 
RESURRECTED

Book One of the Tender Mysteries Series

By Fran Shaff

Inspirational Historical Romance

For Everyone Who Loves a Little Mystery in their Love Stories

Resurrected: Book One of the Tender Mysteries Series By Fran Shaff

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Fran Shaff

Characters, names and incidents used in this story are products of the imagination of the author and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Dedication

For the unsung heroic women who, over the last several hundred years, helped build the United States of America into a strong, caring country. Thank you for your dedication and sacrifice.

RESURRECTED

MOLLY'S PROLOGUE

The Longfellow Wagon Train Encampment on the Wishek River in Nebraska

The dawn of May 6, 1888 was shrouded in darkness. Black thunder clouds frightened early rays of light from the sky. Rain pelted trees, horses, and the Conestoga rigs in our encampment.

I, Molly McKee Longfellow, a red-headed, fair-skinned Irish woman, thirty-four years of age on that day, was in the Green family wagon which had been placed on high ground fifty yards from the Wishek River. Because Elizabeth and Liza Green, twelve and eleven-year-old angels, ailed with severe colds, their kind father Mitchell had parked the wagon away from the travelers camped near the river to avoid spreading their infections.

On that dreadful May morning, while I was soothing Liza's forehead with a cool cloth, I heard screams filling the air. The deafening shrieks mingled with the roar of thunder and the stabbing strikes of the ominous rain against the stretched canvas above and around us. I moved deftly to the rear of the wagon and peered through an opening. When lightning flashed I saw figures of all sizes, some moving quickly, some paralyzed on their feet, almost all of them looking up river.

As I followed their gazes, a roar filled my ears, growing, growing, until it overtook the sickening sounds of the screams. Seconds later, lightning flashed, and I saw a flush of water descending down the Wishek. I estimated the giant wave to be twelve to fifteen feet high, though I learned much later others farther upstream believed it was only half that.

Whatever the height and breadth of the deadly liquid wall, the evil murderer took what it willed, its power seeming to equal the potency of the Almighty Himself.

Fathers, mothers, siblings struggled to fight the wrath of the river. I watched helplessly as some gave their lives to save others.

I wanted desperately to spring from my perch and find my three precious daughters, but my duties forbade me from doing so. I had two cherished charges who were too sick to help themselves if the water rose to the height of the wagon we occupied. I owed my allegiance to these girls and my trust to my husband who, I prayed, would take our daughters to safety.

Twice I threw up the coffee and biscuits I'd swallowed an hour earlier. The sight and sounds of all that transpired during my confinement in the wagon made me terribly sick.

An hour after I'd first peered into the storm from the back of the wagon, the rain softened and the sky brightened. It was then I realized the results of the river's rampage.

We'd been a train of nine Conestoga wagons and six families, eleven parenting adults and eighteen children, some of age and some not. When we took an audit of survivors, as soon as the conditions allowed us to do so, I learned I was the only remaining adult, alone on the deluged prairie of eastern Nebraska with nine little girls ranging in age from eleven to fifteen years.

My dear husband James Robert Longfellow, a forty-five-year-old dark-haired, fair-skinned, handsome Englishman, who'd been with me since our wedding day on December 31, 1871 and all three of my baby girls, Mary Elizabeth, aged thirteen, Joanna, aged nine, and my beloved daughter Annie, aged eight, had been eaten alive by the furious flood.

A sadder, more horrifying day I had never known.

After the flood, we quickly located and buried as many bodies as we could find. Unfortunately, