheme.

He took Fillmore's telegram from his vest pocket and read it again. _Good woman_ , it said. _Highest recommendation_. _Widowed_.

Bern snorted. At least they had one thing in common.

No mention of her age or attitude, or even if she had teeth. Could she sew? Help Gracie? Cook, clean, and handle the contradictions of a man pulled between a badge and a Bible?

But Fillmore's final descriptor worried him the most: _No children_. Bern would have no shrew in his house, and he intended to discover Collier's temperament before she got anywhere near his daughter. No woman had been inside his home since Ruth's funeral, other than Dottie Dalton, and that fact alone might be enough to scare the gal off. He was no housekeeper and it probably showed.

Scuffling in the cell drew him up, and he grabbed the key. "Mornin', fellas. Good of you to sober up. It's half past breakfast and you can mosey on down to the café and rustle up some grub."

"Aw, Sheriff, you know we ain't got no money," the younger one whined.

"Out." He turned the key and swung the door wide. "Next time I drag your sorry hides in here I'm gonna lose the key and let you rot."

Dirty, shaggy, and in need of a good dousing, the brothers stuffed their shirts in their trousers, and grabbed their hats. "But you're a preacher, Sheriff. You can't do that to us."

"Shut up, Lester," Earl said with an elbow to his brother's ribs. "He can do whatever he wants. He's the law."

The pathetic pair dragged themselves outside, and Bern locked up and headed for the telegraph office where he wired the Olin Springs sheriff. Garrett Wilson was a good man and he'd look after the Collier woman.

After reminding the nervous agent that he didn't know anything about this second telegram either, Bern gave the twitchy fella a dime and rode home.

He dropped his horse's reins under the cottonwood next to the house, then entered through the front door, taking in the place like a newcomer might.

Wasn't all that shiny.

It didn't bother him that his desk was cluttered, but the hearth needed a good scouring. Wood chips littered one end where he stacked firewood, and the rug in front of it boasted burn spots and hadn't been beaten in three years. Dust covered just about everything except his desk and chair and the little rocker Gracie sat in.

The kitchen wasn't much better. Gracie kept the dishes washed and the table clean, but mopping had fallen by the wayside. Bern laid his hat on the table and scrubbed both hands through his hair. He'd avoided all that spoke of Ruth, including housekeeping, and lived in a shell of his own making, shutting out the light and resisting change.

"Lord, I'm not ready for this. I didn't ask for it either, but what am I supposed to do?"

He waited a minute but heard nothing other than his own heartbeat and a reminder that the small room at the back of the house could be a sleeping room with its cot and washstand. A rug or two would warm the plank floor.

Ruth's cedar chest in his room held bedding and such, but it also held her wedding dress and some baby clothes, and he hadn't been able to face any of those fine things she treasured so much.

He grabbed his hat and left through the back, foregoing a shave in the middle of the day. Etta Collier might not like the way he looked, but he wasn't living to please her. And he'd be certain to have a hair-raising, preacher-to-preacher talk with Fillmore if their paths ever crossed again.

Still tethered to the porch, Buster gnawed on the same bone Bern had tossed out that morning. His gelding waited with a back leg cocked, its blood-bay coat catching splotches of sunlight through the cottonwood leaves. It whiffled a welcome as Bern took the reins, and he stepped into the saddle and turned them toward the road.

"Our lives may never be the same, Zeke."

The gelding's ears swiveled back, acknowledging Bern's voice.

"Those Everson boys and any ol' rowdy cowpoke don't cause me a second thought. But the idea of another woman moving into the house cuts my stirrup leathers for sure. I may end up bunking with you."

~

Etta watched from her seat as a young woman boarded the train alone, pale and tense, wearing a brown suit as thin and travel weary as she.

Remembering the generosity of strangers at her departure, Etta slid closer to the window and raised her hand.

Relief washed across the woman's tight features, and she quickened her step and joined Etta on the bench. "Thank you. It's been such a long trip, and this is the last segment of my journey."

She smiled and extended her hand. "I am Mae Ann Remington."

"Etta Collier. Pleased to make your acquaintance." And grateful to have pleasant company. Not more than twenty years, Etta guessed, the young woman gave no indication of her status, whether single or married. She was no widow, given her attire.

"Are you visiting family?"

An odd look crossed the woman's face, and she removed her gloves and tucked them into her reticule. "In a sense." She glanced aside as if uncertain. "I am meeting my husband-to-be."

Oh dear. Etta offered what she intended as a pleasant affirmation and noted a ringless left hand. What were the chances of meeting a true mail-order bride on the train?

"And you?" Mae Ann Remington took in Etta's mourning garb but seemed so genuinely interested that Etta told her the whole twisted story.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Mae Ann said. "And I admire your bravery. Circumstances can set a woman to do what she otherwise would not have considered."

Quite a pair, they were, sharing the last seat on the car, both headed for Olin Springs to meet men who had the potential of offering them better lives.

Or crushing what little optimism they had left.

"My situation isn't as dire as yours," Mae Ann continued. "I am not escaping the advances of someone so despicable. I'm merely escaping to a home. At least I hope so. It's a terrible risk, I know, but ever since my father abandoned my mother and me, all I've wanted was a home of my own."

Etta's heart went out to the girl. She'd had a home—twice. One with a kind and loving father and another with a man not unkind, but neither as wise. Now she too was homeless.

"I trust things will work out for you, Mae Ann. For both of us." Eager to change the subject, Etta complimented Mae Ann's fine cameo brooch, and their conversation touched on fashion, keepsakes, and cooking. Anything but the men awaiting them in Olin Springs.

Time sped by with someone to talk to, and soon the train slowed in its approach to their final stop. Car couplings jerked, as did Etta's nerves, and both she and Mae Ann adjusted their hats and tugged at their suits. They checked their bags a half dozen times and smiled nervously at one another.

At the door, Etta let her new acquaintance go ahead of her, watching as a middle-aged man clutched his hat against his chest and shyly greeted Mae Ann. The two shook hands, and Etta's shoulders sank in disappointment. What had she expected? A joyful union of two lonely souls? A risk, Mae Ann had admitted. But something in his letters had to have encouraged her to take that risk, something other than mention of his meager farm.

The term _mail-order bride_ had been as sparse on Mae Ann's lips as it had been Etta's. But Etta reminded herself that she had not agreed to _marry_ anyone. Just to visit a little girl and her father, and see if she could be of assistance.

She gathered her courage and stepped down to the platform, looking for that child and searching each stranger's face in anticipation. But Gracie was probably in school, and this second disappointment plopped silently next to the first. Of course she wouldn't be at the station, and neither was her father, it appeared.

What if he didn't show up? What if he wasn't the kind and upstanding man Pastor Fillmore insisted he was? What if he didn't want Etta's help?

This phantom disappointment joined the others and twisted a three-fold cord around her heart.

Mae Anne's farmer enlisted another man's help, and the two of them hefted her trunk onto the back of his wagon. Then he handed her up to the seat and joined her there. She raised a hand to Etta in parting, and the couple drove away.

Quickly Etta calculated how much of her forty dollars remained after paying outrageous sums for meals over the last two weeks. She decided to exchange the remaining twenty-dollar note at the bank for smaller denominations and save the bulk of it for an emergency.

On the other hand, standing by oneself at a depot in a strange town must certainly qualify as an emergency, but she didn't care to have all her eggs in one basket, so to speak.

"Mrs. Collier?"

At the deep voice, she turned to a tall, stern-faced man with gray-green eyes and a star on his vest.

"Yes?" Her heart missed a beat. Gracie's father?

He lifted his hat with a quick nod. "Sheriff Wilson, ma'am. Bern Stidham from Lockton sent me to meet you. He's been detained but will be here later today."

Relieved to the point of weakness by the news, she planted one foot behind the other, determined not to fall over backward and humiliate herself.

"May I take your bag for you?" Without waiting for her reply, Sheriff Wilson did just that, leaving her with nothing to cling to other than her reticule and resolve. "You're welcome to wait in my office until Stidham gets here." He indicated they walk toward town. "Or you can take a meal at the café if you're hungry."

She stepped off the platform, doing her best to keep up with his long strides. As they turned onto Main Street, he stopped abruptly and focused on the bank across the street. A number of people had gathered out front, mumbling among themselves and watching the door.

The sheriff shoved the bag into her arms and begged her pardon as he loped off. "Stay here, out of the way," he called over his shoulder.

Out of the way? How could she possibly be in the way? And in the way of what?

Before she had sufficient answer, the sheriff ran up behind a man at the back of the crowd who had pulled a gun from his holster. Wilson whirled him around by the shoulder and dropped him with one solid punch. He disarmed him, draped him over the hitch rail, where he cuffed the man's wrists, then approached the bank with his own gun drawn.

Etta began to tremble, reliving the horror of William's untimely death in a similar melee.

Within moments, the front door of the bank opened.

The crowd eased back.

Time slowed, but not her frantic heartbeat. Clutching her carpet bag, she crossed the street.

The pungent odor of gunpowder spilled from the open door, followed by men escorting their wives, she supposed—some frantic and crying into hankies. Two other men came out carrying something between them, but she couldn't see exactly what in the crush of onlookers.

And then Mae Ann Remington exited the bank.

Etta covered her mouth with one hand and hugged her bag, unable to move. The young woman walked up the boardwalk as if in a daze. Her face was ashen, not a drop of color in her cheeks.

Etta thought to push through the crowd and follow her—

"Mrs. Collier. Mrs. _Collier_."

Her intentions deterred, she turned to the sheriff who had the cuffed gunman from the hitch rail in hand. "Meet me at the jail." He jerked his head as if giving direction. "A block up on that side of the street. And don't dilly-dally. A couple of other no-goods got away."

She pressed her hand to her chest. _Oh, dear Lord, what kind of life have I walked into?_

~

Early evening settled over Olin Springs as Bern turned off the main street toward the depot. He didn't know what Etta Collier looked like or how old she was. But if there was a gal waiting by herself at the station, he could pretty well figure it was her.

No one was there.

He reined Zeke around and rode to the jail. Hopefully Wilson had met the woman at the train and knew where she was.

Daylight had ducked behind the buildings on the west side of the street, and shadows stretched along the jail, playing tricks on Bern's eyes. Looked like a woman sat in Wilson's chair out front of the jail. Asleep, with her chin on her chest.

He stopped at the hitch rail and stepped down. Sure enough, she was sound asleep. More than likely been there all day waiting on him. Just like a woman to make him feel guilty before they even spoke to each other. He pulled his hat off and stepped up on the boardwalk with a heavy boot in hopes he didn't have to touch her to rouse her.

She obliged him and shot up like a geyser, blinking her brown eyes and tugging at her suit coat. Stark black, the same color as the hat that leaned off to one side. She tried to straighten it and winced, probably from a stiff neck. He knew the feeling.

"Ma'am. Are you Etta Collier from Independence, Missouri?"

She squared up and looked him dead in the eye. "Yes, sir. And you are ...?"

Pretty little thing, she was, all trim and put together. No shrinking violet. But appearances could be deceiving.

"I'm Bern Stidham, ma'am. Sheriff over in Lockton, a day's ride north of here. I apologize for not meeting your train, but a few things came up at the last minute. I'd planned to take a room at the hotel last night and be here to meet you this morning." He was rambling.

She discreetly gave him a good look-over, hat to boots and back again, pausing at the Peacemaker on his right hip. He wished he'd shaved.

Garrett Wilson came out of his office and greeted him with a handshake. "Bern, good to see you made it." He looked at the woman. "Mrs. Collier arrived earlier today, but we had a little to-do here in town, so she preferred to wait out here for you rather than in the jail."

Wilson glanced over his shoulder through the open door, then back at Bern. "Would you both like to come in for a cup of coffee?"

The lady stiffened and looked away.

Bern read sign as well as the next fella. "No thanks, Garrett. We'll be on our way. Maybe stop at the café for supper, then take a room at the hotel."

Her head jerked back around and her brown eyes shot darts.

"Two rooms," he corrected. "We'll take two rooms, then start out early tomorrow."

Bern caught the hitch in Garrett's mouth, and interrupted the man's thoughts with another handshake. "Much obliged. Thanks for helping me out today."

The woman picked up her bag and turned to Wilson. "Thank you, Sheriff, for your hospitality." Stepping back, she added under her breath, "Such as it was."

Bern swallowed a barb of worry. Lady or shrew?

He offered his arm, "Ma'am. I don't know about you, but I could eat a hor—" He cleared his throat, "A whole meal. Let's see what they're serving at the café."

She slid her tidy hand into the crook of his elbow and stepped in beside him. As they walked away from the jail, Bern glanced over his shoulder. Wilson stood with his feet spread, arms crossed at his chest, and a grin wider than Main Street plastered on his face.

### CHAPTER 5

A stylized sign above the café's front window said _Bozeman's_. Etta stepped inside while Sheriff Stidham held the door for her.

Most of the customers were men, seated together in groups of two or three. Bachelors, she supposed, who took no pleasure in cooking for themselves. A large man with an apron hugging his girth nodded at them and jerked his thumb toward an empty table in front of the window.

Sheriff Stidham led her that way.

She approached the nearest chair, and he reached around her and pulled it back.

"Thank you," she mumbled, completely at a loss for words or wit in such an awkward situation.

He said nothing, took the seat across the table, and removed his hat. A fringe of tawny, lion-like hair fell across his brow in bold contrast to the stubble that roughed his jawline. But his eyes were blue-gray rather than the yellow of a wild animal. She wondered if Gracie had her father's eyes.

The aproned man reappeared with a large coffee pot and filled two cups without inquiry.

"What's the special?" Sheriff Stidham asked.

"Ham and potato hash. Custard pie."

"Two."

The man left.

Evidently, words came at a premium. She'd fit right in.

Sampling the aromatic coffee that hit her nose before it passed her lips, she guessed that Sheriff—or Pastor— Stidham's Sunday sermons must be straightforward and to the point. No flowery speeches or poetic prose.

He cleared his throat again. Either he was ill or he was nervous. She hoped it was the latter, for several reasons, one of which being that it served as a noteworthy tick for her to remember.

"I didn't know Gracie wrote to Fillmore until it was too late."

Needled by his comment, she tried not to take it as a personal attack, but her reaction must have been easily read.

"What I mean is, I didn't know you were coming until you'd already left Independence."

"Or else you would have stopped me." Not her best opening remark.

His countenance shadowed before his gaze dropped to his coffee mug. "I don't know anything about you, and you don't know anything about me, and I don't—

"Need my help." Where was her decorum?

A flash of steely blue. "I didn't say that." He flexed his jaw and the muscle on the left side bulged.

"What I was about to say was, I don't know how Fillmore and Gracie saw what I'd been missing."

Without the slightest trace of arrogance, he'd set her in her place, humbling her by his honest admission.

"I'm sorry."

A crease cut between his dark brows. "For what?"

"For jumping to conclusions."

The aproned man, whom Etta assumed was Bozeman, arrived with two plates heaped with chopped ham and potatoes, set them down, and promptly left.

"Maybe if you didn't put words in my mouth before I found them on my own."

Touché.

He bowed his head. "Thank you, Lord, for this meal and for Mrs. Collier's safe trip west. Amen."

A small blessing—no table-side sermons disguised as prayers.

This man left very little to read between the lines. He appeared to be as straightforward as his sentences, so she would return the favor. "Do you intend to send me away?"

His fork halted en route to his mouth, and the crease reappeared between his brows. "No." He gave her an honest look, one that surprisingly carried potential tenderness. "Gracie's counting on you showing up."

How could this man take hold of her interest so quickly with his brusque manner and water-of-life eyes?

"Well then, please do not address me as Mrs. Collier. You may use my given name, Etta."

He cocked one eyebrow at her, and she imagined he disciplined his daughter with it. "I _may_?"

Etta was not one to blush at the drop of a hat, but she felt the heat crawl her neck. Her turn for throat-clearing. "If you don't mind, I would appreciate it if you called me Etta. I despise my full given name, Harriet. Mrs. Collier is so formal, and it reminds me of my widowhood."

He regarded her attire, gave a brief nod, and went back to his supper. "I prefer Bern. Name's Bernard, but it sounds like a dog."

She stifled a chuckle and pressed her napkin against her lips.

He missed nothing. "Ought to make me feel saintly, but it doesn't."

At the blue twinkle and barest shadow of a smile, she relaxed. One thing he was _not_ was dull. "Names have the power to brand us, do they not? I should be honored to bear the same as Mrs. Stowe of literary renown. Hettie or Hattie rile me as much as Harriet, so Etta it is."

His brow rose again over a jovial expression, and after swallowing a good-sized bite of hash, he remarked, "So you rile easily?"

She coughed, covering her mouth with the napkin to keep from spewing coffee across the table. In less than an hour, this stranger with a gun on his hip had humbled her, challenged her, and made her laugh.

And though she had never felt herself in need of such service, he may have rescued her as well.

~

When things sounded too good to be true, they usually were.

Bern kept telling himself that in between custard pie and the pleasure of Mrs. Collier's— _Etta's_ —company. _Pleasure_ wasn't the right word, but he couldn't think of another one at the same time he was praying she wasn't a harpy in disguise.

Time would tell.

Another truism. His grip on originality was slipping, and he had a sermon to deliver day after tomorrow.

Sobered by the sudden reminder, he scraped up the last of his pie and pushed the plate away. "We have a long ride ahead, and I have a sermon to finish tomorrow night. We should probably turn in."

She stared at him, looking remarkably like Gracie with her dollar-sized eyes.

"What I mean to say is, when you're finished, we should get those two rooms at the hotel so we're rested for tomorrow."

After laying her fork across her plate, she tucked her napkin beneath the edge. "I agree."

She reached into her reticule and pulled out a coin.

He reached across the table and covered her hand. "I'm paying for supper. And for your room. No argument."

Her challenge flashed like summer lightning, and he figured if it were earlier in the day he might lose this battle. But it was already dark out, and fatigue played around her eyes.

"Very well. Thank you."

He removed his hand from hers, surprised that he didn't really want to. Her warmth reminded him what it was like to touch a gentle woman.

Slapping his hat on, he stood and helped her with her chair. Bozeman nodded his thanks for the few extra coins Bern gave him, and he and Etta stepped out into the night. She shivered.

"Do you have a trunk or other bags?"

"No. Just this one." She held it tight against herself, probably for warmth.

He didn't have a coat to give her, just his vest, which wouldn't do her much good, and he figured she'd balk if he tucked her in under his arm.

"Do you have a cloak?"

She shook her head but kept her eyes forward, her head high.

If he'd known, he might have found one for her at the general here. Those Everson boys just added to their personal account for making him late.

"I'm fine. Really."

Bern huffed. He knew what _fine_ meant when a woman said it. Ruth had schooled him well on that.

At the hotel, he opened the door for Etta and she visibly relaxed as she entered the warmer lobby. The desk clerk rose from his chair behind the counter, turned the register around, and offered Bern a pen.

He signed his name, handed the pen to Etta, and addressed the clerk.

"Two rooms."

The clerk glanced between them, trout-mouthed as if Bern had asked for a shave and a haircut too.

He laid a silver dollar on the registration book and added two bits.

The gent swept the money into his hand and took two keys off the peg board behind him. "Room nine and ten, at the top of the stairs on either side of the hall."

"Much obliged."

Etta climbed ahead of him. At the top, she looked at one door and then the other.

"Which one do you want?" Bern said.

"It doesn't matter. I imagine they are both the same."

He handed her the key for nine and waited until she entered and turned around.

"Thank you, Etta."

She tipped her head. "Whatever for?"

"For answering Gracie's letter."

She smiled, gentle-like but tired. "You are most welcome."

Then she closed the door softly and left him standing in the hallway like a bucket calf with no bucket. What was the matter with him?

Inside his room, he set his hat crown down on the chest of drawers and stood by the window, looking out on the town. The saloon across the way was in full swing and lit up like a house afire, off-key piano music rising to his ears. A block to the north, dim light spilled from Wilson's office window. Bern wondered if the fella had a wife and home. Maybe just a pallet in a back room at the jail. Bern had never asked.

He scrubbed his scalp. Soon he might end up in a similar fix because he sure enough couldn't bring Etta Collier into his home, looking the way she did, and stay there himself. Not only did she appear to have all her teeth, she had every other feature a man takes note of. Tongues in the church would wag up a storm. Even that little room off the kitchen wouldn't keep the gossips from flaying him alive and soiling her reputation.

He wouldn't do that to her.

So would he marry her?

The washstand water was cold, but he filled the basin and splashed his face and neck. Etta Collier could still be a counterfeit. He had to keep telling himself that. She might be putting on a show of good grace until he got her home, and then she'd let her true colors shine.

What if she was intolerable? Cold toward Gracie? High-minded, wanting things Bern couldn't provide?

And what if she was exactly what he needed?

He splashed his face again. "Keep your head, Stidham."

In spite of Fillmore's recommendation and Bern's clear need for help, he had to remember that he hadn't asked the woman to come. That was Gracie's doing, and Etta could still turn out to be a bad case o' sorry.

He pulled off his boots, hung his vest over the back of a chair, and flopped down on the bed. Sleep ran on just ahead of him, duckin' behind a bush whenever he got close to catching it. Every time he was about to doze off, the same question popped up on the edge of his thoughts and cut a clear trail across his brain:

What in the world possessed you to thank Etta Collier for answering Gracie's letter?

### CHAPTER 6

The sensation of Bern Stidham's firm but gentle hand on hers was still with Etta the next morning, and it remained all the way through the breakfast he insisted upon before they left. She had not expected his touch to have such an effect on her. She had not expected his touch at all.

The month of May in the Rocky Mountains was equally as surprising. Apparently, it was closer to winter here in Colorado than it was in Missouri. The morning was not as chilly as last night had been, but their brisk walk to the livery helped warm her, as did curiosity over their conveyance.

Whatever that conveyance might be. Bern had mentioned only that the ride was long. Horseback, buggy, or wagon, she had no idea, until a beautiful red gelding with black mane and tail came into view, saddled and waiting outside the livery. As they approached, it turned its head and rumbled a throaty greeting.

"Mornin', Zeke." Bern ran a hand along the animal's smooth neck. "Ready to ride?"

Oh dear.

Not that she didn't ride. She just didn't want to ride double. Or even alone on that fiery-eyed steed.

"Mornin', Sheriff Stidham." The liveryman came out of the stable, a farrier's leather apron lashed around him. Etta's heart plummeted at sight of him, a man who worked the same occupation as her William.

"I got that rig you wanted all ready and a three-day lease drawn up for you to sign. Dooley at the Lockton livery will likely have someone drive it back."

"Rig?" She looked at Bern, then through the stable's open doors at the back where another horse stood hitched to a buggy.

"Yes, ma'am." Bern took the lease the liveryman offered.

"Wait."

He gave her a slightly annoyed glance, and she guessed the eyebrow was cocked, but she couldn't see it with his hat pulled down so low.

"Wouldn't it be faster if we both rode horseback rather than in a buggy?"

His once-over appraisal left her squirming with self-consciousness, but she ignored it and approached the liveryman. "Have you a good, steady saddle horse that doesn't want to race but neither plods along?"

The man's mustache twitched. He looked at Bern as if holding in a secret, then back to her. "Yes, ma'am. But that horse don't take to a side saddle."

"I did not ask for a side saddle, sir. A regular one will do. And you will need to redraw the lease. I am sure it costs less to rent a horse than an entire _rig._ "

Bern handed back the lease.

The liveryman waved it like a flag at a horse race. "Be back in a whiplash with your mount, ma'am."

Bern hung both thumbs in his gun belt and stared at her.

"What?" She held her head high and returned his stare.

"You ride?"

"Of course."

"In that?" Again, the visual sweep of his blue-gray eyes.

Her chin inched upward. "And why not?"

He palmed his hand across his mouth—wiping words away, she was certain—then folded his arms, no amusement in his gaze. "Do you have any other plans you want to tell me about before we leave?"

Inside she quaked, but outwardly, she squeezed her carpetbag handle as if crushing the life from it. Pity the ruffians who met with justice at the end of Bern Stidham's stark glare.

"Did you not say that it is several hours to Lockton and that you have a sermon to complete this evening?"

"I did." No change in his demeanor.

"Well, I thought it prudent to spend as little time—and money—as possible so you have more of both at the end of the trip."

One side of his mouth quirked, but his eyes were ice.

He slid his gaze down Main Street, then back to her. "I was prepared to give you as easy a ride to Lockton as possible."

"And I thank you. But I am quite familiar with riding a calmer breed than ..."—she looked at his horse, then back—"Zeke, was it? And it will be good to do so again, I assure you."

"In your lengthy experience with my horse, what makes you think he's anything but a _calmer_ breed?"

The cutting edge to his voice served only to sharpen hers. "He has fire in his eyes. Or have you not noticed?"

The crisp clop of horse's hooves drew Bern's attention away from her and toward a sleek black mare with a kind eye. Etta went immediately to the horse and rubbed beneath its forelock, speaking softly all the while, confessing her arrogance and pride and sharp tongue.

She led the mare out to the front where she introduced her to Zeke while Bern and the livery owner settled their affairs.

When Bern reappeared, he walked straight to Etta, grabbed her carpetbag, and tied it behind her saddle. Then he stepped back and linked his fingers, bent over at the waist, and squinted up at her from beneath his hat brim.

"Thank you." She lifted her skirt, placed her left foot in his hands, and reached for mane and reins.

So forcefully did he fling her into the air, she barely had time to lift her skirted leg over the mare's back and find her seat. But she'd die before she complained.

The mare came to life beneath her weight, and Etta secured her hold on the reins, containing the spirited black that danced in place, eager to go.

Feet snug in the shortened stirrups, she raised demanding eyes to the liveryman. "What is her name?"

He smiled, and his mustache stretched the width of his face. "Tempest, ma'am. She goes by Tempest."

~

Bern laughed out loud at Etta's expression. She'd been had. But he quickly sobered in light of the need to keep a closer eye on her than if she were planted securely on a buggy seat.

The liveryman read Bern's scowl as he and Etta rode past and ducked inside the stable doors. Too late now to argue. They'd burned good daylight at the café and stables. The ride to Lockton was an honest five to six hours, and it'd probably take six now. But Etta Collier was right. Riding was faster and cheaper than renting a rig.

Unpredictable as the weather, she was. He cut a side glance as they rode out of town. The little black took two steps for every one of Zeke's. Etta sat the saddle as if she did so every day of her life, holding the reins confidently, but not so tight that the mare fought the bit. And not so loose that Tempest had opportunity to live up to her name.

Etta's black skirt fanned out over her carpetbag and the horse's rump, and Bern had a sudden desire to see her in something other than that wearisome color. He imagined her cheeks brightening against a soft yellow or blue. At his wandering thoughts, he shook his head and nudged Zeke into an easy lope.

About mid-day, he turned off the road and led them down to a small stream that cut through a gulley. He ground-tied Zeke on the tufted grass, then reached for the mare's reins.

Etta stepped down without his help and shook out her skirt. After walking to the stream, she stooped beside it while he tied the mare to a scrub oak.

"Hold on." He unlashed his canteen and took a knee beside her before she had a chance to drink from her hands. He wasn't a complete heathen.

Twisting off the cap, he offered the canteen. "Here. This is easier."

Her eyes met his briefly. "Thank you."

In full light of a clear day, their ride had been hot. Dry. Sweat beaded along her hairline, and damp curls clung to her temples and neck. Her hat protected only a saucer-size spot on top of her head, and her cheeks were red, probably burned. But she'd not mentioned it.

He leaned back on his heels. "Where'd you learn to ride?"

She tipped the canteen against her hand, patted her face and throat, then smoothed her hand around the back of her neck. The simple act sent unwelcomed heat through his veins.

"My daddy raised horses. He had me on one before I could walk. Made sure I learned my way around them. He taught me how to care for them, handle them, and control them without being mean about it."

Not what he expected a city gal to say. "He did a good job."

She flicked her eyes his way again, like she didn't trust him, then took in the surroundings. "It's almost pretty here."

"Almost?"

"If things were greener." She gave him the canteen and stood, stretching her arms and rubbing her shoulders.

There had to be a lot more to her story, but he wasn't about to ask where she went to finishing school. Or how she wound up married to a blacksmith who got himself shot—Fillmore's bare bones of her tale. "Greenup comes with the summer."

"Where did you learn to preach?"

She tossed the question in his lap, daring him to play his own game. He slugged down a gulp, then capped the canteen. "Like you, my pa had a strong influence on me. He was a circuit preacher. Sometimes he took me along, sometimes he didn't. When he didn't, I hung around my uncle's office if I wasn't in school."

She met his gaze then, not unseemly or bold, but not the least bit intimidated either. Like she was looking at her equal. "The sheriff's office, I take it."

Impressive, her deduction.

After the horses drank their fill, he headed them up out of the gully and settled into an easy walk.

"Tell me about Gracie."

He let her request seep down inside and roll around before answering her straight out. No one had ever asked him that.

"She has her mother's eyes and my hair. She's nine years old goin' on sixteen, as smart as a whip with an independent streak wider than this trail. But you probably already guessed that."

Etta smiled—what he could see from the corner of his eye—and it worried him. He didn't need anyone fanning that flame in his little girl. She already had enough gumption to be a boy, and from the way things were going, so did Etta Collier, though she sure didn't look like one.

They stopped once more to rest the horses and made the outskirts of Lockton before dusk. As they rode through town, he took note of things from a newcomer's perspective. Not too crowded. Fairly quiet, because it was still too early for much business at the saloon. But that might change.

A frame house at the opposite end of Main Street sat back off the road with a big cottonwood tree stretching a wing out over it like a mother hen. No light warmed the windows, and the place looked lonely. He turned in and Etta followed.

Stepping off Zeke, he dropped the reins at the tree. "Leave Tempest here, and after I get a fire going inside, I'll take her to the livery, then get Gracie."

Etta gave him a nod in agreement, looped her reins over a low branch, and unlashed her carpet bag from the saddle. Then she swatted her sleeves and skirt, stirring more dust than she removed. She'd find plenty to match it inside.

He entered through the front door, lit a lamp in the entry, and two in the parlor. Etta watched like a schoolgirl clutching her bag as he started a fire.

"It's a lovely home."

He faced her in the flickering shadows. "You don't have to say that."

"You're right, I don't. But I try not to waste my words."

He couldn't read her in the dim light, but that fact cut both ways. She wouldn't be able to read him either.

She set her bag on the floor and moved closer to the fire . "I appreciate your discomfort with this unusual situation, and I understand that it is not one of your choosing. As for me, being a mail-order anything was not how I envisioned my future."

She had pluck, he'd give her that.

Her hands clasped over her dark skirt. "Therefore, what do you think of drawing up an agreement, a contract if you will, regarding a probationary period?"

Watching him with those soft brown eyes, she waited for his answer.

He shifted his weight to one foot. "What do you have in mind?"

Looking down, she smoothed her skirt, tugged at the sides as if tugging her thoughts in line. "Gracie obviously had a permanent arrangement in mind when she wrote Pastor Fillmore, one that calls for more commitment than either of us cares to make."

Her words stung, and he rebuked himself for letting them.

"I am willing to keep house for you, cook and clean, and tend to Gracie's needs rather like a housekeeper and nanny. You can set a date, at which time we re-evaluate the arrangement, and then we can continue on or terminate the agreement."

The woman was more level-headed than most men he knew. And a heap prettier, standing there in her shadowy garb with the firelight a halo behind her. But if she turned out to be other than she appeared, he didn't want her staying on due to some ol' paper he'd signed.

Which meant he didn't want any so-called agreement.

### CHAPTER 7

Etta had never been more nervous in her life. Though he said he wouldn't, Bern Stidham had the authority to send her packing. Or he could insist she marry him. Neither option appealed to her at the moment, though one might grow on her in time. In spite of his brusque manner, he leaned toward kindness. Compared to Clark Penneholder, he was saintlier than he might imagine.

However, he looked anything but kind as he scowled into the fire, arms crossed over his broad chest, feet spread in a wide stance.

Without warning, he threw her an ultimatum. "On one condition."

Condition? She swallowed. "I cannot agree to a condition I've not yet heard." Would he toss her out on her ear for such a remark?

His mouth quirked on one side, similar to his reaction when she suggested they ride rather than take a buggy. "My condition is I pay you wages for housekeepin' and caring for Gracie."

Her relief was heady, and she fingered her jacket collar, suddenly too warm in the small room with a growing fire and his daunting presence. However, his proposal was unacceptable.

"You are providing room and board for me. I am a dressmaker and can take in work on the side as I did in Independence. That should be sufficient."

He slung his hat on the back of a rocker similar to the one she'd left behind, only smaller. Then he crossed his arms again with a bold glare her way and cocked that infernal brow. "No deal."

Stunned by the impasse, she stared at his towering determination. Which explained why the town was so quiet when they rode through. He no doubt ruled with an iron will, if not rod and gun.

For a long moment, the standoff continued. He clearly had her in a corner, and he knew it. Indignation sparked within her, but reason doused it. Without looking away from his scruffy challenge, she agreed. "Very well."

He smiled. As if he'd won a standoff.

She bit the inside of her cheek, quelling a sharp retort.

"Follow me, and I'll show you the kitchen and your room."

He led her down a brief hall, past two closed doors, and into a spacious kitchen, where he struck a match for the table lamp, then opened a door to a pantry-sized room.

From where she stood, a narrow cot and washstand were visible. Dismay and gratitude cancelled each other out with a near untruth. "Lovely."

Apparently satisfied with her comment, he indicated a windowed door in the kitchen that led to a covered porch. Through the glass he pointed out a barn and necessary. _Privy_ , he called it.

If his daughter used the word, it would be corrected before anything else.

"While you settle in, I'll get Gracie and be back shortly. Do you have any questions?"

"No. Thank you."

She waited until his boot steps faded toward the front of the house and the door closed after him, then retrieved her bag from the parlor, where she added a split log to the fire and set a screen before it.

Back in her cubbyhole of a room, she unpacked her small collection of personal items. Several knobs in a board on one wall invited her extra skirt and bodice, and her second pair of shoes took up residence beneath them on the floor. She rearranged her petticoats and unmentionables in the privacy of her bag, which she shoved under a small table. Its top sufficed for her sewing notions and Bible.

Two blankets and a quilt topped the narrow cot, plus a pillow that had seen better days. Was her hesitancy to sleep in unknown coverings similar to what people felt who lived in boarding houses? She had always had her own home—with her father and mother, then with her husband. Compared to a borrowed cot in a stranger's house, those dwellings were extravagant blessings.

The first tears fell, and she let them spill unchecked, washing the grit from her eyes and soul, rinsing her from the inside out. "Oh, Lord," she whispered. "Have I made a terrible mistake?"

Through the open door to the kitchen, she heard a log snap on the parlor fire, and something within her snapped as well. Enough self-indulgence. She wiped her eyes and finding no towel on the washstand, looked through the kitchen drawers for one. With a pitcher full of cold water from the sink pump, she spent the next few minutes refreshing herself and brushing dirt from her hair and suit jacket. She retwisted her hair and hung her hat and jacket on a peg, pleased with the freedom of her simple gray bodice and skirt.

She had not eaten since breakfast, and neither had Bern, so she set about making biscuits. As kitchens went, his was just like the next, and in no time she had stoked the cook stove and rolled out enough dough for two pans. She was searching for a biscuit cutter when the back door flew open.

Startled at not hearing anyone approach from outside, she stood at the sideboard, hand to her throat as Bern entered with a little girl in long blonde braids and a blue calico dress.

Etta's heart leaped at the girl's delighted surprise. But it nearly stopped beating when she looked into soft brown eyes that mirrored her own.

~

Gracie bolted to Etta, flung her arms around her waist, and laid her cheek against an apron Bern hadn't seen in a while.

"You came, Miss Etta. You really came."

He swallowed a lump as big as his fist and dug for every ounce of grit he had to keep from puddling up at the sight of his daughter in Etta Collier's arms.

Lord, he wasn't prepared for this.

Etta dropped down to meet Gracie face-to-face, brushing back stray hair he could never get to hold in her braids. "You must be Gracie. You are as beautiful as your father said."

That right there was worth the woman's first month's wages, a side she'd not shown _him_ in the last twenty-four hours. Understandable, though it was.

Buster ran through the open door and wiggled around the two of them like a worm on a hook.

Gracie corralled him. "This is Buster. Looks like he's happy to see you too."

Etta ruffled the pup's ears, then straightened and pressed her hands down the front of the apron. "It's a wonderful welcome, and I thank you. But since it's almost time for supper, can you show me where your biscuit cutter is?"

"Oh yes. Right here."

Bern took the dog from Gracie's arms.

She pulled open the top drawer in the kitchen safe. "We have two, one with a fluted edge and one smooth."

"Perfect. We will do one pan fancy and one pan plain. Wash your hands here, and you can show me how you do it."

Etta shot him a smile so joyful it made his knees weak. He had to get out of there, and fast, or he'd be bawling like a baby.

"I'm—uh—gonna go look at my sermon notes." He thumbed over his shoulder toward the porch.

Gracie cocked her head at him. "But, Papa, I thought they were on your desk in the parlor."

Grateful for a good reason to turn away, he scooted Buster outside and shut the door. "You're right, Gracie-bird. Don't know how I could forget."

She giggled and exchanged a unified female look with Etta Collier.

Bern beat a trail to the front of the house that suddenly didn't feel like his anymore.

The fire had been fed and the screen set in place, which would keep more burn spots from popping up on the braided rug. He slumped into his desk chair and sat there numb, staring at the flames and trying to make sense of what just happened.

His house had become a home again, that's what happened. All because a widow from Independence, Missouri, opened the heart of his little girl.

He set his hat aside and rested his head in his hands. If he wasn't careful, the same thing would happen to him. Which was exactly why he'd "hired" the woman. That way he could fire her too, if need be, without hindrance of any signed paper.

But not tonight and probably not ever, if Gracie had a say in it. However, he couldn't worry about it, because he had a sermon to prepare for tomorrow, and that was asking a lot.

A half hour into his notes, Gracie came into the parlor with tears in her eyes. What had Etta Collier done now?

"Papa, Miss Etta says she's not my new mama, that she's a nanny and a housekeeper." Gracie climbed into his lap and pressed her face into his chest. In the circle of his arms, her sobs shook out, pulling him apart on the inside. His daughter's tears were the one assault he couldn't stand up against.

"That's right, darlin'. Miss Etta is gonna help us, just like you wanted, remember? Help with the cooking and such, and she's gonna be here for you. Did you know she's a dressmaker? She can teach you more about sewing."

Gracie sat back and wiped her nose on her wrist. "But I thought a nanny was a goat."

He pulled her against him with a chuckle. "Well, you're right. Sometimes people call a mama goat a nanny, but sometimes they call children kids, right? And kids are really baby goats. A nanny is a person who takes care of children."

"But I want a mama. And a bride for you, Papa."

He'd not die at the end of some gun slick's pistol, but at the heart-searing words of his own daughter. Setting her back, he looked into eyes so like her mother's, yet uncomfortably similar to Etta Collier's. "Some things we have to leave to the good Lord's timing, Gracie. And a bride for me is one of those things."

"But didn't you ask Mama to marry you?"

He didn't like the turn this conversation was taking. "Yes, I did."

"So why can't you ask Miss Etta?"

Out of the mouths of babes.

He kissed the top of Gracie's head and set her on her feet. "Smells to me like those biscuits are ready. You go on and I'll be right behind you."

Obediently, she turned, but scuffed out the door, clearly dissatisfied with his answer.

His head sank to his chest and the prayer rose slowly, like a bucket of water pulled up from a well. _God help me._

After a supper of biscuits, butter, and jam, Gracie helped Etta clear the few dishes, then kissed Bern good-night, hugged Etta, and ran to her room. Crying herself to sleep, he'd wager.

Etta joined him at the table with two cups of coffee and slid one his way. "I'm sorry."

He let the hot cup warm his hands. "What for?"

She turned her cup in circles with the hands of a woman unpampered. A woman who knew how to work and care for a family. He had a sudden urge to take one in his own, but instead, he gripped his mug tighter.

"She was so excited, and so sure that we were ... well, you know. I didn't want to try to explain it to her. That is your privilege as her father."

She cut him a side glance, then went back to her cup-spinning. "But I felt I had to. She's an insistent little thing."

A snort huffed out. "You're tellin' me. I tried explaining things and got about as far as you did."

Etta rested her fingers on his arm.

His breath snagged and he locked on her face.

"She loves you and simply doesn't understand it all. But she will. She'll grow into that understanding."

Their eyes held for a heartbeat, two, then she withdrew her hand and hid behind her coffee as if embarrassed that she'd touched him.

His arm burned where her fingers had been.

He took a swig of strong coffee, and the jolt set him on his feet. "I've got bedding for you. I'll be right back."

Down the hall, he stopped outside Gracie's room and peeked in on her. She lay curled like a kitten with her quilt tucked under her chin. He walked to her lamp and turned it down, then kissed her forehead.

"I'll be in the barn tonight with Zeke," he whispered. "But Miss Etta's here. I love you, Gracie-bird."

Her eyelashes fluttered. She was already dreaming.

He pulled her door almost shut and his courage out of hiding as he crossed the hall into his room. There were some things a man had to square-up to, and one was opening his departed wife's cedar chest.

It sat at the foot of his bed. His and Ruth's bed. Covered with quilts and blankets and anything he'd found to obscure it. But tonight he needed what was inside. He wouldn't let Etta Collier sleep rolled up in thin blankets. It was bad enough all he had for her was a cot and pallet.

Shoving everything off on the floor, he knelt in front of the chest, lifted the lid, and breathed in the cedar scent, caught unaware by something mixed with it. Something he didn't expect. Something that smelled a whole lot like Ruth.

He'd thought the hurt might lessen over the years, but it was just as jagged when confronted with her treasures and the smell of her in the clothes. Quickly, he dug down to the extra linen and pulled out what he needed. Then he spread a quilt on the floor, layered a bedroll for himself, and closed the lid on his past.

He had Gracie to think of, and she wasn't getting easier to care for. Just more complex. That fact was made even clearer tonight. Gathering the linen and another quilt in one hand and his bedroll in the other, he returned to the kitchen, where Etta was putting the clean supper dishes away.

She took off her apron and laid it over the back of the chair she'd been sitting in when he left.

He offered her the linen and quilt. "This'll make a good bed for you." An idea chewed through from the back of his brain. "Unless you want to sleep in my room across from Gracie."

She stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.

It took a second before he figured out what he'd said and hadn't said.

"I'll bunk in the barn. I'm no stranger to a bedroll." He hefted the bundle under his arm.

An even more horrified expression rode across her face. "There is no reason you cannot stay in your own room."

"You don't know the women of the church. And I must warn you, their welcome tomorrow won't be warm. I apologize ahead of time for that."

"But I don't understand. What is wrong with you having a housekeeper and nanny for your daughter?"

"Nothing, if I was one of those gents in a big house with servants and separate quarters. This is Lockton, and I'm the pastor, whether temporarily or not. The Women's Missionary Society has standards that Gracie didn't take into account when she wrote Pastor Fillmore."

Etta smoothed one hand over the linens and mumbled under her breath. "Apparently, neither did I."

Her words stuck like a cocklebur. "You regret coming?"

She looked at him frankly, taking his measure like she had the black mare. In half a minute her shoulders settled, and she shook her head. "No."

Relieved by her answer but not completely convinced, he went out the back door. He'd bunk in the barn until the weather turned come fall.

If Etta Collier was here that long.

~

Etta closed her eyes and buried her face in the clean linen. It smelled of lavender sachet, and she surmised that the scent was preferred by Gracie's mother.

With a final look about the kitchen, she took the lamp into her quarters and set it on her small cot-side table. Then she drew the door until it was open just wide enough, she hoped, that she could hear if Gracie called out.

Bern had not taken _that_ into account, leaving his daughter alone in the house with her "nanny" in a back room. And all to appease a few old gossips at the church. What would Gracie do if she wakened in the night and found her father gone? Had he told her he was sleeping in the barn?

Etta's ire simmered as she changed into her shift and loosely braided her hair. Her prayers must include a petition for patience that she not strangle members of the Women's Missionary Society tomorrow.

She dressed the pegs on the wall with her bodice, skirt, and petticoat, then made up her bed with what Bern had provided. He was more thoughtful than she'd imagined after first meeting the dust-covered, unshaven man. He was still unshaven, but she was beginning to see a glimpse of the person inside.

Slipping between the bedclothes, she marveled at how drastically her life had changed in a matter of weeks. Fleeing the fiendish advances of one man had led her to trust another's word about a third man who turned out to be considerate and kind, at least so far.

Maybe that was what prompted him to mention her use of his bedroom.

A tremor slid through her. She could not. It was hard enough lying in the bedclothes that had last covered the woman he loved, the mother of his child.

### CHAPTER 8

The first Sunday in June bloomed bright and fair, somewhat warmer than the last weeks of May had been, and Etta held Gracie's hand as they joined Bern on the walk to church. Inclement weather would force them into the buggy, Gracie had explained, but on beautiful days, she and her papa liked to walk.

"Today is certainly a beautiful day." Etta smiled down at the girl, pleased with the neat plaits she had French-braided into the flaxen hair.

She turned to address Bern. "Wouldn't you agree?"

He stared down the road toward the church house that stood off by itself in the sunshine. Bible in hand, he wore a black frock coat instead of his vest and badge. In the three weeks she'd been there, Etta had never noticed his gun belt beneath the open coat on Sunday mornings, but that didn't mean the sidearm wasn't on him somewhere. Possibly in his boot. She wouldn't put it past him.

"It's a beautiful day, wouldn't you agree, Bern?"

He glanced at her and then his daughter. "Yes. A beautiful day."

As if determined to convince himself, he quickened his pace and left Etta and Gracie behind. The child's giggles infected Etta, and she failed miserably at hiding her mirth.

Bern marched up the steps and through the front door as Etta and Gracie reached the stone pathway to the church.

"He's certainly in a hurry today." Etta brushed at both their skirts, ridding them of road dust.

"Only when he wants to avoid Mrs. Prigg." Gracie giggled again. "She just got back from Denver, my friend Heidi said. She took her daughter on a _shopping_ trip."

"Do tell." Hoping her charge would do just that, Etta straightened. "Without laughing, please. We are ladies on our best behavior this morning."

Gracie pulled a face, mimicking the matron Etta had not met but heard was one of the women determined to marry off her daughter to Bern. Tucking her chin, Gracie dropped her voice, and cupped one hand inside the other at waist height. "My dear Pastor Stidham. Have you noticed how _divine_ my Primrose looks today in the new dress she recently made?"

Etta slapped a hand over her mouth and laid the other on Gracie's shoulder. Several moments passed before she could speak without laughing aloud. "Oh, Gracie, please, we mustn't make fun of others, particularly our elders."

Gracie rolled her eyes. "Papa says that too." Attention diverted, she pointed back toward town. "Here they come now."

Etta glanced over her shoulder at the same time she batted down Gracie's outstretched arm. "Do not point, please. It isn't polite." She stooped to meet the girl eye-to-eye and said in her most encouraging tone, "Remember, I am your nanny and your father's housekeeper. Understand?"

"I _know._ "

Etta frowned her disapproval, and Gracie dipped her head, looking up under fair lashes. "Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you, Gracie. It is very important that people get the right impression." Etta loathed pretense and felt every inch the hypocrite telling Gracie such a thing. She could care less what Mrs. Prigg thought. But Etta refused to bring any more whispered rebuke on Bern than he'd already suffered her first two Sundays in town.

She grasped Gracie's hand with her left one and turned for the church door, but Mrs. Prigg spoke out so loudly that Etta stopped, stunned by the similarity to Gracie's earlier imitation.

"Grace, my child. How good to see you again this Lord's Day. And who is your visitor? You must introduce us."

The visual sweep of Etta's mourning black was all the introduction the woman needed in light of her fashionably tailored suit and that of the young lady with her, presumably Primrose. Poor thing must suffer repeatedly with such a name

"Miss Etta isn't visiting. She's my nanny and Papa's housekeeper."

A shotgun blast could not have startled the two Prigg women more. Primrose went ashen while her mother's chin rose and her face flushed to match the deep cranberry hue of her attire. They must not have had time to catch up on the local gossip.

"One always introduces the church member to the visitor first, dear, not the other way around. But I'm sure you have not yet been taught such conventions."

"But Miss Etta's not—"

"What a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Prigg." Etta offered her best smile.

The chin inched higher. "Mrs. Rutherford Prigg, of the Denver Priggs, and our daughter, Primrose."

Primrose dipped her head in acknowledgment and kept her smile to herself.

Etta was dying to know what brought such gentry to Lockton, why the younger Prigg stooped to make her own clothing, and whether her corset was laced too tight. "And you as well, Primrose. What a lovely frock you're wearing."

Gracie snorted.

Etta squeezed her little fingers. "I have heard that you are quite an accomplished seamstress. Perhaps we can exchange pattern tips at a later date."

The young woman sniffed and eyed Etta's modestly embellished black dress. "Perhaps."

Others had arrived in the church yard and formed a semi-circle around the Priggs, pressing them for news from the city. However, the elder Prigg kept her eyes on Etta, giving her the distinct sensation of being sighted upon like a wild turkey right before Thanksgiving.

At Bern's appearance in the doorway, Etta released Gracie's hand as well as a pent-up breath, bolstered once more by his presence. She was here for Gracie—and for him—a worthy purpose that held her steadfast against the newest onslaught.

Gracie ran up the steps to stand at her father's side, perhaps bruised from the pointed barbs of the Priggs but not realizing the pain for what it was.

Etta had survived the initial shock her presence elicited on her first Sunday, thanks to Bern's encouragement and the warm welcome of Mrs. Dalton, festooned in the brightest orange hat Etta had ever seen.

"You must be that gal Bern went to fetch from Olin Springs," Dottie Dalton had twittered. Dark eyes twinkled in her lined face, betraying a life-loving spirit. "We heard all about it through the grapevine, you know. He made a fine choice in you. You are just what he and that girl-child need."

Since then, the woman had become a good friend and had already called at the house on two occasions.

As if Etta's memory drew Dottie into reality, her small gloved hand rested on Etta's back. "You look beautiful this morning. So fresh and bright."

Etta bent down level with the little woman's hat. "And you, my friend, are a terrible liar."

Dottie cackled at the jest and waved off Etta's remark. "You are fetching in black. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

A painful reminder of her situation from anyone else's lips. But from Dottie, it was pure kindness.

"And you as well." Etta touched the woman's arm. "Can you come for tea this Wednesday?"

"Count on it." Dottie made her way to the steps, where she paused to plant a kiss on top of Gracie's head and finger one of her braids.

Gracie beamed and pointed to Etta before Dottie entered the church.

Etta's heart swelled with gratitude as well as a reminder that she must teach Gracie not to point like a signpost.

Taking her usual seat in the last row—so people couldn't talk about her behind her back, Bern had suggested—Etta looked for the carrot-colored hat and found it halfway up the sanctuary on the left side. While she wished she were sitting next to Mrs. Dalton rather than in the back, Gracie slid past her knees and settled on her right side. Then, true to form, the girl took a hymnal from a pocket in the back of the pew ahead of them and held it between both hands, thumbs poised on the pages and eyes straight ahead as if waiting for a starting pistol's shot.

"Pick seventy-seven," she whispered. "Pick seventy-seven."

Etta leaned close. "That's a closing song, Gracie. Why do you always want to sing it?"

"Welcome." Bern's voice stilled all conversation." It's good to see each of you this morning."

Etta warmed to the familiar timbre, no different than ever, merely a little louder as it rolled out over the congregants and all the way to the back of the room. "Please turn to hymn number sixty-four."

Gracie expelled a disappointed sigh and stood with Etta as the pump organ began to play.

Bern was not a singer. He belted out the first word of each verse, then let his voice fade as the congregation carried the song. But it was nothing less than his voice that had set Etta at ease her first Sunday and each one thereafter. When he preached, he spoke naturally, without stilted or pompous delivery as some preachers did. Like Pastor Fillmore, he addressed the people as friends, as if they were having a conversation. No browbeating or scolding. No finger-shaking.

She could see why he'd been chosen, for he made the Lord sound approachable. Common yet holy at the same time.

~

Bern should be used to it by now, but it was all he could do to stay on track and get through the sermon with Etta and Gracie sitting in the back pew, pretty as two fillies in a flower garden. Despite her widow's black, Etta brightened the day. Gracie's pleasure was clear.

After the service, on his way out with the two of them, Beatrice Markham ambushed him on the stoop.

"Pastor Stidham, my Florence has baked the most delicious berry cobbler to go with our Sunday chicken. We look forward to you sharing our dinner with us today as _usual._ "

Bern didn't miss her sideways shot at Etta. Nor did he miss Etta's polite nod toward the woman as she passed with Gracie in hand.

_Usual_ hadn't occurred since he brought Etta home last month, and he suspected the Priggs' return set Mrs. Markham off to the races again. Hat in hand, he shut the church door behind him, fairly hearing Beatrice swell with pride.

"I do appreciate your generosity to my family, but perhaps another time. I've already made plans for today. Lord bless you, ma'am."

He set his hat and strode down the stone path as Beatrice deflated on the church-house steps. He'd repent later.

Offering one arm to Etta, he gave the other to Gracie, who happily linked her hand in his elbow. Together, they walked up the road. "My family," he'd told Mrs. Markham, and they weren't just walking to his house. They were walking _home_.

The sun's mid-day warmth seeped into his shoulders like a benediction. Etta Collier had made a difference already, and he'd keep her as far away from the marriageable-daughter matrons as possible until the storm blew over. Thanks to Gracie and her school friends, everyone in town knew he was sleeping in the barn, but some tongues wagged whether they had cause to or not.

As they entered the front door, the sweet aroma of dried-apple pie swirled around them making his mouth water. He set his Bible on the parlor desk and hung his coat over the chair. Gracie followed Etta into the kitchen and their easy laughter mingled with the smells of cinnamon, apples, and baked chicken. Lured down the hall like a hungry trout, it was all he could do not to sweep Etta into his arms and propose. Only a fool would let a woman like her get away.

At the sink, he rolled his shirt sleeves and reached for the soap cake. His so-called mail-order housekeeper not only carried herself well around the busybodies at church, she'd won over Slim Stewart at the general store, planted a kitchen garden, and started Gracie making doll clothes and working a sampler in the evenings.

From the corner of his eye, he watched her mind the stove and direct Gracie at the same time. Etta's womanly ways—the smell of her, the light in her eyes when she laughed with him—made him feel whole again. Not so alone. How could his world have come about so right in a matter of weeks?

And that was the rub. In spite of everything good and beautiful about her, a worrisome prod at the back of his brain sounded a whole lot like his father. _A few weeks aren't enough to judge anyone's mettle for a life-time commitment._

Grudgingly, Bern conceded the truth. He'd seen tempers turn on a tic. He'd better hold his horses.

Trouble was, he'd rather hold Etta Collier.

### CHAPTER 9

Etta checked that her hair was pinned tight and out of the way, then opened the door of her room and carried the lamp to the kitchen table. Buttery light melted into the dark corners and warmed the room. She stoked the cook-stove fire and started a pot of coffee, planning hotcakes and eggs for breakfast.

Bern had made quick work of her apple pies in the last two days, and she basked in the memory of his obvious pleasure in her baking. A thin shadow scurried by as she wondered if he responded in kind to Florence Markham's culinary skills.

No matter. Etta shook off the question and considered what she'd serve with coffee and tea for Dottie Dalton's visit. Essential, oft-repeated dishes came quickly to mind, but Etta's receipt book was with Mrs. Fillmore, as was her favorite bread bowl, china, and rocker.

Snagging such depressing thoughts, she tied them off with the apron strings and raked her memory. A special treat was in order for the sprite who cheered her so. After breakfast, she'd search the kitchen again for receipts. Surely Gracie's mother had a collection somewhere.

The back door opened, and for a moment, Etta was afraid to look, imagining what she'd seen her first full day in the Stidham household—a plucked and headless chicken dangling from Bern's hand. But this morning, no feathers sprouted from his arms and trousers as they had that day, and the boyish pride he'd worn then gave way to fatigue. He might brag about his bed-roll days, but those were long past. He hadn't slept well again.

"Coffee will be ready soon." She pulled a towel from a drawer and laid it on the sideboard by the sink, then took two mugs from the cupboard.

"First I'll wake Gracie and have her pick eggs for you."

Impulsively, Etta laid her hand on his arm, stopping him in his tracks. "I'll get her."

With a tip of her head toward the towel, she hurried out and down the hall. Twice she'd touched Bern Stidham and both times he'd given her a look that set her pulse to flying.

Expecting the sound of her rushed steps to wake Gracie, she peered through the slightly opened door and found the girl already dressed and sitting at her small desk.

Etta knocked on the door frame. Gracie swept a paper off the desktop and into a drawer, then turned in her chair with an air of innocence.

"May I come in?" Etta pushed the door a bit more open.

"Oh yes." Gracie hurried toward her and threw her arms around her waist. "Will you braid my hair again today?"

Etta smiled at the decoy. She'd braided Gracie's hair every day since she'd arrived. "I'd be happy to. Sit down there at your desk and I'll brush out the tangles."

A nervous look crossed Gracie's face and she positioned herself directly in front of the drawer.

Etta drew her fingers and then a brush through the long golden strands. "May I ask you a question?"

Gracie leaned sideways as if ensuring the drawer didn't open.

"Do you ever ride your papa's buggy horse?"

The child's tension escaped like a freed bird and her little shoulders dropped. "You mean Rosie? I thought you were going to ask what I was doing when you knocked on my door."

Such a delight to see one in whom the gift of conscience had not been squelched. "Should I?"

The shoulders tightened a bit. "I was writing."

"To Reverend Fillmore again?"

Gracie's head turned quickly, pulling the strands from Etta's fingers. "Oh, no! You're perfect. You're just what I prayed for, except for one thing that I can't talk about because Papa said so." She tipped her head to the side, and Etta regathered a braid. "But maybe I _should_ write a thank-you note. That would be all right, wouldn't it?"

"I think that would be sweet. If your father approves."

Again, the thin shoulders slumped.

"You must enjoy writing. It's a fine art, you know."

"Really?" Gracie tried to look up, pulling at the braid again.

Etta clamped her fingers tight.

"Please sit still while I do this, or I'll not have time to fix breakfast before your father leaves."

Gracie puffed out a sigh and resigned herself to Etta's attention.

In a few moments, the braids were complete with matching blue ribbons at the end of each one. A tight squeeze of little arms around Etta's waist, and Gracie bounded down the hall like a gazelle.

Etta glanced around the now-familiar room with its small chest of drawers, washstand, and row of wall hooks holding a thin shift and a yellow dress. Calico, like the blue one Gracie had worn yesterday and wore again today. If Etta had her way, Gracie would have another everyday dress as well as the fancier peach-colored frock Etta was working on as a surprise.

With the _wage_ Bern gave her every two weeks, she'd saved enough to buy fabric, as well as a few personal items for herself. At first, she tried to refuse the money, but that ploy had proven fruitless, so she simply said thank you and tucked it into a stocking in the bottom of her carpet bag.

He had kept his end of their bargain, but she'd not kept hers. She'd not drawn up a contract regarding the length of her stay. Truth be told, she didn't like to think about it. About leaving.

When Etta returned to the kitchen, Gracie was not there, nor was the egg basket. Bern sat at the table, a coffee mug in one hand, rubbing his eyes with the other. Something had to change. The man worked two jobs, at opposite ends of Main Street, and each required a good night's rest. At this rate, he would either fall asleep at the lectern or be caught off guard by a ne'er-do-well. Neither was acceptable.

With her apron bunched, she picked up the coffee pot, and warmed his cup. "Difficult night?"

An intimate question perhaps, but one that would fuel her argument.

He blinked at her, eyes more gray and red than blue this morning. Weary.

"Zeke snores."

She laughed unguardedly, then covered her mouth and returned the coffee to the stove. Rather than confront him head on, she set a greased griddle over the hottest part of the stove and stirred a bowl of batter.

"Forgive me, I am not making light of your predicament with Zeke. But I am making an argument against it."

"Remember Prigg and Markham?"

"Of course I do."

"Then you also remember why I won't sleep in the house."

Tempted to growl like Buster when he tugged the knotted end of a rag, Etta gritted her teeth instead and poured a circle of batter onto the griddle.

"But I have a plan that will give you a different bed, and I'll take your cot out to the barn."

"Will it keep Zeke from snoring?" She stole a glance and found him reading her over the brim of his mug.

"I'll turn him out in the pasture." The imperious eyebrow rose. "Happy?"

A sudden flush burned her cheeks, and she faced the stove. "Yes." _Very._

The flush intensified, and she blamed the hot griddle, which reminded her that the syrup should be warmed. "Would you mind bringing me the pitcher of syrup from the table?"

His chair scraped the wooden floor and his presence closed in behind her. He laid one hand on her shoulder, reached around her with the other, and set the pitcher on the stovetop.

Breath caught in her throat at his unexpected touch, and she dared not move for fear she'd fling herself against him and beg him to let her stay. Then he'd send her packing for sure.

After a long moment, he gently pressed her shoulder and returned to the table. It was all she could do to keep her limbs from buckling.

For lack of a clearer thought, she fell back on a nagging question. "Since there were no baked goods on hand when I arrived, I didn't realize Florence Markham had kept you stocked in cobblers and such."

He snorted. Not unlike his horse.

Already close to burning the hotcakes, she flipped two onto a plate and resisted looking over her shoulder.

"Only a mother could love that gal's cooking, and as you can imagine, Mrs. Markham certainly does. Or she's trying to get Florence out of the house so they don't have to eat her wares."

The snorting reflex was contagious. Etta coughed and pushed her winging heart back behind her ribs and the syrup to the back of the stove.

Not even two months had she been there. How could she feel so at home?

~

Bern left Gracie and Etta cleaning up the kitchen while Gracie rattled on about some project she was making. It pained him to realize the sadness his little girl had settled into over the last few years without his notice. This morning, like every other one since Etta came, Gracie had a smile on her face and a light in her eye that had been too long missing.

He saddled Zeke and rode into town, past the telegraph office and the barber, then stopped at the general.

"Mornin', Slim," he said, entering beneath the door's tin bell.

"Sheriff." Slim Stewart wiped newsprint and vinegar water across his glass-topped counter until it squeaked. More spit 'n polish than Slim's pa had ever used on the place, but the elder Stewart had been up in years before Bern said words over his grave. The fact that Bern had laid several citizens to rest since old Thorndike retired didn't keep most folks from still calling him sheriff. Some habits were harder to break than others.

Slim was tantamount to a bartender when it came to knowing who did what where and when, but he couldn't be called a gossip. Bern admired him for that.

"I've come to pay my tab and see if you can help me with something."

"Sure thing, Sheriff." Slim pulled his record book from underneath the counter.

Bern squared his account, then pushed his hat up in back and scratched his head. "I ... uh ... need a bed for my housekeeper. Any ideas where I can get one that's better than the cot she's using now?" If he didn't trust Slim's tight-lipped ways, he'd never air such a private matter. "Can you show me a catalogue with furniture?"

"I can do you one better, Sheriff. Follow me."

Slim walked the length of the narrow shotgun store and through a curtain at the rear to a flat crate set against the wall. "Rutherford Prigg special-ordered this bed from Montgomery Ward. Not sure why, but he decided he didn't want it."

Slim pulled a sheet of paper from the crate, unfolded it, and handed it to Bern. "Assembly, if you're interested. Even comes with a tick."

Bern looked at the illustration and held in a wince at the price before folding the paper and handing it back to Slim. "Appreciate it, but it's beyond my pay."

Slim gave him an over-the-spectacles look. "You do know I have to ship this back to Chicago and that will cost me some. How 'bout I let you have it for what I paid, and we call it even?"

Bern scowled. "What have you got goin' on, Slim? You're not a wealthy man."

"Let's just say the Lord's blessed me, Sheriff."

Bern studied the man's honest face, hunting what was really behind his generosity. Finally, he held out his hand. "You've got yourself a deal."

Pleased, Slim shook his hand, then stuffed the paper inside the crate. "I'll have my boy deliver it to your house later today."

"Much obliged." Eager to complete his early rounds, Bern made to leave through the alley door.

"Sheriff?"

Here it came. He glanced back.

"Glad to hear things are working out with your housekeeper. You need a good woman for yourself and that girl of yours, if you'll pardon me sayin' so."

Surprised, Bern found himself short on words. He nodded and closed the door on his way out.

Slim Stewart was a weather vane for sure, and Bern took what he said to heart. Still, it made him feel exposed, like he was walking through town without his trousers. Did everyone see him as needing a woman? A part of him bristled at the public verdict. He'd been taking care of himself and Gracie just fine. Nearly four years.

Until Etta Collier showed up and reminded him of what he'd been missing.

### CHAPTER 10

Dottie Dalton drove her buggy around behind the house just as Etta took her last pan of fritters from the oven and dusted them with powdered sugar. She wiped her hands on her apron and then laid it over the back of her chair, watching through the door glass as Dottie climbed from the buggy like someone half her age, orange hat and all.

She bubbled into the kitchen with her usual exuberance. "Gracious, child, what a vision you are today."

Etta seriously wondered if the woman's eyesight was failing. "Good morning, Dottie. I have water heated for tea, and coffee, of course, to go with fresh apple fritters."

The hat came off and found a home on the back of Bern's chair. "Apple, you say?"

"Kind you are, Dottie, not to complain, but everything I make other than stew has an apple in it since I've no receipt book. Bern has enough dried apples set by to choke an ox."

"You didn't bring your book with you from Independence?"

Etta hadn't shared with anyone the details of her flight.

"I imagine Gracie knows where her mother's collection is. But I'm sure your fritters out-shine what that Florence Markham can make, poor child. If her mother would leave her alone, she'd probably turn out not half bad. Wait until the big Thanksgiving feed, and you'll see what I mean."

Etta stopped cold, a plate in one hand, warm fritter in the other. "Thanksgiving feed?" Bern had said nothing about a Thanksgiving feed, though it _was_ only June.

"Oh, yes. Biggest event of the year. Puts the town's July Fourth festivities to shame, as far as the food and fixin's go. Tea will be delightful, thank you. Where is that little Gracie?"

Bumped from her musing, Etta set a plate of sugar-dusted fritters on the table. "She's weeding the garden. Would you like me to call her in?"

"No, no. Leave her be for now."

After placing two teacups and saucers on the table, Etta added the tin and a ball strainer she'd found, both hidden in a far corner of a cupboard.

Dottie opened the tin and inhaled. "I haven't seen this in ages. Didn't think Bern could tolerate it. Ruth loved her tea, you know."

Discomforted by the revelation, Etta opened a window, then took her seat, wishing they were on the front porch rather than in the kitchen. She added loose leaves to the strainer and dropped it into the teapot before setting the lid. No tea at supper tonight.

"You've been busy, child. Look at these wonderful delights." Dottie helped herself to two fritters that barely fit on her saucer, leaving scant room for the teacup.

Etta also chose one and prayed they were edible.

Dottie bit into the fried pastry, curiosity dancing in her eyes. "Tell me, dear, did you have no room in your trunk to fit a receipt book?"

Embarrassed now at her hasty and frugal departure, Etta wished she had shipped at least one small trunk. "I left rather quickly and took only what I could carry."

Dottie's expression didn't change, and she reached for another fritter. "You must have a sharp memory. That Bern will be round as a toadstool if you feed him these, and you should. Little Gracie, too. No bigger than a broom handle, she is."

Etta relaxed as Dottie prattled on with her extended opinion of Bern's and Gracie's constitutions. She reviewed the stops she'd make before she returned home, then thanked Etta, as she always did, for letting her call in the morning rather than the afternoon.

Pausing, she dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "I'll talk all day if you let me. Now tell me why you left Missouri in such a rush. Independence, was it?"

Etta poured tea into each cup and pushed the sugar bowl toward her guest. Dottie had waited to ply her questions, proving herself a friend rather than merely a nosy neighbor. Etta trusted her.

"I was prey to a repugnant banker who carried the note on my home and pursued me against social constraints."

Dottie sipped her tea, then shook her head. "Pole cat."

Etta held in a laugh at the little woman's unhesitating judgement. "At my pastor's suggestion, I came west to help the Stidham family. It was either that or add strychnine to the banker's tea the next time he called and end up in jail."

Dottie's cup halted halfway to its saucer, and her eyes lit with admiration. "I'd say you made the better choice, dear. But I do admire your pluck."

~

Later, when Bern's boots sounded on the porch steps, Etta filled his coffee mug and set the remaining fritters on the table, grateful that he'd taken time to come home for dinner. Quickly, she made sure any loose hair was tucked in place.

The door opened, and Bern's hat dropped on the back of his chair. "I see Mrs. Dalton was here."

"And just how do you know that?"

His glance caught her as he rolled up his sleeves at the sink. "Buggy tracks. And those of a horse that isn't Rosie."

The man missed nothing. "She left about half an hour ago, but there are only a few fritters remaining. I don't know where she puts everything she eats."

Bern chucked a soft noise in his throat, dried his hands, and rubbed the towel over his face and back across his hair before taking his chair at the table.

She dished up fresh biscuits and sausage gravy, set a bowl of canned peaches on the table, and went outside and called for Gracie.

When she returned and sat down, Bern took her hand and bowed his head.

"Thank you, Lord, for this food and for Etta preparing it. And bless Dottie Dalton for her friendship and Slim Stewart for his generosity. Amen."

He didn't let go right away, and she looked up to find his eyes on her, warm and earthy and saying more than might be completely appropriate. She tugged her fingers, but his hold tightened, and all her composure flew out the kitchen window.

"I stopped by Stewart's General Store this morning, and his son will be delivering a crate today. Maybe before I get home. I'll put it together tonight."

She could hardly think with him holding her hand. "Are you going out of town?"

He opened his mouth, but all she heard was a child's scream.

Gracie!

Bern shot up, knocking his chair over, and ran out the door. Etta followed him across the yard and toward the garden, where another scream tore the air. Buster yapped frantically.

As they ran, Bern drew his gun and held it close to his leg.

Gracie was on her backside in the corner of the fenced plot, knees to her chest and Buster tucked under her chin, trying his best to get away.

Bern raised his gun and pointed it right at his daughter.

Etta's hands flew to her mouth lest she scream. Oh Lord, what was he doing?

"Don't move, Gracie-bird. Don't move."

Gracie squeezed her eyes shut, crying and holding tight to the struggling puppy.

The gunshot jerked through Etta, and she cried out in spite of herself.

Bern walked into the garden and stopped at a bloody spot on the ground not three feet from Gracie. Holding his gun on it, he watched for a moment, then kicked away the headless snake and holstered his weapon.

Gracie jumped up and leaped into his arms. "I was so afraid Buster was going to get bit, Papa. I was so afraid."

The puppy hunkered back in the corner, trembling. Etta picked it up, her ears ringing and her heart racing as she followed Bern and Gracie to the house.

In the kitchen, he righted his chair and sat down with Gracie on his lap, her arms tight around his neck. She laid her golden head against his chest, clearly her father's daughter.

Etta set the puppy on an old towel behind the stove and gave it a bowl of milk, then warmed Bern's coffee and filled a plate for Gracie.

"I'm not hungry," the child mumbled into Bern's shirt.

Understandably, Etta thought. Neither was she. Buster would eat well this evening.

Bern picked up his coffee. "You want to help me bury the rattler's head?"

Etta checked to make sure he wasn't talking to her. She'd heard about rattle snakes in the West but hadn't expected to have one in the garden where she'd sent Gracie. Alone. What had she been thinking?

She shuddered.

Bern flicked her a glance and rubbed circles on Gracie's back. Surely he wasn't talking to his daughter either, but who else?

"No, Papa. You can do it."

A near smile pulled his mouth.

"I want to go to my room. With Buster."

Bern stood and Gracie resettled against him, her legs around his waist.

"Come on, Buster," she called, and at its name, the pup trotted behind them.

Etta put Bern and Gracie's plates in the warming oven, then sat down with her coffee. Tears blurred her vision, and she pressed her apron against her eyes. What made her think she could be a nanny? She had no experience with children of her own, and she'd endangered Gracie's life. Thank God the child was all right, but Etta was clearly out of her depth.

Bern's hand rested on her shoulder, startling her. "You all right?"

His deep voice vibrated through her, and she scooted her chair back. "I didn't hear you come down the hall. Would you like to finish your dinner?"

His hand held her in place a moment, and then he took his chair. "No, just sit with me."

So he could tell her she was finished? That she'd neglected his daughter? That she wasn't cut out for life as a nanny?

Only a whisper responded to her quest for voice. "I'm so sorry."

He sipped his coffee and watched her over the mug. "Did you put that rattler in the garden?"

The question shocked regret right out of her. "Of course not."

"Then you've got nothing to apologize for."

"But I sent Gracie out to weed the garden by herself. I didn't go with her. And I didn't call her in when Dottie was here."

He set his mug down, holding it between both hands. "There's a snake in every garden, Etta. Especially this time of year when the ground's warming up. Buster did exactly what I got him for—sounded the alarm. You can't blame yourself for every critter that crawls through the yard—"

His eyes caught on the tea tin still on the table behind the sugar bowl, and his voice dropped an octave. "Where'd you find that?"

"In a cupboard." _Hidden behind a stack of bowls._ Thanks to Dottie, she knew why.

He stared at it for several moments, his expression fogging over, perhaps with memories. She would not apologize, though she would return it.

Except she didn't get the chance.

When he left, he took it with him.

### CHAPTER 11

Summer settled in with the last weekend of June. So did the Everson boys.

Bern tossed the cell key on his desk. If they kept it up, they'd miss the town's July Fourth celebration. Come to think of it, that might not be a bad idea, keeping them locked up.

Those boys needed something to do besides scraping a living out of their departed pa's pitiful hog farm and drinking themselves into a stupor every Friday and Saturday night.

He sat down and opened the bottom desk drawer for his ledger. Ruth's tea tin glared up at him, right where he'd put it three weeks ago.

Not clear about why he'd taken it, he shoved it to the back of the drawer, out of sight. Maybe that was the reason. He hadn't wanted to see it on the table where Ruth used to keep it. Hadn't wanted to see it in another woman's hands. Not even Etta's.

Not that he faulted her.

His thoughts were as unstable as the see-saw in the schoolyard. First he'd toyed with the idea of proposing to Etta, then he'd run like a scalded dog. It was enough to make a man want to pull up stakes and trail cows. 'Course he wouldn't do that to either Gracie or Etta. And he couldn't very well leave Lockton at the mercy of the Everson brothers. They'd likely burn the place down.

At least he didn't have to worry about Gracie spending her days with him at the jail while school was out this summer. Not the best atmosphere for a young girl.

An old pain throbbed to life behind his ribs, and he shoved it back in the shadows and opened the ledger book. Black and white was easier to deal with. Facts, figures. He flipped to the last page where he'd started an account of Etta's wages, such as they were. She did things that money couldn't touch, like taking to Gracie as if the girl were her own. Teaching her more than just chores in the kitchen and helping her with her sewing. They'd sit with him in the evenings, stitching and whispering while he read. What they didn't know was that he watched them as much as he read. Maybe more.

With warmer weather, they'd all moved from the parlor to the front porch after supper. Etta and Gracie in the swing, him in a kitchen chair until dusk swallowed the daylight. He'd never felt so peaceful as he did at those times, and he knew it was all on account of Etta Collier. Her sharp wit and tender ways. Her quick humor. Sometimes it felt as if she'd always been there, and more often than not, when he looked in her eyes, he saw Gracie.

So why his reaction to the tea tin?

He slapped the ledger closed, stuck his hat on, and left his accounts unsettled.

~

With Gracie spending the day and tonight at her friend Heidi Young's home, Etta planned to clean and bake and work on Gracie's new dress. She started bread and set it aside to rise, then put a roast in the oven. Bern had carried in kindling for the cook stove and stacked a pile on the parlor hearth, not that they'd need it. Habit, she supposed. That's where she started with her rags and broom.

Aside from the kitchen, the parlor was the most lived-in room in the small house and needed the most attention. She rolled the rugs and took them outside for later beating, then attacked a resistant spot on the hearth stones with a wet rag and extra elbow grease.

Next, she moved to Bern's desk, where she polished the lamp base, lifted his books and papers and wiped down every inch of the surface, careful not to let her eyes linger on anything handwritten. Hungry to know his thoughts, it wouldn't take much to feast on his writings, but snooping was against her better judgment, not to mention her conscience. The trait reminded her too much of Clark Penneholder, who sought to control everything within his miserly reach.

The fireplace mantel collected more dust than anything else in the room, and she sneezed at its unsettling. She'd not given enough diligence to the parlor, and it seemed to resist her efforts now. A ridiculous idea, but stirring up that which had lain undisturbed for so long came at a cost. The same could be said of people and their ways.

Perhaps that was why Bern had snatched up the tea tin, as if he didn't want it in Etta's hands. It was his wife's. Even Dottie had been surprised to see it. Was that why Etta had found no book or banded collection of favorite dishes? Had he put away every visual reminder of the woman he clearly loved?

Doubts began to collect like dust in the corners of her mind. Gracie's mother would not have allowed her to weed the garden alone. She would have been aware of the dangers here, the snakes.

Another sneeze interrupted Etta, and she plucked a hankie from inside her cuff.

Bern said he didn't blame her for the oversight, but what if he did? And what if she unknowingly endangered Gracie again?

A weighty dread sank like stone to her core. This arrangement would never work.

The only way out for either of them was the agreement she'd promised to write.

With heavy heart, she swept the parlor and hallway, finished with Gracie's room, and carried the dustpan out to the back porch, where she emptied it over the railing. Dirt and lint spilled to the ground like the remainder of her hopes.

By dinnertime, the seasoned roast filled the house with a homey welcome, but Bern did not come in. His was not the typical clergyman's life, and possibilities flooded her mind as she put away the table settings and wrapped the fresh loaf of bread in a towel for supper.

Or was he avoiding her?

Buster whined around the back door, missing Gracie, Etta supposed. She set out a bowl of dried up biscuits and milk. "We're a pair, aren't we, boy? Pining away for the two of them."

The pup looked at her as if he understood what she said, licking milk from his black nose and wagging his tail. But he watched from a distance when she started on the rugs, wary of the wire beater.

The chore wasn't Etta's favorite pastime either, and in the future she'd remember to pick a day when Gracie was home. Many hands made light work, her mother had always said, and Gracie needed to learn that truth as soon as possible. Especially since Etta's days with the Stidhams were numbered.

After returning the rugs to the parlor, she sat down at Bern's desk. A few sheets of blank paper lay on one corner, and she took one for her own use. This was as good a time as any to work on the agreement. She gave her wording some thought, dipped his pen, and wrote what she believed was in alignment with their earlier discussion.

However, Bern must decide upon the date. His choice would reveal whether he wanted her to stay or not. Whether he wanted her gone sooner rather than later. She drew a straight line and left it empty for him to fill in. Then she drew two more lines at the bottom and signed her name on the second one.

After the ink dried, she folded the paper and slid it under a corner of his Bible.

She had just enough time to work on Gracie's new dress, adding delicate yet fashionable details that would set it apart from others. Keener eyes might catch her handiwork, and perhaps a few mothers would ask for Etta's skills. It certainly didn't hurt to sow one's seeds in fertile fields.

The habit was subtle at best, looking for ways to bring in a few extra cents. How well Etta knew that circumstances could change in a heartbeat. She may soon be on her own again, seeking work as a dressmaker. But for the last few weeks, she'd cherished what Bern had given her. It was more than enough, not only financially but in friendship and home. A taste of motherhood, even though she'd failed.

She swiped at her eyes, refusing to waste a moment on sentimentality. In spite of widowhood, her life had briefly shifted from lack to plenty. It was only fitting that she make Gracie Stidham the most becoming Sunday dress that Lockton had ever seen on a young girl.

~

Bern headed home at dusk. Gracie was at her friend's house, and only Etta waited for him. They'd never been alone together, other than their first supper in Olin Springs and the ride to Lockton. But that was different.

That was before his feelings for her tore him in two.

Etta Collier set him on his heels, for he hadn't expected anyone to ever come close to where Ruth had been.

He rode past the house, hat tugged low, glad to see Etta wasn't out front on the porch swing. If she was watching from inside, she'd see him ride by. But he had one more stop to make.

As if sensing Bern's need, Zeke picked up the pace as he trotted to the edge of town and around back of the church to the cemetery. He slowed along the picket fence and stopped across from one of the newer headstones.

Bern dropped the reins and stepped off, then over the low fence where he took a knee at the bottom of the plot.

Ruth wasn't there waiting for him, he knew that. She was in glory with others who had gone before. She was with their baby boy.

His lungs squeezed until he thought he might keel over and join them right then and there.

Swiping his hat off, he held it against his chest, pressing on the ache so it didn't leak out his eyes. "I miss you every day. But I know you're doin' better than I am."

Words choked off, stuck behind a knot in his throat that wouldn't loosen. He drew a slow, deep breath and listened to the evening settle in.

"There's a woman here named Etta Collier. A widow who treats Gracie like she's her own daughter. And she's good to me too." His head bowed lower, his voice dropped. "Though she's not you."

A breeze sighed across the cemetery and lifted the hair from his brow like Ruth used to do. His forelock, she'd called it, and the memory brought a painful smile.

"I might be loving her, Ruth, but I want you to know she'll never take your place."

Crickets started in and the wind kicked up, curling around him and teasing a lavender scent from the small shrub he'd planted close by.

Zeke whiffled low and lifted his head, eyes and ears turned north at an unfamiliar sound.

Bern rose and put his hat on, broke off a purple sprig, and tucked it in his vest pocket as he cleared the fence. He gathered Zeke's reins, stepped up, and looked back at the white headstone.

"Kiss the baby for me, darlin'."

~

At the barn, Bern brushed Zeke down and turned him out in the pasture with Rosie before heading to the house. Etta would have supper on the table and maybe be wondering where he'd been all day. He doffed his hat and walked in the back door. The aroma of roasted beef hit him square on.

Etta wasn't there, and for a minute he couldn't think straight. Had she worked late in the garden? Was there another snake? Buster hadn't met him in the barn. He slapped his hat on and reached for the door.

"Aren't you hungry?"

Her quiet voice nearly buckled his knees, and he leaned hard against his hand, bracing himself on the door jam.

The room slowly brightened as she adjusted the lamp on the table.

He hung his hat on his chair and went hunting his heartbeat before he said anything.

She took two plates from the warming oven and set them on the table, then filled two mugs with steaming coffee.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he crossed the room and drew her into his arms. He had to feel the reality of her, know he wasn't imagining things. Know that she was safe.

She tensed at first, then melted into him like spring snow on a sunny day. Her arms went round his waist and she turned her head against his chest and just stood there. Not talking, not moving, just being.

"I thought you were in the garden." His voice betrayed emotion better hidden away, and he recognized fear for what it was. Setting her back, he held her lightly by the arms. "I'm glad you weren't."

In a nervous gesture he'd come to recognize, she dipped her head and pushed at her hair. He wanted to reach around and pull the pins that held it in place, run his hands through its length, and taste her sweet lips.

Instead, he let her go and washed up at the sink, wondering if she thought him a fool for fearing she was in the garden at night.

~

Etta's mind spun like a toy top. Had she misjudged Bern's feelings after all? He'd seemed so comfortable and relaxed during their quiet supper, sharing his thoughts about the day, what he looked forward to in the next. Treating her as if she belonged there with him.

That, and the way he'd wrapped her in his arms earlier, was enough to up-end all her previous doubts.

With the supper dishes done, she stood in the kitchen, gripping the back of her chair and debating her next move. She didn't want to retire, cloistered away in her cubbyhole so soon after the warmth of his presence.

She went to the kitchen safe and took all the dishtowels from a drawer, then separated those that needed mending.

"Etta."

Like rustling leaves or wheat bending beneath a breeze, the sound of her name on his lips drew her around. He stood in the doorway watching her. Could he tell that she'd been reliving the pleasure of his embrace?

"It's dark out, so I'll be in the parlor. You comin'?"

"I don't want to intrude upon your study time." She knew better. Gathering as a family after supper had become a welcomed routine among the three of them. But now, with Gracie away, and Etta's heart in a flutter ...

The planes of his face softened. "Sit with me," he said, his voice quieter and tuned to a pitch that played her senses like a harp. He held out his hand, palm down, reaching for her.

But she reached for the dishtowels. "I'll be right there. I need my sewing kit."

He hesitated, unspoken words hanging in the air between them, but he gave a simple nod and returned to the parlor. She took a moment to gather her courage and her kit, then joined him.

Gracie's little rocker, so small and empty, made Etta miss her own as well as the girl. Bern sat at his desk, his Bible open before him, lamplight gilding his hair, his expression unreadable.

She felt as conspicuous as Dottie Dalton's bright orange hat, bouncing through a crowd, shouting its presence without saying a word.

With no other choice, she eased into the large overstuffed chair she was certain had been Bern's. As always, it enfolded her, hunching its cushioned shoulders around her. Not the place for conveniently moving one's arms and elbows, but comfortable. Welcoming and secure, like his embrace.

Shaking out the top dishcloth, she peeked at Bern and caught his eye, a discovery that caused her to prick her finger when selecting a needle. She tsked at her nervousness.

William had watched her in the evenings. At times. Well, infrequently. And never with such a companionable light in his eyes. His was one of apprehension and concern.

This time, however, the concern was hers. Had Bern read the agreement she'd penned? Was he thinking of asking her to stay?

Against her better judgement, anticipation danced through her. Did he suspect her answer? That she would say _yes and for always_ if he asked? The words stitched across her heart, pulling a tight knot on the last letter.

As she worked, she glanced occasionally from the corner of her eye until his demeanor stilled her hands. He sat staring just above the pages of his Bible, clearly not reading, but frowning.

"What is it?"

He blinked, as if she'd drawn him from a dark room into the light. With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair. "It's the Everson brothers."

She'd heard their name before, usually in the context of drinking and spending their nights in jail. But it wasn't disgust or judgment that etched worry across Bern's face this time.

"I don't know what to do with them. I don't know how to help them stay out of trouble. And with the town's July Fourth celebration around the corner, I worry they'll get people hurt—themselves or someone else."

So there it was. The preaching sheriff deadlocked in his dual occupation. She'd once overheard an elder at the church refer to Bern as the best lawgiver since Moses. She couldn't agree more.

Resting her hands in her lap, she breached the silence. "Have they no family?"

He shook his head, staring into the empty hearth.

"Could they work part time for someone in town? Perhaps for the town itself, cleaning up the streets in preparation for the event, or clearing that overgrown patch next to the church for a picnic spot? They could cut and stack wood. Sweep boardwalks for merchants. Put their hands to work that gives them ownership, a sense of belonging to something bigger than themselves."

He looked at her then, looked through her, rather, taking what she'd said and spinning it out into much more. "I think you're on to something."

Warmth rose in her cheeks and she lowered her head, hoping to hide the blush of her pleasure at his words.

### CHAPTER 12

As usual, Lockton's Fourth of July celebration drew people from miles around, every rancher with his fastest three-year-old for the horse races, and every farmer's wife with her cheeses, sweet corn, or quilts. But Main Street had never looked better.

Bern marveled at the change in the Everson boys, the pride they'd taken in working to get things spruced up for the big event. Etta had hit upon a gold nugget. Not that he'd be deputizing Earl and Lester any time soon, but he doubted he'd be jailing them either.

The Petersons drove down from the mountain with their ice wagon, drawing all the children to run along beside it as it entered town. The contraption looked like a box coffin until Old Man Peterson pried off the lid, revealing layers of straw-packed ice that sold for pennies to lemonade and ice-cream makers alike.

Gracie had talked Etta into trying her hand at ice cream, and Bern had hauled in their White Mountain freezer from the barn where he'd stored it. At the end of the day, he got the dregs of her efforts, and it put him in mind of what Ruth used to make. Not unusual, he supposed, as women often shared their kitchen secrets with one another. Maybe Mrs. Dalton had told her.

But the biggest surprise that day was what Gracie wore—a soft peach-colored dress that made her bloom like a rose. Even Mrs. Prigg and her daughter crowded around with others, touching the frills that drew a woman's attention and chattering like a bunch of blue jays. Etta stood off by herself, one arm resting on the other, fingers pressed against her smiling lips.

Guilty as charged.

Bern thought back to his tabs at Stewart's General. No tickets had dress goods listed. He hadn't paid for Gracie's new frock, he was certain of it.

Etta Collier was cranking his heart as sure as she'd turned the paddles in the ice-cream freezer.

Late in the day, the Everson boys took to cleaning up and saw that everyone was safely on their way home or had a place to stay. Bern gave them each a half-dollar and watched them ride out sober and proud. The saloon owner watched too, standing at his door, shaking his head. Business hadn't been all that good for him lately, and Bern suspected he wasn't the man's favorite person at the moment.

It did his heart good. As did his walk home, thinking about Etta Collier and how different his life was with her in it.

She hadn't pulled away from him the night he'd come home late and thought she was missing or hurt. He wanted to repeat the gesture and intended to do so as soon as he got home. But this time, he'd seal his affection with more than just his arms.

Etta had taken Gracie home earlier, worn out from all the doings and attention. The parlor light flickered dimly in the window, and Bern entered through the front door, expecting to find Etta in the big chair waiting for him. But she wasn't there. Disappointed, he treaded lightly down the hall, checked in on Gracie who was asleep with Buster at her feet, then went on to the kitchen. The door to Etta's room was closed and no light seeped beneath it. Disappointment grew heavier.

Suddenly tired himself, he returned to the parlor for a psalm, as was his custom. Reading before he retired helped smooth out the wrinkles from the day. But this day, he counted more blessings than wrinkles. He had much to be grateful for, and the summer months stretched ahead of him with a deep hope he hadn't felt in some time.

Rather than the Psalms, he turned to Lamentations and read one of his favorite passages:

Yet this I call to mind, therefore have I hope. It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not

consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.

Leaning back with a contented sigh, he noticed the corner of a folded paper beneath his Bible and pulled it out. Etta's hand. He recognized it immediately from what he'd seen last spring in her reply to Gracie. His heart hitched.

In formal wording, with no hint of affection, Etta had laid out the agreement they'd spoken of in May—a lifetime ago. He'd hoped she'd forgotten and was encouraged to believe she had after she responded so warmly to him. Today had sealed that hope even further when he saw the fruits of her labors on Gracie's behalf. But the words she'd written were clear. Proper and to the point. Her signature at the bottom indicated he was to add his own, with a date to be filled in above.

Hope plunged to his boots.

Shoving away from his desk, he crumpled the letter, threw it into the hearth, and stomped out the front door.

~

Etta held breakfast until long after sunup, but Bern never came. Was he ill?

Gracie was still abed, curled up with Buster who watched Etta with dark, round eyes. Leaving them to sleep a little longer, she walked to the barn. Perhaps Bern was as worn down by yesterday's excitement as everyone else and had simply slept through the rooster's call.

Reluctant to disturb him, she tiptoed to the stall where he'd set the cot she once used.

He wasn't there.

She walked in and slid her hand beneath his bedroll. Instead of warmth, she felt cold canvas. Worry rose, and she checked for the horses. They grazed in the pasture, unbothered by their owner's absence.

She looked again in the stall for any sign that Bern had come home the night before, then returned to the house.

Had the Everson boys stirred up trouble after all, requiring Bern to stay at the jail? Questions multiplied like maggots, eating into her composure. Had he been so tired that he'd slept in his bedroom, where he should be sleeping anyway?

Irritation edged out worry as she opened the door to his room and peeked in, as improper as it was for her to do such a thing. Her heart sank at sight of the quilt and pillows smooth and undisturbed, and no sign that he had been in the room at all. Quietly, she closed the door and went to the parlor. Perhaps he'd left her a note.

His Bible lay on his desk as always, open to Lamentations this morning. She lifted the right side to look beneath it for her agreement and found nothing. Of their own accord, her eyes swung to the hearth, and her heart staggered. Like a wilted bloom on the clean stones lay a single crumpled paper.

Pulse racing, she plucked it from between the andirons and smoothed it open—her carefully worded page, undated, unsigned. Discarded.

She choked back a cry and dropped into the big chair. If only she had stayed awake last night and waited for him, they might have discussed things openly. The crinkled paper shouted his anger. His thoughts were painfully absent, leaving her only with fearful supposition.

What had she said wrong? What had she _done_ wrong?

Without her permission, a tear fell on the empty line, distorting the place intended for his signature.

"Miss Etta?" Gracie's sleepy voice broke into her sorrow, and she quickly wadded the paper and tucked it in her apron pocket.

"What's wrong?" On stockinged feet, Gracie padded to her, crawled onto her lap, and laid her head against Etta's shoulder. "Why are you crying?"

Etta stroked the child's hair, masking her emotions, and pressed a sleeve against her eyes. "Sometimes a woman may cry without provocation." A pathetic tale for Gracie's sake. "But I know just the solution."

Gracie straightened. "You do?"

"Yes." Etta forced a smile. "Baking." She'd suffered far worse. The death of her husband, the repugnant advances of Penneholder. The loss of her home. Dashed dreams seemed slight by comparison.

"Let's bake ginger cookies. They always go well with milk, and we have a lot of milk. In fact, I need your help churning today."

Gracie wrinkled her nose at the mention of churning and slid off Etta's lap.

"Get dressed, let Buster out, and you can pick eggs while I milk Lizzy and check on her calf." Something she should have done when she was checking on Bern.

Morning routines lagged into midday, but the promise of ginger cookies kept Etta on task. If only she had her book with her receipts.

"Mama had a book," Gracie said. "Would you like me to get it for you?"

The news stunned Etta for a moment. Bern had not mentioned it, and as she'd suspected, had hidden it away like the tea tin. A warning shivered up her spine.

"That's sweet of you, but let's make do without it. I think I can remember."

Gracie was already gone, running down the hall and into her father's bedroom. Before Etta could clear her thoughts, the child returned with a faded red book tied with a ribbon. "This was my grandmama's. Right before she died, she gave it to Mama. I'm sure it has instructions for ginger cookies."

Reverently, as if she offered a prized possession, she held the book out for Etta.

"Oh, sweetheart, where did you get this? Maybe your papa put it in safe keeping because it is so special."

"It _is_ special, Miss Etta, but so are you. And so are the cookies we can bake for him."

Etta closed her eyes, wishing with all her heart that life could truly be that simple.

As the morning wore on, the house filled with the sweet smell of ginger, and Etta repeatedly looked out the kitchen-door glass for any sign of Bern. Wherever he was, he'd walked there, for Zeke stood in the pasture with a back leg cocked, his tail swishing flies from Rosie's face as she stood next to him returning the favor. A perfect example of two working together in unity.

After so many weeks of similar camaraderie with Bern, Etta felt more alone now than she ever had.

When he didn't come home for dinner, she fed Gracie and set her up on the porch with the churn before walking around the front of the house. The church was visible to the north, and Main Street stretched beyond her to the south, a few flags and banners still waving from yesterday's celebration. He could be in either direction, holding up either one of his commitments to this community. But what about his commitment to his family? To Gracie?

Instinctively, she knew he wasn't in harm's way, and the knowledge stirred a thick and angry brew within her. Tugging off her apron, she braced herself for a row and returned to the kitchen, where she packed a basket with sliced roast sandwiches and ginger cookies.

Gracie followed her inside. "Is that for Papa?"

"Yes, it is. Get your bonnet and tie Buster to the porch. We're going for a drive in the buggy."

### CHAPTER 13

Bern almost missed the distraction of the Everson brothers.

He slugged down the remains of his second pot of coffee for the day, gritty and bitter. Exactly how he felt himself. After propping the front door open, he went to work on a stack of warrants he'd set aside until after the Fourth. Sheriff Wilson from Olin Springs had telegraphed him earlier about the pair who robbed the bank there in May, and a second warrant for their arrest topped Bern's stack. He remembered Wilson's mention of an incident the day he met Etta and was surprised the two were still on the run.

Lockton was small enough that any stranger stood out like a tom turkey in a hen house. They'd know better than to show themselves here.

A shadow dimmed the room and his hand went to his gun before he looked up.

"May I come in?"

Not who he expected to see silhouetted in the doorway, especially with a basket in her hands. The edge in her voice met the stone in his gut, and he dragged over a chair. "Of course."

She set the basket on the corner of his desk, then unpacked a plate of sandwiches and a napkin full of cookies.

"You didn't have to do this."

She looked at him. Coldly.

"Will you join me? Looks like there's plenty."

"No, thank you."

He wasn't going to stand there all day on an empty stomach with her staring a hole through him. "Well, will you at least sit down?"

She sat.

He went to the door and looked up and down the boardwalk, searching for something to say. Empty stomach or not, he couldn't have eaten if it was his last meal and a brand-new rope was waiting. A different kind of noose tightened around his throat.

He coughed to break its hold and returned to his desk chair. "Gracie with you?"

"She's across the street at Stuart's General choosing thread for a sampler."

"I expect you'll pay for that too."

Her eyes said he'd nailed her.

"With what you pay me, it is my prerogative to spend the money as I choose."

He shoved a cookie in his mouth to keep from biting out a comment. They tasted just like what Ruth used to make.

"You didn't come home last night." Her glare challenged him more than her words.

"Yes, I did."

"Then you didn't stay." She slid her right hand in the pocket of her skirt. "Did you sleep here?"

"And if I did?" He eased slightly forward. "I _am_ the sheriff."

She leaned toward him the same distance. "And a father. The father of a little girl who had no idea where you were and waited breakfast and dinner for you with no word."

His jaw clinched. "You were there. She wasn't alone."

Etta's eyes snapped like jalapeños in a hot skillet. From her pocket she drew a wadded-up paper and dropped it next to his plate. Judgment's gavel fell hard.

"And how long will I be there, Bern? Or did you forget that we discussed this once before and you agreed to let me know?"

Hang fire, she was gonna drive him out of his mind. If those Olin Springs bank robbers walked in the door right now, they'd be doing him a favor.

Her eyes glimmered, close to puddling over, but she was no weeping willow. A ramrod would bow to the steel in her spine.

He knew he was licked. And he knew he was a coward for not speaking the truth about his feelings for her. Now it was too late.

He smoothed out the paper, found a pencil stub in his desk drawer, signed and dated the paper, and slid it toward her. "Thanksgiving."

She flinched, as if surprised by his sudden decision. Blinking rapidly, she folded the paper and left without a word.

He moved to the barred window and watched her walk across Main Street. She didn't look to see if a wagon or riders were coming, just stepped out and walked straight across, past Rosie who dozed in the buggy traces, and into the general.

"I've been a fool, Lord. A cross-eyed, lily-livered fool."

~

Late that afternoon, with the town as quiet as the church yard, Bern walked home rehearsing what he'd say to Etta. His path took him around back, where he checked on the horses, then split more kindling for the cook stove. Like they needed it. But _he_ needed it—the ring of the axe and the satisfaction of logs splintering off the block. He hefted an armful and headed for the house.

Gracie stood at the table peeling potatoes, and she welcomed him with a big smile.

He dumped the kindling into the wood box by the stove.

"I missed you, Papa. Were you real busy today? Wasn't yesterday fun? Did you see everyone looking at my dress that Miss Etta made? And what about the ginger cookies she brought you for lunch? I helped, you know. We used Mama's receipt book. I knew she wouldn't mind."

His heart split as clean as the firewood, and he drew Gracie close, breathing in the smell of her. He'd missed her and hadn't known it. Just one day away from her and he felt the lack.

"They were the best I ever had, Gracie-bird. Your mama would be proud."

Wiggling from his arms, she tugged her apron back in place and picked up a potato. "I knew you wouldn't mind either if we used Mama's book." She looked around the kitchen and behind her, then whispered. "Miss Etta didn't think we should, but I told her it was all right. Still, she made me put it back in Mama's cedar chest."

He laid a hand on his daughter's shoulder and kissed the top of her head. "Where is Miss Etta now?"

"Oh, she's out in the garden with Buster, picking beans, though she said there probably wouldn't be many this early in July. She takes him with her every time she goes out there, ever since ... well, you know." Soft brown eyes looked up at him with a slight frown. "She hardly lets me go out there at all."

The back door opened and Etta stopped halfway through, surprise on her face and a few beans in her apron. She gathered herself quickly. "Hello, Bern. You're just in time."

"Let me help you with those." He moved toward her.

She moved away.

"No need. Wash up, and we'll eat soon. Fried potatoes with beans and sausage."

She dumped the beans in a colander and laid a clean towel beside the sink for him. But she wouldn't look him in the eye.

And he couldn't say what he wanted with Gracie in the room.

~

Etta did her best to act normal—whatever that meant. It taxed her terribly to pretend everything was as comfortable and family-like as it had been for eight weeks. How quickly the time had gone.

In another eight weeks, Gracie would be well into school again, and eight weeks after that would be close to Thanksgiving and the church _feed,_ as Dottie called it. Etta must figure out where she'd go afterward. And in late November at that. Why couldn't Bern have chosen the end of summer—August or September—when travel wouldn't be so difficult and cold?

The irony stung. Last winter she'd buried William. This fall, she'd bury her dreams. That's what she got for letting those dreams sprout from anything as frivolous as a mail-order request.

Guilt pressed into her middle, guilt born of ingratitude. The Lord had rescued her from Penneholder, and for that she was grateful. Surely He had something else in mind. She ran the back of one hand across her forehead as she stirred sliced potatoes into browning pork sausage and added the few green beans to the skillet.

Gracie's chatter at the supper table was a sweet blessing, for Etta needed only to contribute an occasional nod or "Is that so?" Bern was as silent as she, but she sensed his eyes on her, and from the corner of her own, saw them flicking between herself and Gracie. She spent most of the meal looking at her plate, wondering what he was thinking.

His tension was nearly tangible, but they managed to spend the early evening together on the porch. Etta worked with Gracie on her new sampler, complementing her on the colors of thread she'd chosen at the general.

Bern did a pitiful job of pretending to read. He didn't turn a single page the entire time they were outside and sent Gracie to bed early.

"I'll come tuck you in," he said.

Gracie gave her father a tight hug and kissed his cheek, then offered the same good-night parting to Etta, tugging at heartstrings that were already sore and fragile.

Etta gathered her things and stood.

"Will you stay?"

_Stay?_ He wanted her to stay? She couldn't look at him, for her emotions were too near the surface, and she'd not shame herself with tears. She fiddled with her sewing, waiting for him to say more.

"Etta, please sit down and look at me."

Oh. That kind of stay.

She sat out of need more than compliance. Her limbs might give way if she didn't, but meeting his gaze was beyond her.

He closed his Bible and laid it on his chair before joining her on the swing.

Tempted to move to his vacated spot, she squashed the childish notion and tightly clasped her hands atop the sewing in her lap.

Bern cleared his throat. She would miss that nervous tic.

"About your agreement—"

"Why did you throw it away?" Her head snapped around to face him. So much for not looking at him.

The muscle in his jaw flexed, and he pegged her straight on. "I'll tell you if you'll let me."

His words dampened the same fire that had flared when she first met him, when she'd not allowed him to speak his mind before she jumped to conclusions. Aching with tension, she rubbed her shoulder and neck as she let her head drop slightly forward.

"I didn't like the idea of a probationary period when you first mentioned it, and I don't like it now." He lifted his hand as if stopping an onslaught. "And before you remind me that I agreed to it, let me finish."

She swallowed and kept her eyes on her lap.

"I understand that it makes you more comfortable to have things written down so you know where you stand."

Something inside her crumbled at his assumption.

"In May, you pointed out that neither of us was willing to commit to Gracie's plan."

Silence followed his statement, save for a lone cricket in the distance, its singular song a fitting background. She couldn't expose her feelings now and risk him trampling them.

He let out a heavy sigh. "I was hoping that might have changed."

She looked up. He was _hoping_?

"But when I found what you'd written, I realized it hadn't and it made me mad." He braced his hands against his knees.

Remembering the comfort of his arms, she longed to touch the one nearest and tell him she was willing, but ...

"I had hoped that you liked it here."

Again, the word _hope._ She opened her mouth to tell him she _did_ like it here, very much, but he lifted his hand again, asking her to wait.

"When you came to the jail with that paper, I knew you meant business. So I picked Thanksgiving because I thought it would give us time to maybe—"

"Pa-pa."

Gracie's small voice floated through the open front door.

He stood, and the swing shifted sideways. "Be right there, Gracie."

Powerless to stave off the tears, Etta lowered her head and let them slide down her cheeks unchecked. If she didn't move, perhaps he wouldn't notice.

"But what I really wanted to say this evening was I'm sorry for not coming home and staying put so you and Gracie knew where I was. I know how I'd feel if either of you just up and disappeared."

His bootsteps across the porch and into the house matched the question pounding through her heart. The question she couldn't bring herself to ask aloud.

How would you feel, Bern? Tell me. How would you feel?

### CHAPTER 14

Etta marveled at the turn of color, how the countryside grew increasingly green. Thunderstorms rolled off the mountains each evening and lighting lashed the sky, loosing sudden torrents that, when spent, subsided as quickly as they had begun. The untamable spirit of Colorado seemed to empower the storms, leaving her breathless yet secure in the protective shelter of the Stidham house.

Until she had to wade to the cellar.

She regretted not making room for her winter boots when she left Independence, for this morning the yard was a lake. It had rained steadily all night, and a trip to the cellar would soak her feet through unless she found something to cover them.

A thorough search of the kitchen netted a length of oil cloth that she cut in half and wrapped around her high-top shoes. Twine at her ankles tied them in place. Then she slipped into an old coat of Bern's hanging by the back door, and with a small pail in hand, set out for the cellar.

Even against the sharp morning air, she smelled Bern in the canvas that encased her. His scent suggested warmth and strength—twin enticements she'd packed away with her husband's clothes.

Lord help her, she had to stop thinking of Bern Stidham in such terms. Especially now. As much as she wanted to belong, she resisted any hope of permanence in Lockton. In a matter of weeks, she'd be gone. Departure wouldn't hurt so much if she didn't think of the little town and frame house at the end of Main Street as home.

Routine had helped ease the tension between herself and Bern, and each Sunday they walked to church with Gracie between them, almost like a regular family. Some of the women had warmed toward her, and she credited Dottie Dalton with that improvement. Two mothers had even commissioned dresses for their daughters. Not Mrs. Prigg, of course.

The garden repaid her efforts tenfold, and she and Gracie filled their aprons each morning with fresh vegetables. Etta scoured the kitchen in search of canning supplies, and finally found a box stashed away in the barn. Another bit of Gracie's mother hidden from view.

But the garden wasn't the only thing sprouting up, and besides maintaining her household chores, Etta spent the evenings adding ruffles to the hems of Gracie's dresses. In August, she made the growing girl a new dress for her tenth birthday and baked a vanilla cake with butter-cream frosting. Even Buster got a piece in celebration.

The first few days of Gracie's return to school left Etta listless, as if part of her life were missing. Bern was always busy, either preparing a sermon or quelling a quarrel in town. The Eversons had settled considerably, and worked part time for Slim Stuart, making deliveries to outlying homes and ranches. Still, Bern was gone all day, from daylight to dusk. Occasionally, he came in at dinnertime but never stayed long.

Even when she baked or cleaned or worked outside, she missed him terribly. Missed the fledgling feelings that had been growing before she'd insisted he sign that ridiculous agreement. That piece of paper had driven a wedge between them, and she regretted letting Bern know she'd found it in the hearth. No doubt things would have been different if she'd left it there or fed it to the cook stove. Or not written it at all.

But one did not change the past, only the present, which had power to affect the future. Personal experience had taught her as much, and Reverend Fillmore had spoken on it more than once.

Mulling over the truth of her former pastor's teaching, she caught the sound of Bern stomping his boots on the porch. Without her say-so, her heart tripped a double beat as she dished up a large helping of stew.

"Etta." He closed the door behind him and hung his hat on the chair.

"Bern." She pasted on a pleasant smile that masked her emotions.

Their daily greeting when Gracie wasn't around had dwindled drastically. In spite of a general civility, they skirted anything other than polite and impersonal conversation.

After Etta poured coffee and seated herself, Bern bowed his head. No longer did he reach for her hand, and she pinched down that tiny sorrow and focused on his words of thanks.

At his "amen," she asked, "Busy day?"

He nodded as he chewed, reminding her how pleased she was that he was a man of manners who didn't slop his food in, wipe his mouth on his shirt sleeve, or belch at the table.

"You?"

"I've tried a new mincemeat pie that Dottie shared during her last visit. If it turns out well, I'll bake several for the Thanksgiving feast."

"You gonna try it out on me and Gracie?"

A teasing light sparked in his blue-gray eyes, stirring her memories of sweeter times. "Yes. But only if you're up to it."

He laughed, and it warmed her to hear him do so again.

The front door banged open, and running footsteps ended at the bedrooms, followed by another banging door. Gracie's.

Bern looked at Etta with the closest thing to fright she'd seen on him since the rattlesnake in the garden. He shoved from the table and left without a word.

~

Gracie was lying face down on her bed.

Bern eased onto the edge of the tick and laid a hand on her back. Whatever it was, it had to be serious to drive his daughter home from school in the middle of the day. "What happened, Gracie? Are you all right?"

Her head moved up and down, but she kept her face pressed against her quilt, muffling her sobs. The words finally came. "I punched Leo Forsythe in the nose."

Not exactly what he thought he'd hear from his daughter. He pulled her onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her. Name-calling was about the worst he'd expected to deal with, but his little girl had stuck one on the school bully. He was tempted to ask if it did any good.

"He called Miss Etta a _floozy._ I know what that means, Pa, and it ain't so."

His arms tightened around Gracie, and he kissed the top of her head. "You're right, Gracie-bird. It _isn't_ so. Miss Etta's no floozy. But you can't go punchin' somebody who says something you don't like."

Gracie pulled back and looked up at him, her cheeks as wet and red as her eyes. "I couldn't just stand there and let him say those things about her, Pa. There was nobody to defend her, and you say we should defend the helpless and weak."

Etta Collier was as far from helpless and weak as vinegar was from sweet, but Gracie didn't see it that way. "You're right again, I have. But that's not the same as striking a person. We have to learn to defend with our words."

Scooting around, she looked down at the Peacemaker on his right hip. "Then why do you carry a gun, Pa?"

His skin chilled. He'd once asked the very same question of _his_ father. "For protection, Gracie. So I can protect the people of this town."

Memories churned, and he squashed them down. This wasn't the time or place. "I want to hear the whole story, but I think Miss Etta should hear it too since it concerns her." Plus he could use a woman's perspective. "You up to that?"

Gracie wiped her arm across her cheeks. "Yes, Pa."

He didn't like that she'd stopped calling him _Papa,_ but he figured _Pa_ was the more grownup way of putting it. His Gracie-bird was definitely growing up. "She's at the kitchen table. You go on and I'll be right behind you."

When he got to the kitchen, Gracie sat next to Etta, sipping brown milk from a teacup. His face must have betrayed him.

"Gracie is having some children's coffee with me." Etta raised her own cup.

He sat down, pushed his plate of cold stew aside, and reached for his mug. Etta refilled it from the pot on a hot pad at the table.

"All right, Gracie, start at the beginning."

She blinked her big brown eyes at him, obviously unsure about what he meant.

"Start with what happened _before_ you wanted to punch Leo Forsythe."

Etta's eyes widened and her chin dipped a notch when she looked at him. He shook his head slightly, hoping she'd read his signal. She did.

"We were all sitting under the tree with our dinner buckets, but Miss Trenton was inside the schoolhouse. All the older students know that you sleep in the barn and Miss Etta sleeps in the house. My friend Heidi told most everybody last summer, except for Rebecca, and she was asking me about it." She looked at Etta.

Etta smiled encouragingly.

"That's when Leo started in with what he heard." Gracie's face flushed red as an autumn apple, and Bern wasn't so sure he wanted her to repeat what was said after all.

Again, she looked at Etta. "He called you a name. I told him to take it back, but he wouldn't. He just kept saying it, louder and louder."

"Did the teacher hear?" Etta said.

"No. Or else she did but didn't come outside and do anything. I jumped up and told Leo to take it back or I'd punch him. He laughed and stuck his chin out and said go ahead and try."

Gracie dropped her gaze to her lap. "So I did."

Etta's hands flew to her mouth and her eyes locked on Bern. "Oh, Gracie!"

Temptation was not a foreign sensation to Bern. But nothing had ever tempted him as strong and sure as wanting to pat his daughter on the back and congratulate her for giving the kid what-for.

"I'm sorry." So quiet was her whisper, Bern almost missed the steel in it. "But I couldn't let him call Miss Etta that."

Etta wrapped an arm around Gracie's shoulders and hugged her close. "You are such a sweet dear, Gracie, for defending me. But please, please don't."

Bern's gut twisted in a half-hitch, and his hand tightened on his coffee cup. "Did Leo say who he'd heard talking about Miss Etta?"

Gracie nodded. "He said Mrs. Markham told his ma."

Bern had to set his cup down before he crushed it.

Etta's face blanched. She held her composure, but not his gaze.

Leaning forward, he gentled his voice. "What happened next?"

"The other boys started laughing at Leo and hollering and making a ruckus, and Miss Trent came outside and told Leo to go wash his face and then go home."

"Wash his face?"

Gracie looked at Bern from under her brows, not raising her head. "His nose was bleeding."

Etta's eyes closed.

"That's when I ran home. Without my dinner pail."

"You can get it when we go talk to Miss Trent."

Gracie's head popped all the way up. "We?"

"Yes, ma'am. Go rest for a while. We'll walk over after school's out."

Gracie left the kitchen, head drooping as she slogged down the hall like a steer to the slaughter.

When next he looked at Etta, he thought he might have bit off more than he could chew. Appeared he had _two_ upset females under his roof.

~

Etta had been prepared for, and had withstood, scorn from the women at church. After all, she was an outsider who had arrived under most unusual circumstances. But she'd not been prepared for that scorn to invade the life of an innocent child.

She unclenched her aching fingers, working them open and closed to get the blood flowing.

Bern watched her. "I've got Scripture and verse, but I'm gonna save it for Sunday."

"Would it be 'Consider it all joy when you fall into diverse temptation'?" she asked.

His eyes hardened to blue ice. "'Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely.'"

"You left off 'for my sake,'" she added. "That's the Lord's sake. Not ours."

He leaned in, left eyebrow cocked and aimed at her. "'Plead for the widow.'"

She followed suit. "'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.'"

His mouth twitched in that peculiar way. "Then why do you look like you want to wring someone's neck like I did that chicken your first Sunday here?"

During their verbal exchange, they'd both leaned so far across the table that they were mere inches apart. Etta smelled coffee on his breath and caught silver chips like iron shavings in his eyes, the source of gray that now fired through the blue with sharp edges.

"Because that someone has been listening to your sermons about as well as that chicken before you snapped it up."

His face froze in surprise, then he leaned back against his chair and laughed—part relief, part humor.

Both parts made her feel whole again. Tension drained like hot water poured off boiled potatoes, but not her anger, in spite of the verses she'd quoted. Someone so careless with her words around children as Mrs. Markham should be ...

Several uncharitable comeuppances marched through Etta's mind, but she sighed with a slump of her shoulders. Forgiven. Mrs. Markham should be forgiven. How else would Gracie learn grace?

### CHAPTER 15

Etta was so full of curiosity she had no room for supper.

The day must have taken its toll on everyone, for though Gracie and Bern both ate well, they said little, not mentioning at all what transpired at the school.

Gracie helped with the dishes, then went to her room, and Bern retired to the parlor. Etta stood at the sink with her hands on her hips fighting the urge to stomp her feet.

"Join me?"

She spun and caught Bern's infernal brow winging toward the ceiling. So did one side of his mouth. He turned around and walked back down the hall.

Things must have gone well with the teacher.

She gathered a stack of mending and joined him in the parlor. Nights were cooling, but not so much that a fire was needed on the hearth. Still she was more comfortable facing it rather than Bern. She compromised by angling the chair so she could see him from the corner of her eye.

"You can ask, you know. It's all right."

His voice was gentle as down, and she longed to sink into it. A dangerous desire indeed.

Hedging, she tried a different tact. "Gracie must have been tired to go to bed so early rather than work on her doll dresses."

"She's licking her wounds from this afternoon."

He was teasing her like he did Buster with a bone. If he wasn't careful, she'd start growling.

She glanced sideways and, as suspected, he had that almost-laughing look on his face, eyes creased at the corners.

She was not one to be flighty or jittery, unsettled by surprises. Heavens, she'd stood against Penneholder how many times? But it was different with Bern. Not that he frightened her—quite the opposite. She'd wanted him to accept her, and though he seemed to be saying as much, she didn't quite believe it.

She knotted a length of white thread. "I hope the teacher wasn't too hard on her."

Bern chucked deep in his throat. "Not by half. Made her write out an apology to Leo and leave it on her desk for tomorrow."

"What about Leo?" Etta's back stiffened. "Shouldn't he be held accountable for his bullish actions?"

Lamplight danced in Bern's eyes, laughter only a flash away. "Don't worry. He'll get what's comin' to him. Always works out that way."

Unsatisfied with the platitude, she huffed.

"And what punishment would you dole out, Mrs. Col—" He caught himself, but not before her heart fell to the floor. She was still someone else's widow, as far as he was concerned.

"Etta. What would you do to him, Etta?"

At his attempt to smooth over his blunder, she reminded herself she was merely his temporary employee.

"Well?" he pressed.

Could he not simply let the matter be?

She finished with a small hole in Gracie's petticoat, knotted the thread, and raised it to her teeth, glancing his way. At his expression, something completely out of place quivered through her.

Lowering the petticoat, she chose her words carefully. "He owes Gracie a public apology and you as well."

"Me?" Bern's head tipped to the side. "Not you?"

"Yes, I suppose. But he cast a disparaging light on you and your family. And to be quite frank with you, I believe Mrs. Markham owes you the same. She is just as guilty, if not more so." The exact point where grace rushed in, but Etta wasn't quite ready to turn the other cheek.

Bern rubbed his hand across his mouth and down his chin, then returned to his reading.

Shamed that she hadn't touted forgiveness, Etta was ready to leave the room, but opted instead for a change of subject. "What passage are you reading?"

"Matthew's fifth chapter."

Of course—the Beatitudes. Appropriate, after their kitchen debate.

Softly, in deep, earnest tones, he began to read. "'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.'"

She doubted her earthly inheritance, for meekness was not one of her finer points. He continued reading of hunger, mercy, and purity, but he slowed at the final attribute of those who were called blessed, the one they had argued over at the table.

"'Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so they persecuted the prophets which were before you.'"

An honorable company, for sure, but Etta had not been reviled for her faith. Merely for her presence.

"I think the Lord touches just about everybody in that short sermon," Bern said. "I can sure learn from it."

She rested her hands in her lap. "From what I've heard so far, I believe you've learned well. Perhaps from your father? You mentioned that he was a preacher. Yet you carry a gun and wear a badge with the same confidence that you declare the words of God. An interesting combination."

He closed his Bible. "I'm not a preacher, Etta. Just filling in until the people find one who'll stay on fulltime."

She rolled her lips and swallowed an argument.

With a slow slide of his chair, he stood. "I'll leave the lamp for you. Goodnight."

No anger edged his voice, no offense. He'd merely stated his intentions and taken his leave. Yet she knew she'd overstepped her bounds. Again.

~

Bern didn't know if he admired or begrudged the way Etta got right to the core of a matter. She'd probably be a better fill-in preacher than he was. Wouldn't that set the womenfolk on their ear if he had her talk next Sunday?

He couldn't blame her for angling for information about his past. They didn't know much about each other except he knew she didn't hold his temper against him. A good sign, since he wanted her to stay on. But he'd spent too much time thinking about how to ask her instead of doing the deed. His biggest fear was she'd turn him down.

A full moon lit the night and silvered the barn, and the temperate breeze of an Indian summer whispered that warm days would linger.

It lied. First snow could fly within weeks.

He looked to the cellar as he passed by. It'd soon be stocked with vegetables and dried fruit, apples, pickles, and other stores. But his family needed meat as well. Smoked hams and side pork from the Eversons, a quarter elk from a local hunter. He couldn't go off looking for game, but others did, and he'd pay them for their efforts.

Dropping to the edge of his cot, he pulled his boots off and laid back with no delusions about sleep. Food stores weren't his only worry. Etta had no heavy boots, not even a good cloak or wool gloves. Whether she stayed or moved on, she needed winter clothes and a decent trunk to put them in. She'd not explained why she'd traveled so light. Maybe he needed to know.

Moonlight washed through the open front doors and dripped through every leaky spot in the roof. He knew them all, thanks to the summer storms, and he'd relocated his cot several times. If Etta stayed, surviving winter in the barn wouldn't be easy, a fact that made it hard to tolerate people like Mrs. Markham.

He didn't have time or money to build himself a decent shelter, and he sure enough didn't hair up like Zeke and Rosie. But he could take Etta's room back of the kitchen, put her in his across from Gracie, and let certain people choke on their gossip.

Come to think of it, that particular vice wouldn't be a bad sermon topic.

He rolled to his side and watched a cottontail skitter across the square of light at the door. He'd be closer to an agreeable solution with Etta if he hadn't made a mess of things with that blasted agreement of hers. He should have just told her how he felt, yet that was harder than any challenge he'd faced. What if she didn't want to stay? What if she wouldn't marry him?

~

The next day at dinnertime, Bern rode home and dropped Zeke's reins beneath the cottonwood tree. Dottie Dalton was turning her rig around and heading out.

He doffed his hat as she stopped in front of him.

"Mrs. Dalton. Fine day for a visit. I'm glad to see you're doing well."

She snorted. "Don't you give me that hogwash. It's a fine day to be courtin' that woman in your kitchen, and you best be gettin' to it before she gets gone or you freeze to death out in that barn, whichever comes first."

She snapped the buggy reins. "Get on there, China."

The old gal wore spurs for sure.

He plunked his hat on and stomped up the porch steps, then took it off again as soon as he got inside. Holding it against his chest, he waited until Etta looked up from where she was ladling soup into bowls. Maybe if he just asked her straight out.

"Bern, you're right on time. Could you smell this soup all the way from town?" Her sweet smile tied his tongue in a knot, and he sat down without washing or thinking.

Touching his shoulder, she took his hat. "Are you not feeling well?"

Rather than taking her hand, he grumped. "Just hungry, that's all." And a pitiful liar, which was probably a good thing since he was both the sheriff and short-term parson.

"Wonderful, because I also have a mincemeat pie you volunteered to let me try out on you." She dropped his hat on a wall hook, then joined him at the table.

After a brief prayer, his _amen_ rolled right into "What would you think of a buggy ride?"

She stared at him, her soup spoon dangling from her fingers.

"After the pie, of course," he added. "You haven't gotten out much, other than to church and the general store, and it's nice right now, not cold yet. What we call Indian summer around here. And not too far up the hills, the aspens are turning gold. We could drive that way and get a closer look."

He was rambling like Gracie did when she got all worked up about something.

A smile played around Etta's eyes, but he couldn't see her mouth because she'd raised her napkin to it. Finally, she met his gaze.

"That sounds like a fine idea. I'll pack the pie and plates in a basket, and we can sample it once we get there."

He didn't know which surprised him more, the buggy-ride idea or the fact that Etta said yes.

While she got things ready, he turned Zeke out in the pasture and hitched up Rosie. The gelding stayed close to the fence with his back to him, one hind leg cocked, and his ears flicking at Bern's every move.

"Don't start on me, Zeke. We're goin' for a buggy ride and you don't take to the harness, now do you?"

One ear swiveled forward and back again, and Zeke snorted. Almost sounded like Dottie Dalton.

Etta waited on the porch in her widow's garb and black hat, and he realized that black and gray was all she had. He'd like to see her in a more colorful dress, like what she'd made for Gracie. But Etta was still in mourning. Sometimes he forgot.

He stopped the rig at the back porch and handed her up to the seat, then joined her and drove down the lane and out of town. It wouldn't take a half hour to reach the aspen grove that flanked the nearest piney slope.

From the way she craned her neck around, he'd guessed right. She hadn't seen anything other than downtown Lockton and the root cellar.

"It's breathtaking, Bern. What a beautiful place to live, away from cities and crowds."

"You don't mind living out on the edge of civilization?"

Her laugh put him in mind of a meadowlark, and his own spirit lifted _._

Following a deer trail that cut across the track, he turned off through an open park until they came to a stream. He set the brake in taller grass for Rosie to graze, then helped Etta down. From under the seat he pulled a blanket he'd wager was moth-eaten, it'd been tucked back there for so long.

Etta took her hat off and laid it on the buggy seat, then brought the basket to the blanket he'd spread out on a smooth spot. Sunlight caught the gold in her hair.

She had everything— a fruit jar full of water, plates, forks, napkins. With a smile as peaceful as the autumn day, she handed him a serving.

The pie smelled as good as anything she baked, but it tasted even better. "This is good, Etta. _Real_ good. If you make these for the big feed, you'll have the elders fighting over who gets the last piece."

Blushing pretty as a rose, she avoided his eye and studied her plate. "It's the apple cider."

"I mean it, Etta."

She looked away from him, toward the dark mountain that shouldered up west of them. Bright aspen skirted the dense pine and flecked it here and there with pockets of gold. "Are those the trees you were talking about?"

"Aspen. A wealthier cousin of our humble cottonwood by the house."

"Will the cottonwood turn that color?"

"Unless we get a hard, early freeze. Then the leaves just go brown, almost overnight."

A shadow crossed her features, and her eyes fell to the park that stretched around them. "How sad that all this beauty can be gone so suddenly. The leaves change color in Independence too, but not as spectacularly as here. Everything seems bigger, brighter here." Shading her eyes, she looked up. "The sky is even bluer."

"We're higher here by more than a mile."

"Closer to heaven." She gave a soft laugh, then looked at his plate. "Another piece?"

He held his plate out. "Last night you mentioned my preaching and where I learned it."

She cut him a slice, then set the pie pan in the basket, rested her hands in her lap, and fixed her attention on the mountain.

Did she know it was easier for him when she wasn't looking into his soul?

"As I mentioned once, my pa was a preacher. All my growing-up years, I heard what he said about the Good Book and watched how he lived what he believed. His brother was the sheriff, and when I wasn't with my pa, I was with Uncle Chess."

Bern's throat started to swell, and he reached for the jar of water, offering it first to Etta. She declined, and he took a swig, trying to untangle the knotted memories that were getting in the way of his words.

"Uncle Chess got crossways with a fella who had skipped out on his debts and hurt a lot of people in town. He served time in prison for it, but swore he'd get even. A couple years later he returned and shot my uncle in the back. Since I was blood kin and happened to be standing right there, he took aim on me as well."

Etta's hands flew to her mouth and her rosy color drained. "Were you hurt?"

He shook his head. "Another shooter dropped him in his tracks as he cocked his gun."

"Who?"

Bern hadn't told many folks about his family, especially not in Lockton. "The preacher."

She reached for his arm. "Your father."

Bern frowned, then covered her hand so she'd know she wasn't what pained him. "Their roles always seemed to cross over, Uncle Chess quoting Scripture and Pa wearing a sidearm under his Bible-totin' hand."

He looked at her then, moved by the storm in her eyes. "I'd be dead if Pa hadn't worn a gun."

### CHAPTER 16

Etta grieved the passing of Bern's Indian summer. It fled like a lamb before wolfish storms. The cottonwood tree dropped its leaves, gold coins carpeting the ground. A hard frost quickly ended the garden.

She had collected several yellow leaves and pressed them between the pages of her Bible as keepsakes from her time in Lockton. A precious reminder of the afternoon she'd spent alone with Bern. Full of surprises he'd been, first with his invitation and then his open-hearted sharing, and she still ached at the story of his uncle and father. In his own way, he embodied what they each stood for. No wonder he'd agreed to serve Lockton in both professions, though she sensed it was taking a toll on him.

She sensed something else as well, yet she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Every now and then she caught him watching her, his mouth slightly open, as if he was about to speak. Then he'd clamp his jaw and turn away.

But with preparation for the Thanksgiving feast in just three weeks, she had little time to dwell on what might be troubling Bern. Thanks to Dottie Dalton, she had a fairly good idea what to expect—food and more food. As the little woman had said when Etta first arrived in Lockton, she'd heard others mention that the Thanksgiving feast was the biggest event of the year.

Of course, there'd be no flags and bunting draping Main Street. No horseraces or market wares for sale. Horses would be harnessed to buggies and farm wagons, and jams and jellies, cakes and breads would all be free for partaking during the meal.

The school children planned to present poems and songs, and evenings found Etta helping Gracie memorize her parts.

However, one tradition had Etta in a fix, for each person present at the meal was to share their greatest blessings from the year. Gracie had been practicing for months, and Etta learned that her list was what she had been secretly writing in her room.

Etta knew exactly what she wanted to say, but feared she'd not be able to get it past her lips.

With a cup of coffee and two oatmeal cookies, she sat down at the kitchen table to plan what dishes she'd prepare for the meal. Bern's approval of her mincemeat pie set that item at the top of her list, followed by sweet yams, three loaves of fresh bread, seasoned dressing, and pumpkin pies, thanks to the little sugar pumpkins she'd rescued from the garden before the freeze. However, she was running low on spices, a costly commodity but necessary. With what she'd saved from her earnings, she had enough to splurge on cinnamon and nutmeg with plenty left over for a train ticket to Denver.

She dunked a cookie in her coffee, and her heart sank with it at the prospect of going to Denver, but she refused to return to Independence. With her parents long gone, she had no other choice. She'd certainly not remain in Lockton with her feelings so tied up in Gracie and Bern. Dottie had insisted she stay with her in her little cabin on the outskirts of town, and Etta had promised to do so if the need arose.

However, she was certain Bern would not turn her out like she'd once feared, as certain as she was that he'd escort her to the train in Olin Springs. She'd ask him soon, but it had to be the right moment, and so far that moment had not arrived.

With a shake of her head, she whisked the depressing thoughts aside, then gathered her jacket, hat, and reticule, and set out for town at a brisk walk. No sense taking the buggy for a small bag of spices.

The air was as crisp as a cracker, and she scrunched her shoulders to warm her neck. Taking such delight in Gracie's new dresses and hair ribbons, Etta had neglected her own needs, and there was nothing righteous about it. Rather, it was foolish not to look after oneself in good stewardship. The parable of the ten virgins came to mind, and she felt like one of the five who didn't have enough oil saved for their lamps.

Due to the temperature, what might have been a muddy walk was merely an uneven one. She kept her eyes on the ground before her, minding her step over ruts and ridges until she made the boardwalk.

Midmorning was a busy time in Lockton, with wagons and buggies and riders filling Main Street and citizens clogging the walkway. Etta slowed her pace and took in the feel of the town, the air of excitement, as if everyone anticipated a special event. Wood smoke scented the air, and silvery plumes rose from several shops along the street, one at Stuart's General Store.

The bell above the door announced her entry, and Slim Stuart offered a cheery welcome.

"Morning, Mrs. Collier. You're just the person I need to see. I have an order for you that arrived yesterday. I take it the sheriff asked you to stop in."

Etta still held the doorknob, and she let go self-consciously, shaking her gloved hand as if to shake off her embarrassment. She'd not admit that Bern had mentioned nothing to her. One humiliation was quite sufficient without making it known that he did not share important information with her.

"Excellent." She walked to the counter with as much dignity as possible, clutching her reticule in both hands as she surveyed the spices behind Mr. Stewart, who was bent over fetching Bern's order.

He plopped one small parcel upon the glass-topped case without rising, followed it with another, and finally a third, larger package with which he righted himself with a smile. "This should do it. I think you'll be pleased."

She stared at the three parcels, then glanced at Stuart, who was watching her closely. Of course he knew she didn't know.

"Perfect." Another noncommittal reply that wasn't lying, nor was it acknowledgment of anything. She offered a pleasant smile. "I'm in need of cinnamon and nutmeg. Do you have any on hand?"

He turned as he spoke. "Getting ready for the big Thanksgiving feast, I take it?"

"That is correct. I look forward to it."

While he shuffled through his collection of spices, she counted out what money she had with her. Enough for spices, but nothing more. She'd have to leave the mysterious packages behind.

Mr. Stuart bagged her order and wrote out a ticket. "That will be forty cents, ma'am."

She looked down so the storekeeper wouldn't see her rolling her lips at the price. Or rather, the sacrifice, though a worthy one for the celebration.

"Here you are." She slid the coins across the counter. "And what about these packages?" She merely tipped her head in their direction, unwilling to touch them.

"Oh, they're already paid for. And if anything doesn't work out for you, bring it back and I'll order a replacement." He smiled and nodded as if he did this sort of thing every day.

Which, of course, was exactly what he did.

"I can put everything in a box for you."

"No, that won't be necessary. But thank you. I believe I can manage."

She stuffed the spices into her reticule, tucked the largest parcel under her left arm, and carried the remaining two.

Mr. Stuart hurried around to open the door for her. "I know you're an expert seamstress, but please let me know if anything isn't to your liking."

Arms full and curiosity brimming, she nodded. "Good day and thank you."

~

Bern stood behind an awning post across the street, wondering why Etta was carrying his order and what she was doing in town to begin with. Not that she wasn't a free woman with the right to go where she wanted, but she'd come without the buggy.

He'd planned to surprise her. Figured those things she carried would be a good set-up for speaking his mind and asking her to tear up that fool agreement.

Careful to stay out of her line of sight, he backed around the post and watched her head for home.

Someone touched his shoulder.

He slapped his gun and whirled.

The telegraph agent jumped back and shot both hands in the air along with his voice. "These came for you, Sheriff. Thought you'd want them right away." Two telegrams dangled from his fingers.

Bern blew out a hard breath. "Don't you know better than to sneak up on a man with a gun?"

"Yes, sir, Sheriff, sir. But I saw you out here and thought maybe you were waiting on them."

Bern snatched the telegrams. "You can put your hands down."

The agent did so and waited, a hopeful look on his face.

Bern cocked an eyebrow and it might as well have been his gun, for the kid darted back into the telegraph office and slammed the door.

Not keen on reading unexpected messages in clear view of the town, Bern retreated to his desk at the jail. The first telegram, from Sheriff Wilson, said he had his two Olin Springs bank robbers in hand, which led to the solving of several other cases.

Good for him.

Bern laid the message aside and glanced at the sender's name on the second. He didn't know a Clark Penneholder from Independence, Missouri, but a cold warning slithered through him as he read.

He took his hat off and read it again. The third time, his stomach twisted in a knot and a fever gripped his head.

Harriet Collier ... delinquent debts ... absconded with property ...

His father's voice threaded through the fire in his brain, reminding him that a person was innocent until proven guilty _._ But Bern had a hard time heeding the words over the pounding blood in his temples and the accusations in his hand. Accusations of the same ilk that had led to his uncle's death.

Reality slammed into him hard and cold. He hadn't asked Etta about her situation in Independence, and she'd never volunteered the information. He knew only what Reverend Fillmore had said— _good woman, highest recommendation_.

Why hadn't Fillmore mentioned Penneholder and his claims?

Bern wanted to tear up the telegram, but the lawman in him had to find out who Penneholder was.

And what would the lonely side of him do if the allegations were true? Could he turn Etta over to face prison time?

Bern had to know the truth before Gracie got out of school. The whole truth.

On his way home, he sent a telegram to Fillmore, then turned Zeke for the house and what might end up being the second-worst day of his life.

~

Bern closed the door behind him and hung his hat on a peg.

Etta sat at the kitchen table, a pair of new boots, green wool gloves, and a scarf at one end, a black woolen cloak across the middle. Her eyes were red and her lashes wet.

"I intended to give those to you myself." He took his seat at the table and rubbed the cloak's fabric between his fingers. "Have you checked to see if everything fits?"

She closed her eyes, squeezing out more waterworks in the process.

If not for the telegram, he'd take her in his arms and ask her to be his bride like he'd planned. Instead, he asked her what was wrong.

She shook her head. Either she hated what he'd bought or she hated him, he couldn't tell. Probably should have let her pick everything out and not try to surprise her. As it stood, they were both surprised, and things weren't looking good.

"Etta, talk to me."

She swiped at her eyes. "What do I owe you for—for this?"

Of all the fool questions. Why was she so all-fired against him giving her anything? He ran a hand across his mouth, clearing what his brain wanted to say that his heart knew wasn't right. By the time he got his voice in check, she was digging through her little bag.

He capped her hands, surprised that he could cover them both with just one of his. "You don't owe me a red cent. I wanted to give you these things. It's only gonna get colder, and you need them."

"For my trip?"

Her dewy eyes brought to mind a doe caught in a hunter's sights. "What trip?"

She stiffened and notched her chin up. "When I leave. After Thanksgiving."

"Who said you were leaving?" The telegram in his vest pocket threatened to burn through the fabric of his vest and shirt, and into his skin.

She swallowed and slid her hands out from under his. "You dated our agreement for Thanksgiving, remember?"

He shoved away from the table and balled his hands as he walked the length of the kitchen and back again, then stopped in front of Etta. Due to his raising, he'd not been a man given to swearing, but he was beginning to consider it.

"If I recall, your original mention of an _agreement_ also said something about re-evaluating and continuing on. Not just terminating. Hand over that blasted piece of paper and I'll tear it up here and now."

She stood, eyes snapping fire. It took everything he had not to grab her and kiss her.

"You made it clear last May that you were unwilling to ... to ... "

He crossed his arms and spread his stance. "Did I, now? Seems to me, _you_ were the one who said neither of us wanted to think on Gracie's plan, not me."

Her glare faltered, and she looked down at the cloak, fumbling with a button on the front. "That was before ..." Her voice trailed off.

Fists on the narrow table, he leaned in, forcing her to look at him. "Before what?"

She tried to turn away, but he grabbed her arm, crooked a finger under her chin, and drank in the scent of her. Cinnamon and nutmeg.

Brown eyes drenched him, washed over his face, his mouth. Made him weak in the knees. But he held on, her lips inches from his, tormenting him with their sweet call. He'd not force the issue. He wanted her of her own free will. Hang the telegram.

Eyes glimmering, she whispered, "Before I loved you."

### CHAPTER 17

Etta's eyes closed at the touch of Bern's lips, and her tears ran down to meet the kiss.

He let go of her chin, came around the table, and pulled her into his arms. Tenderly, he kissed her again, then more urgently, holding her like he had before, sweeping her into a world she'd stopped believing in.

The heat of his whisper against her ear swirled through her.

"Stay, Etta. Stay here, in Lockton, with Gracie and me."

But he stopped there.

She searched his face, so full of longing and ... something else. Something that shadowed the silver flecks of his eyes and sounded a warning in her heart.

"What is it, Bern? What are you not saying?"

Clearly, he wasn't saying he loved her. But even without those words, she would stay if she knew what troubled him.

"I see doubt, Bern. You ask me to stay, but I see doubt in your eyes."

He stepped back and dragged a hand down his face, a sign she knew well. What could have him so frustrated and worried?

She reached for his arm. "What is it?"

He drew her swiftly, crushing her against him as if frightened she might slip away.

"Bern," she whispered. "What's wrong?"

Still he didn't answer, nor did he weaken his hold. His heart hammered against her ear, and she sensed him struggling with some unseen foe. When at last his arms relaxed, he spoke quietly over the top of her head, as if looking at someone else.

"I received a telegram today."

She tried easing back to see his face, but his arms tightened, refusing to let her go. Not all that eager to leave, she nestled into him. "Who was it from?"

The stifled groan came clearly to her ear, pressed close as she was. Immediately, she tensed, preparing for sorrowful news.

"Clark Penneholder."

She stopped breathing. Stopped seeing. Stopped sensing any and all things. Her knees buckled, and had it not been for Bern's arms, she would have crumpled to the floor rather than her chair.

He dragged his own around to face her and sat holding both of her hands.

"Tell me the truth, Etta. Tell me who he is and what happened."

Struck by his request for truth, she felt her mouth go slack. Did he doubt her veracity? Suspect that she would lie or had been lying? She pulled her hands free and clutched them in her lap as a wall of her own making rose between them.

He leaned forward, arms on knees, as close as possible without touching her. Not at all an interrogator's posture, but his eyes had shuttered. Which Bern was she facing? The preacher or the sheriff?

The last six months crowded together in her mind—the uncertainties and joys, frustrations and hopes. She should have told him every last detail when they were still in Olin Springs, at supper that evening at the café. She could have avoided the heartache and boarded the train the next morning for Denver.

But _should have_ and _could have_ were feeble regrets that accomplished nothing. She swallowed and met his gaze straight on.

"Clark Penneholder is the banker who holds the note on my home."

Bern gave a single nod. "Go on."

"Soon after William's—my husband's—death, Mr. Penneholder began making untoward advances coupled with reminders of the debt I owed. My dressmaking failed to earn the necessary funds, and I knew I would lose the house to him."

Bern's face was unreadable.

Her resolve hardened. Never would she appeal to a man's sympathy, regardless of how kind and honest that man was. She gripped her hands tighter.

"However, I refused to lose myself. Pastor Fillmore gave me Gracie's letter and encouraged me to answer it." She glanced away. "I assume you read my reply."

Bern straightened, hands braced on his knees as he looked past her, mulling over her explanation. In a moment, he drew the telegram from his vest.

Never had a piece of paper spawned such dread in her heart. God help her, how she hated Clark Penneholder, and the weight of such feelings added to her growing burden. She had no further defense, nor would she offer it if she did. But she was not above apology.

"I have not lied to you. But I failed to tell you everything, and for that omission I apologize. In hindsight, I see that prudence demanded I tell you all at the beginning of our agreement."

On her last word, his face flushed. His jaw tightened, but he remained seated.

Little time remained, so she hurried on. "I shall stay with Dottie after the Thanksgiving celebration and will then take the train from Olin Springs to Denver. If I might impose upon you for an escort to—"

He held out his hand, palm up.

She glanced quickly down and back. "What?"

"Give it to me."

Pulse hammering in her ears, she squeezed her fingers. "Give what to you?"

"The agreement. If you don't have it in your pocket, get it." His voice ground out the order, granite hard. "Now."

Had they not been discussing her failure to be forthcoming, she would take offense at his abrupt manner. But all that was truly left for her to take now was her leave. Quietly, she went to her room, then returned with the paper and gave it to him.

Without looking away from her, he laid the agreement on top of the telegram and ripped them both in half. Then he strode to the stove where he opened the firebox, tossed the pieces inside, and slammed the small door.

~

When Bern faced Etta again, she looked dumbstruck, as if she'd just witnessed a crime.

In a way, she had. He'd broken his word to her by destroying that infernal agreement, and he'd given no credence to the word of a man he'd never met and never cared to. However, he'd have the Independence authorities look into the scoundrel's banking practices. He may get Etta's former home by default, but that was all he'd be getting from her.

Bern was certain of two things: Etta spoke truth. He'd witnessed it in her daily life, in her dealings with Gracie. In her dealings with him.

And he loved her.

Why hadn't he told her?

Calming the urgency that coursed through every inch of muscle and bone, he approached her more slowly than he had the stove, hands extended in invitation.

Her eyes shimmered, pooling with tears, and she placed both hands in his, fueling hope that she might accept him.

"I've loved you for a long time, Etta. I should have told you." Desire cinched his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. "Stay. Stay forever."

She stepped into him then, and the smell and softness of her nearly undid him. But when she raised her lips for his taking, he knew he stood on dangerous ground, his footing crumbling beneath him.

With eager honesty, she returned his kiss, then gently pulled away. "Gracie will be home soon."

Pressing her hands against the front of her skirt, she looked just like she had the first time he saw her—black dress and all.

"And you have chores outside." Self-consciously she ducked her head and poked at the knot of hair at the base of her neck. "Would you mind bringing in some wood for the stove."

A shy glance his way set her to blushing.

The cook stove's heat paled in comparison to what burned inside him. A jaunt outside in the brisk fall air was exactly what he needed.

Hating the distance between them, he pulled her closer and cupped her cheek. "Do you want anything from town? I have something that needs tending to, but I won't be long."

She leaned into his hand. "I have everything," she said, eyes pinning his heart in place.

If he didn't leave immediately, he might not leave at all.

He grabbed his hat and headed for the woodpile, where he gathered an armful of kindling. A lot like hope, he figured. It could fuel a man to do most anything. He'd have to study on that. Might make a good sermon.

Etta wasn't in the kitchen when he returned with the wood, and the door to her room was closed. It was just as well.

Outside under the leafless cottonwood tree, Zeke perked his ears at Bern's approach, eager to ride. Bern stepped up and turned the gelding for town, chewing over what he'd have done if he'd been in Etta's position back in Independence. Other than filling Penneholder's face with his fist.

The Western Union agent blanched when Bern walked in, then snatched a telegram off his desk. "This just came for you, Sheriff."

"Much obliged." Bern laid two bits on the counter, more than enough for what he wanted to send, but hopefully enough for putting the fear of God in the boy earlier. He put pencil to paper and wrote out a message to Pastor Bittman.

"Send this to Olin Springs." He pushed it across the counter with the quarter and shoved the newest telegram in his vest. He'd spent more time and money at the telegraph office in the last few months than he had in the last few years.

Times were changing, and fast.

With a nod, he left and strode across the street to the general.

Slim looked up at the bell's sounding. "Afternoon, Sheriff. Mrs. Collier was already in and collected those things you ordered for her."

"I know." He walked over to the dress goods and fingered through a stack of colored fabric with no idea what to pick or how much.

Slim eased up beside him. "If you don't mind my asking, are you looking with Gracie or Mrs. Collier in mind?"

Bern gave him a sidelong glare, figuring it wasn't any of his business.

The storekeeper tugged at his collar. "Twice as many lengths are needed for a woman as for a young girl."

_Oh. Right._ "This cinnamon color here. For Etta." He frowned. "I mean Mrs. Collier."

Slim checked a smile. "This black edging would make a nice trim for the collar, sleeves, and hem." Stuart peeked over the top of his spectacles, waiting on a reply.

"As much as it takes." Bern rubbed the side of his jaw. "What else is needed?"

"I'll throw in two spools of thread at no charge." A faint smile leaked out but was quickly staunched.

"That'll do, then. Wrap it up."

At the counter, Slim tore off a length of brown paper and tied the purchase securely with twine. "Mrs. Collier does fine work on her dressmaking, from what I hear. The women talk about it when they come in looking for new dress goods."

Bern drew a long breath through his nose, easing tension that had built up in the last half hour. "That she does. Gracie pretty near prances around in what Etta makes for her."

"You made a good choice, Sheriff."

He glared at the man.

Slim pointed to the wrapped parcel under Bern's arm. "The color. It'll please her."

Bern couldn't get out the door fast enough.

He slid the package in his saddlebag and rode the length of town and back again, looking for signs of trouble. The Eversons' horses weren't tied at the saloon's hitch rail, and no one waited outside the jail.

Satisfaction tangled with worry as he headed home, the unread message like a hot rock in his vest. He unsaddled Zeke, brushed him and turned him out with Rosie, then unfolded the telegram.

Looking first for the sender's name, his eyes landed on _Fillmore, Independence, Missouri._

HC – sparrow

CP – hawk

Something inside Bern broke and spilled into his veins. It coursed through his arms, around his back, and into his chest. He tucked the package under his arm and walked up the back-porch steps. All he had to do now was talk Etta into making herself a new dress for Thanksgiving. He doubted she'd want to wear her widow's garb to such a happy event.

### CHAPTER 18

Standing atop a kitchen chair in a new cinnamon-colored dress, Etta looked down on the golden-haired girl deftly pinning the hem. The rich cotton sateen, trimmed with black cord and lace, reminded her of the spices she used in her pies, and she suspected Bern had chosen the color for that reason.

The idea brought a smile to her lips and a flush to her cheeks. His kindness touched her deeply, as did his love for Gracie and care of the community. But most of all, it was his love for her that prompted her to end her mourning and please him by wearing a new dress to the Thanksgiving feast.

"All right, Miss Etta, you can get down now." Gracie held the cushion of pins in one hand, planted the other on her hip, and cocked her head sideways as if judging the quality of the garment.

"You'll make a fine seamstress someday, Gracie."

A frown tugged the girl's fair brows together, and she stabbed at the cushion with a long pin. "Only if I can do other things too. Like ride horses and race them down Main Street on the Fourth of July."

Laughter flowed unchecked as Etta imagined the spectacle. "I want to see that, Gracie. If your father lets you race, I'll make you the finest pair of riding trousers you've ever seen."

Gracie rolled her eyes. "He'll never allow it. At least not until I'm older. Like maybe eleven."

Etta stooped down to address Gracie eye-to-eye. "Which would you like to do? Help me with the mincemeat and pumpkin pies, or hem this dress?"

The child's eyes grew wide with disbelief. "Really? You'd really let me hem your new dress?"

"Of course. I've seen what you do with your doll's clothes. This is the same, just bigger. More fabric."

Gracie threw her arms around Etta's neck. "Thank you, thank you, Miss Etta. I must be the only girl my age at school who gets to sew on a _real_ dress."

Etta slid Gracie's arms down until she held both small hands in hers. "May I ask you a favor, then?"

Suddenly sobered, the child nodded.

"Will you call me Etta rather than _Miss_ Etta?"

Another tight hug followed by a kiss on the cheek, and Etta blinked away the tears. This was not the day for crying but for rejoicing. "I'll change now and leave this dress on your sewing rocker."

Gracie skipped down the hall. Etta changed in her room, donning her black skirt and gray blouse, then took the lovely new dress to the parlor.

_Parlor_ was such a formal word, one that she had pushed aside in the privacy of her own mind. She liked to think of it as a _family's_ room. For it was there, even more than in the kitchen, that the three of them knit together like a real family.

With the evenings turning cold again, they gathered around Bern's ample fires, Gracie in her small rocker with handwork, Etta in the large chair, and Bern at his desk studying. Half the time he spent studying Etta, for she felt his gaze upon her in the close space and it warmed her down to her toes, more than any hearth fire ever could.

She tucked away the memory. With so much yet to be done for Thanksgiving next week, she didn't have time for daydreaming.

~

Sunday morning blew in with such force that Etta nearly lost her hat during the brief buggy ride to church. But even the harshest wind had no dampening effect on church members' anticipation of the big feast. Women who gathered at the back of the small sanctuary spoke only of what they were bringing and how the men must arrange the pews for seating along borrowed tables.

With no hall or home in town big enough for the gathering, the church house had to suffice.

Etta and Gracie took their seats at the back of the room, and Etta breathed a prayer of thanks when Dottie Dalton and another lady joined them. Dottie was one of the many blessings Etta wanted to mention on Thursday. Her list had grown so long, she didn't know if the Women's Missionary Society would let her read the whole thing.

When Bern stepped to the lectern and called for the first song, Gracie's little shoulders slumped again. Page number seventy-seven was passed over once more in favor of a different hymn. But Bern's message for the day inspired Etta to hold more tightly to faith and hope, and to repent of her anger toward Mrs. Markham.

However, full repentance reached further—down into her deep-seated hatred of Clark Penneholder. Bern's words echoed thoughts from her former life when she had realized that a person often had to act without waiting for feelings to attend the deed. Forgiveness was a choice, it seemed. Not a reaction.

Following the service, the men rearranged the pews in accordance with their wives' instructions, and the whole affair struck Etta as comical. She took Gracie's hand and waited near the door for Bern to make a quick escape. Holding their hats down, they all ran for the buggy parked nearby, where poor Rosie stood with her back to the howling wind. A storm was sure to blanket the town in wintry white.

But Sunday's storm blew into Monday, and by Tuesday morning, the residents of Lockton were digging out of their homes. Heavy winds had piled mountainous drifts, blocking livestock from water and feed, and hindering everyone in their daily passages. Bern worked all day helping residents and merchants dig out, and he sent the Everson brothers to Dottie Dalton's to shovel paths through the drifts at her cabin and barn.

By Thursday morning, the sun shone once more in a blue sky, and the drip of melting snow from rooftops and tree limbs played a continuous chorus. How quickly the weather shifted from one extreme to another.

Etta prized her new boots even more now, as well as her cloak and mittens, but she worried that her new dress would be ruined if she wore it to the Thanksgiving gathering.

Bern disagreed. So did Gracie, and they exchanged whispers and worried glances throughout the morning that Etta failed to interpret. Using every trick she could contrive to worm information from either of them, she finally gave up with a stomp of her foot and fastened her cloak around her shoulders.

Bern tucked his trouser legs into the tops of a pair of tall boots and carried all of Etta's dishes and baked goods to the buggy parked near the back porch. Then he handed her up with Gracie, wedged himself in next to them, and clucked Rosie on to the church.

"Do you have my list?" Gracie asked for the third time.

Etta patted her skirt pocket. "Right here with mine."

Gracie scrunched her shoulders and pressed into Etta's side with a giggle. "I can't wait!"

Somehow, Etta felt the girl's excitement was a bit misplaced, but perhaps she simply looked forward to meeting her schoolmates.

As they approached the churchyard, Etta was surprised to see a boardwalk of planks laid from where the buggies parked to the steps of the church. "Oh my, what a thoughtful thing to do."

"The Eversons are to blame," Bern said. "Since you planted that idea of being community-minded, they've gone plumb loco."

"I didn't plant that idea in their heads." She gave him a saucy look. "But I know who did."

He rewarded her with a slow smile that darkened his eyes and stirred her from the inside out. Quickly, without his help, she climbed down to the planks, then helped Gracie.

Bern unloaded a basket of bread, a box of plates and utensils, and another basket of cookies. "I'll set the buggy and bring the pies in."

He paused, drawing Etta's attention and a deep blush she felt along her neck. With her arms so full, she was helpless before him.

"Did I tell you how fetching you look today?"

"Thank you, Pa." Gracie giggled, and joined one of her friends on their way into the church.

Gently, Bern ran both hands up Etta's arms to her shoulders and closed in, his warm breath brushing her face. He tugged on her cloak as if securing it tighter. "I was talking to you."

Her voice squeezed to a whisper. "Thank you." No man had ever told her she looked pretty. Not even William. Gratitude grew within her until she doubted she could hold it all inside.

Bern climbed up and clucked Rosie on, and she turned for the front steps, unprepared for the sight that met her inside.

The pews had been set end to end like a wagon train, forming a giant circle in the center of the room that faced tables in their own circle, topped with a variety of linens. Three additional tables hugged one wall, covered with cloths and a glorious fall centerpiece. On the middle table, dried roses and yarrow shared a vase with small aspen branches someone had saved. A line of yellow and green gourds, orange pumpkins, and calico corn in the husk trailed away on either side. Struck by the simple and surprising beauty, Etta didn't hear Dottie Dalton approach until the diminutive lady twittered.

"A little bird told me I needed to dry a few extra roses this year." Dottie's eyes twinkled like the mischievous elf she was.

Little bird, indeed.

She studied Etta's dress and fingered the trim on one sleeve. "Beautiful, dear. You did a lovely job, and it's so good to see you in this color. I do believe you spent more than enough time in mourning."

She patted Etta's hand and gave her a quick smile before leaving to visit with others.

Etta returned her attention to the tables along the wall, looking for spots to place what she'd brought. On either side of the colorful arrangement, women had set the food in specific groupings. Platters of sliced turkey, ham, duck, chicken, and quail anchored one end, with side dishes and breads leading the way toward pies, cakes, puddings, and cookies at the opposite end. The bounty was overwhelming in light of the small community from which it sprang.

After squeezing her pies, bread, and dressing into appropriate sections, she noticed Bern visiting with a new couple near the door. She didn't recognize them, but as they spoke, Bern glanced her way and then back again quickly, as if he didn't want her to see him. The curious act gave her pause, but she tucked her baskets beneath the long cloths of the food tables and went in search of Gracie.

Each family sat together, whether small or large, and those without families were quickly gathered in like chicks beneath a hen's wing. The Everson boys managed to wedge themselves between the Priggs and the Markhams, whose daughters were quite taken with the spruced-up young men. Spit and polish did wonders.

Gracie sat between Bern and Etta, and Dottie claimed the seat to Etta's right. Bern stood at his place, and the group quieted. Etta was certain it numbered more than the usual Sunday attendance.

"Thank you all for coming to our annual Thanksgiving feast, and thank you for the food you've prepared, and for your help in getting things set up. I hope you enjoy our unusual seating arrangement, but since we are all family, this is a good way to see everyone while still visiting with those nearby."

He indicated the newcomers seated two tables to his left. "Pastor and Mrs. Bittman from Olin Springs have joined us today, and I'd like to thank them for making the trip in such sloppy weather."

Etta's stomach did a little flop and her pulse ticked up. Odd that Bern had not introduced the Bittmans to her. And odder still that they were here at all. Did the man hope to take Bern's place at the church? Several other reasons paraded through her mind, but she refused to entertain any of them. Not now.

"Be thinking about what you want to share after we finish cleaning up those fine-looking desserts at the end table there." Bern turned toward the pies and cakes, and a low chuckle rippled around the group. "Before we dig in, let's thank the One who gave us everything we have and made this fine gathering possible."

The room grew quiet, every voice hushed, every hand stilled, and Etta peeked to see every head bowed, even the Eversons'. She'd never attended a church social quite like this, and her heart overflowed with gratitude for the providential hand that led her to Lockton.

At Bern's "amen," she realized she'd missed his prayer, so full she'd been of her own thanksgiving.

In a most random yet orderly fashion, families rose from the circle and helped themselves at the serving tables. But never was there a crush of people or a line waiting. People simply flowed in and out of the larger group until everyone was seated again and enjoying the food and those who shared it with them.

Etta became more and more agitated and could not determine why. By the time she'd pushed her fork through sliced ham, sweet yams, and dressing, her hand shook so visibly she was afraid to try Dottie's pudding for fear she'd splatter her skirt with it.

"Etta."

She flinched at the childish whisper to her left.

Gracie leaned close.

"Can I have my list?"

" _May_ I have my list, _please_ ," Etta whispered in return.

"You already have yours, and why are you shaking?"

"Never mind." She pressed Gracie's paper into her small hands, then folded her own in her lap, hoping Dottie and Bern wouldn't notice what had the potential to become a fit.

In a few moments, Bern stood. He gave Gracie a wink and Etta an enticing smile, then turned to his left. "Slim, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to ask you and Mrs. Stuart to begin our tradition of shared blessings today. Then from you, the opportunity will continue clockwise around the room, ending with my family and myself."

Bern had included Etta in the word _family._ Breathing slowly through her nose, she prayed she wouldn't faint and fall over on the table. The turkey gravy would stain the bodice of her new dress.

Slim rose and tugged at his collar. "The Lord's blessed us this year with steady customers and good friends. And I want to thank you all for showing my wife and me the same support you always gave my father."

As thanks continued from person to person, even Pastor Bittman stood to share. "I've not seen a meal set up quite like this, but I think it is a grand success. Thank you for welcoming us and sharing your hospitality. The Lord is indeed good. Always."

Rutherford Prigg shared, as did his daughter, Priscilla, who cast a blushing glance at Earl Everson sitting tongue-tied beside her.

Lester finally stood and looked around the room at each and every person. "I'm grateful for the sheriff—I mean Pastor Stidham—for giving me and Earl a second chance."

"And third and fourth," Earl muttered.

Lester backhanded him in the arm and laughter peppered the room. "I mean to say, he set us on a good path, trusted us enough to give us important work, and even paid us. He made us feel like we belong."

Looking straight at Bern, he nodded once. "Much obliged." Then he sat down.

Two women included Etta in their list of blessings, mentioning her dressmaking skills, and as the sharing traveled around the circle, several others mentioned Etta's name, connecting her with Gracie and Bern and the community. Not everyone stood as they shared, some remained seated. A few others silently shook their heads and said nothing as their turn passed to the next person in line.

When Dottie's opportunity came, she leaned around Etta and winked at Gracie before standing. "I praise the Lord for this church, our pastor, and his daughter."

Laying her hand on Etta's shoulder, she continued. "And for sending this fine woman here to bless the Stidhams and all the rest of us, especially me."

The orange hat bobbed with a jerk, and she sat down as if having just righted every wrong in the world.

Etta was certain she'd made a grave mistake in tightening her corset that morning before donning her lovely dress. She could hardly breathe and feared she had too little air to read all that she'd written. Rising, she gripped her fingers tightly, crushing her list between them.

"I want you all to know how grateful I am for your acceptance of me. I too thank the Lord for sending me here to Lockton, for replacing my mourning with joy and my heaviness with thanksgiving."

Gracie squirmed until Etta sat down, then popped up like a jack-in-the-box. Quiet laughter once more rippled around the room.

She unfolded her list and began to read, mentioning her teacher and friends, Buster, her papa who saved her from a rattlesnake, learning how to make doll clothes, and hemming Etta's new dress all by herself.

Looking up from her list, she continued. "But my biggest blessing was when the Lord answered my prayer and sent Miss Etta to help my pa and be a mama for me."

Though feverish with embarrassment at the child's innocent assumption, Etta leaned over when Gracie sat down and hugged her. Never had she felt so appreciated in all her life.

With the last blessing shared, the atmosphere brimmed with thanks for acts of kindness, generosities, unexpected provisions, unparalleled friendships, and more. Everyone seemed to sense the abundance of the Lord's hand upon the congregation and Lockton in general, and the realization was overwhelming.

Bern rose with a nod at Gracie, and she slipped around the end of the pew. Dottie did the same, and Etta felt herself the center of not just Bern's attention, but everyone's when he said, "I found my greatest blessing this year sitting in front of the Olin Springs sheriff's office."

Her heart hammered against her corset.

"She was waiting for me to escort her here to Lockton by invitation of my other great blessing, Grace Ruth Stidham."

Gracie giggled, and Etta looked over her shoulder to see the child standing next to Dottie, nearly as tall as Dottie, in front of the food table with the dried arrangement.

"It took this stubborn sheriff a while before he recognized what the Lord had done for him. It took this headstrong preacher even longer before he worked up the courage to share that truth."

Slowly, he smiled down at Etta, his eyes darkening to a midnight blue as he offered his hand.

Accepting it, she stood at his slight tug. He didn't let go but laid his other hand atop hers.

"Etta Collier, I thank the good Lord for bringing you into my life when I didn't know I needed you. I love you with everything that I am, and I'm asking if you'll be my wife."

Stunned by his public proposal, she glanced around. Each countenance held expectancy, eagerness to hear her answer. Then she looked into his dear face, where she saw herself in his eyes. Saw her future. Saw a man who loved her.

"Yes," she whispered, then reached for her voice. "Yes, I will marry you."

The room erupted as if people stood along the finish line at the horse races. Cheers, whoops, and applause rose around her in a joyous cloud.

Bern leaned down and she thought he was about to kiss her in front of his congregation. Instead, his lips grazed her cheek and continued to her ear where he quietly asked, "Do you mind not waiting any longer?"

Puzzled but pleased, she replied, "I'd rather not wait another minute."

He straightened and took her other hand, holding both in his. "That's what I was hoping you'd say. How about right now?"

Her eyes shifted past his shoulder to the Bittmans, who sat grinning at their table. The pastor gave a slight nod.

"Yes," she said, falling into Bern's gaze. "Yes, and always yes."

Gracie squealed behind her, and in a moment ran to her with the dried flowers that had been tied together with a leftover length of lace from Etta's dress.

"These are for you to hold while you become my new mama."

In the company of everyone there, at the gentle and thoughtful words of Pastor Bittman, and with Gracie standing just before them, Etta gave Bern the promise she thought she'd never give again.

"I do."

Everyone clapped as Bern leaned in to kiss her, missing the words he brushed against her lips and heart.

"I love you, Etta Stidham. With all my heart, I love you. Don't ever leave me."

The scraping of chairs against the hardwood floor signaled the end of the most unusual gathering Etta had ever attended until Pastor Bittman raised his hand and voice.

"Before we depart this blessed occasion, let us join in singing over this couple as well as ourselves, 'Blest Be the Tie.'"

Bittman led out in a rich baritone, matched in fervor by everyone, but most of all by Gracie. When voices swelled on the words "each other's burden bear," Gracie threw one arm around her father and the other around Etta.

"That's it. That's the part I prayed for. Someone to bind up your heart, Pa, and help bear your burdens. God did good, don't you think?"

Bern laughed and leaned across his daughter for a chaste kiss.

Etta returned that kiss with one of her own, then bent to bestow the same upon Gracie's head. "He certainly did, Gracie-bird. He certainly did."

~~~

### Thank you for reading the Front Range Brides series prequel,

Mail-Order Misfire.

### If you enjoyed it, I would so appreciate a brief review – just a sentence or two.

### Keep reading for Chapter 1 of Book 1 ...

# An Improper Proposal

### CHAPTER 1

Olin Springs, Colorado, 1880

The shooter did not flinch.

Neither did Henry Reiker. He merely slammed to the bank lobby floor with a hole in his chest.

Mae Ann dropped to her knees, ears ringing from the close gunshot. She lifted Henry's head, and his blue eyes teared at her touch. Her first.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I ... " Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he fought for a gurgling breath.

His last.

Mae Ann gently lowered his head and stood to face his murderer. Her fingers clenched into tight balls at her sides, lest she claw the smirk from the gunman's face. Surely he would dispatch her to join her betrothed. Such a fate would be ten times better than what awaited her in this treacherous town. For she had no family, no means, no friends. Nothing—other than Henry's offer of marriage.

Gun smoke veiled the lobby, stinging her nose and shrouding the robber and the other patrons too frightened to move. That had been Henry's mistake. He'd moved in front of her when the gunman reached for the cameo at her throat.

She tore the brooch from her collar and threw it in the shooter's face. The pin pricked his cheek and bounced to the floor, clanking against the hardwood. A red dot rose on the man's face.

He stepped over Henry's body with a threat in his cold eyes. No, a promise.

"Tuck!"

The harsh reprimand jerked him to a halt, but not before his tobacco-fouled breath washed Mae Ann's face.

Stuffing money bags with coins and stacks of bills, his partner cursed from behind the counter. "Get over here and help me carry this. We ain't got all day."

The gunman's disrobing glare swept her from neck to skirt hem before he spit on Henry's coat and turned away. Only after the animal joined his companion did she dare look down at the shiny black spot marring the worn and faded fabric. Right next to a seeping hole.

A slight sound drew her to a tall man by the darkened window. He slid a finger behind the shade the robbers had hastily pulled when they entered. His dark eyes moved but his head did not, and he watched the bandits as he leaned toward the glass for a quick glance outside.

"You better go out the back." His voice sent shivers up her spine. Deep and gravelly as if dug from a dark pit.

A hammer cocked. The murderer raised his weapon and pointed through the teller's gate. "You tellin' us how to do our job, cowboy?"

The man lowered his hand and met the gunman's threat straight-on, neither fear nor contempt on his face. "I'm telling you the sheriff is headed this way, and your lookout is danglin' over the hitching rail."

The hammer slid back.

"Come on." The leader yanked the gunman's arm. "I told you no shootin'. Now we got the law on us." He rushed into the back room and jiggled the doorknob until the door gave way.

The gunman paused at the counter, a gorged bag under each arm, his foul glare resting on Mae Ann. "This ain't over, missy."

The back door did not close, though she knew they were gone, as did the others, who all began talking at once. A woman fainted into her husband's arms—a bit after the fact.

The man at the window raised the blinds and opened the front door but did not leave. Instead, he spoke with each patron, giving a firm handshake to the men and reassuring words and a tip of his wide-brimmed hat to their wives. Mae Ann remained the only woman alone.

Again kneeling beside Henry, she pulled a hankie from her sleeve and wiped the spittle from his clothing. Her hand shook, but no grief weighed on her heart other than pity for an innocent man slain. She knew little of Henry Reiker. Only what he had shared in his letters—that he was weary of loneliness and longed for someone to help him on his meager farm. He'd promised hard work but faithfulness as well, and joy in the small things of life. Could a woman in Mae Ann's position ask for more?

She looked for a basket or spittoon to deposit her hankie in. Two dusty boots stopped beside her, and her gaze followed long trouser-clad legs to a belt, a chambray shirt, and a calloused hand offering assistance. The man from the window.

She accepted, and stood to look _up_ into dark eyes. A rare occurrence for a woman as unfashionably tall as she.

"My condolences, ma'am." He doffed his hat and glanced at Henry. "I'll take him to the undertaker for you."

She'd not thought that far ahead. Oh, Lord, what should she do? Only the wedding had been on her mind since meeting Henry at the train station, not a burial. She clasped her hands tightly. "Thank you, sir. I—uh—I appreciate your help." Her hands trembled in spite of gripping them until her fingers ached. "If you could just tell me where that might be, I can make arrangements." How she would pay for those arrangements, she had no idea.

Traitorous tears fought to escape. Blinking rapidly, she looked away, toward the counter where the teller leaned, ashen and shaken. In that time, another patron had come to help carry Henry's body. The first stranger caught her eye and tipped his head slightly to his right. She followed them out the door.

A man did indeed lie over the hitching rail near Henry's farm wagon. With his hands cuffed beneath him, he hung there like a sack of corn, crying.

Tugging at her velvet jacket, she disdained its snuggly tailored fit, much too warm for the afternoon. But it held her together and upright, kept her from crumbling, as if it were emotional armor. She lifted her skirt at the alley and followed Henry's bearers, who mounted the next boardwalk and continued on, unceremoniously carrying her future to its end.

She reached for her reticule, forgetting it had been snagged by the gunman's greedy paws. Her fingers habitually felt for the brooch, the cause of poor Henry's death, and she could not remember if the murderer had stooped to pick it up or if it still lay on the bank floor. Everything of value was gone, other than her trunk in Henry's buckboard. She glanced back but could not see the wagon for the people rushing in and out of the bank.

When she looked ahead again, the men were gone. She stopped and pressed a hand against her waist and the rising fear within. Never had she felt so alone, so abandoned. Not even after her mother's consumptive death at the rooming house. Why had Henry insisted they stop at the bank before going to the church? That singular decision changed everything. It cost her a husband, a home, and all the money she had scrimped and saved. It cost her—yet again—a small hope of joy, snatched away at the last moment like her little dog, Percy.

And it cost a gentle and innocent man his life. _Oh, Henry, why did you have to defend me?_

Across the street, storefronts advertised a saddle shop and livery, a small bakery, and the mercantile, but no undertaker. Just ahead, a shingle hanging above the boardwalk said _Hardware._ She bent slightly to read the one beyond it. _Barber_. In smaller script below, _Undertaker_.

Oh dear.

The stranger's head and shoulders popped into view from the doorway, and he motioned her inside.

She hurried to the threshold, but halted at the sight of Henry lying on a table inside. A spectacled man in a barber's apron stretched a measuring tape alongside him, then scribbled something on a small paper and applied the measure to Henry's shoulders.

Mae Ann gripped the door frame, afraid she might lose what little breakfast she'd had before boarding the train in Denver that morning. The stranger came to her, took her elbow, and pointed to a settee, a small table, and an old ladder-back chair across the room—the undertaker's efforts to dress up his sorrowful establishment.

Mumbling her thanks, she chose the hard chair. Comfort seemed inappropriate for such a time and place.

He took a knee before her, a most unexpected gesture regardless of her situation. His warm eyes posed no threat, nor did his strong jaw, and he removed his hat to reveal dark hair dented from its constant presence. A man accustomed to hard work, she presumed, consistent with the calloused hand that had helped her earlier.

He did not smile, but sympathy tinged his expression. "Can I help you in any other way, ma'am?"

The thought came suddenly and clear, as if it were the most logical and well-suited idea. She weighed her options—which were nonexistent—squared her shoulders and met his unwavering regard. "Do you have a wife?"

He glanced away and his mouth worked as if sorting through possible replies. "No, ma'am, I do not."

She schooled her features as best she could, feigning confidence. "Would you like one?"

~

Mrs. Reiker's question shot Cade Parker to both feet. He set his hat and regarded her openly. Was this offer for herself or for another mail-order bride? An acquaintance or a sister? He knew of her expected arrival—the whole town did. For the last two months, Reiker had talked of nothing else every time Cade saw him at the church house or the mercantile.

He cleared his throat. "Thank you kindly, ma'am, but I'm not looking for a wife."

She cut a look to her dead husband, then back to Cade as if he hadn't given an answer. "I am a woman alone. As are you."

He swallowed a smart reply. "Beg pardon, ma'am, but I do believe that is not what you intended to say. Last time I checked ..." He left off.

Her brow furrowed and realization smoothed it, painting her cheeks a becoming pink. Not only was she bold, she was a handsome woman to boot. Not too thin. Eyes and hair the color of coffee, a fair neck beneath her torn collar. She bit her lower lip and its color deepened. Reiker's gamble on a mail-order bride had paid off.

During the holdup, Cade had expected her to fly into the bandit, and had thought what a loss if the rough killed her as he'd killed her husband.

She let out a breath, impatience insinuated. "I _meant_ if you have no wife, as you say, then you are also alone. As am I." Her eyes shot suddenly to his. "Unless you have family."

"None here." Not counting Deacon, his dog, and his horse.

"Well then." Her bearing relaxed. "In light of your bravery and kindness, I would like to make a business proposition."

Bold, handsome, and quick to judge. He'd been called a lot of things, but never brave or kind. _Pigheaded_ flitted by on a memory, but he swatted it down with a dozen other titles he didn't care to face. "I'd have to say your husband qualified on both counts you mention, and it got him killed. Shouldn't you be mourning him instead of making business deals?"

She interlocked her fingers, squeezing them until her knuckles whitened. Not the hands of a pampered woman, but neither were they red or cracked. In a low voice she answered his question. "He was not yet my husband."

Full of dandies, this one. He folded his arms across his chest and darkened his tone. "You know nothing about me. I could be a hornswoggler, an outlaw. A gambler."

Unmoved by his words, she raised her chin a notch. "On the contrary, sir, I know as much about you as I did my betrothed." Her eyes strayed to the undertaker, who continued to measure and mark. Returning her attention to Cade, she met him brace for brace. No whimpering female, she.

"I know you are not a self-centered man, or you would have fled the bank at the first opportunity. I know you are brave but thoughtful, based upon how you spoke to the robbers. I know you are gentle by the way you regarded each woman in the bank after the robbery—and Henry's murder—and I know you to be respected by the men impacted by the situation, for each spoke to you with goodwill and friendliness."

She paused and studied her hands, then looked him in the eye. "And I know you are kind, for you are the only one of ten who offered to help me with Henry."

Where was she last fall when he was dickering with the cattle buyers?

"Nor are you a gambler, for your hands and attire speak of a man acquainted with hard, honest work." She sighed and glanced again toward her dead intended. "But if you are employed as Henry was, a farmer, then you may well indeed be a gambler."

A wittier woman he'd never met. She'd be a hard match for any man not up to snuff. But she'd picked a cold trail, and he'd already told her so.

He'd considered a wife once. Thought he couldn't make it in this country without someone beside him, the way his ma was for his pa. But he'd chosen poorly when he settled on the fair and flirtatious Alexandra Hemphill, who'd sashayed under his nose at a church social, hobbled his good sense, and then taken up with a flashier man. They'd left for parts unknown. San Francisco, he'd heard later.

But Cade and his cows had done all right.

"Well?" The widow, or whatever she was, queried him from her seat, ramrod straight, not a begging bone in her body.

He must be out of his mind, though he had been thinking about hiring a housekeeper. This gal's throat-choking riggin' and air of respectability spoke to sound morals. And if she could cook, well, so much the better.

He shifted his weight and stood squarely. "A business proposition, you say."

Hope glimmered in her eyes before she masked them by considering the plank floor. "Yes, a _business_ proposition. I am quite a good cook, I'll mince no words. And I keep a clean house. Wash, mend, tend to a garden."

The offer became more appealing as she tallied all the things he did himself besides work the ranch.

"Can you ride?"

She blinked up at him. Then again.

His answer, but he asked again anyway. "Can you horseback?"

Her chin rose higher. "I can learn."

He held in a snort. She'd not answered him directly, but she'd not lied either. "This business proposition—what's in it for you?"

At that she stood, and he noticed for the first time that she had no lady's handbag. No satchel. Her hands smoothed the sides of her suit, dark brown like his bay gelding tied near Reiker's old wagon. A rip in her collar bore witness to the brooch she'd thrown at the gunman.

He saw it now—her desperation.

"A home and respectability. Safety." Her color heightened and she lowered her gaze and her voice. "I have seen my twentieth birthday—plus a few—so if I do not appeal to you, we can live as man and wife in name only."

Plus a few? He'd wager one, maybe two. Nearly a decade stood between them, a surprising discovery since Reiker had been closer to forty.

"I have no expectations other than that if you are not satisfied with my help and companionship, you send me away with enough funds for lodging until I can find employment elsewhere. You have my word that I shall repay you every penny."

Shame nicked his conscience for forcing such an admission from her. But taking on a wife—before God and man—was no small thing. He removed his hat, plowed his hair back, caught her eye. "I'll put you up at the hotel tonight and cover your fare home on the next train."

Her steel melted and she sank to the chair.

"Mrs. Reiker." The undertaking barber lifted his hand. "A word, please?"

Before she could rise, Cade crossed the room and pulled a silver coin from his vest pocket. "Will this cover a decent burial in the town cemetery?"

The barber nodded and accepted the offer. "It will. Thank you, Mr. Parker."

Cade returned to the woman who'd also made an offer—herself, as a matter of business. A risk he'd not take if the roles were reversed. But if offers were being made here today, why couldn't he accept hers? It wouldn't be the first time a couple married sight unseen. Under different circumstances, he might have been the letter writer requesting a bride rather than Henry Reiker.

He took in her squared shoulders, her tight jaw, and the absence of Alexandra-like mewling. She'd faced down a gunman, been cheated out of a husband and probably all her money, and considered him trustworthy. Was he? Or was he plumb loco?

"Ma'am?"

She regarded him mutely, dark eyes clouded, back straight. A fighter to the finish.

"We're done here." He offered his hand as he had at the bank.

She accepted and stood, but did not cling to him and withdrew her fingers.

He stepped in closer than acceptable, but hang it all, not one thing yet today had been acceptable. Moving closer still, he caught her hair's flowery scent and the fading traces of fear. He lowered his voice. "Were you and Reiker to be married this afternoon?"

Pain flickered across her lovely face, but she settled on his eyes. "Yes." A whisper.

He turned slightly and offered his arm. "Then if you wouldn't mind becoming Mrs. Cade Parker, I'd like to see if the preacher is still available."

She stiffened, no hint of relief or gratitude. "I am not in need of your sympathy, sir."

Ah, pride. He smiled to himself. "But you are in need of a husband, as you so aptly stated a moment ago."

She hesitated, then placed her hand in the crook of his arm.

He covered it with his. "Your name?"

"Mae Ann. Mae Ann Remington."

"Well, then, Miss Remington. Shall we be on our way?"

Lord, help him. _Loco_ didn't even come close.

~~~

**Sign up for my Quarterly Author Update and receive a free historical novella!** <http://eepurl.com/xa81D>

### Acknowledgments

It takes many hearts, hands, and hours for a book to come to completion, and for this I am grateful. I'd like to thank my advance readers Jill Maple, Susan B. Mathis, and Nancy Huber; my editor Christy Distler; you, the readers, for allowing Etta and Bern's story to flow into your hearts; and our good and loving God for pouring this story into mine.

Thank you for reading Inspirational Western Romance. If you would like to leave a brief review on your favorite book website or other social media, it would bless my boots off!

### About the Author

Bestselling author and winner of the **Will Rogers Gold Medallion** for Inspirational Western Fiction, Davalynn Spencer can't stop #lovingthecowboy. When she's not writing, teaching writing workshops, or playing on her church worship team, she's wrangling Blue the Cowdog and mouse detectors Annie and Oakley. Connect with her online via:

Website https://davalynnspencer.com/

Newsletter <http://eepurl.com/xa81D>

~May all that you read be uplifting.~

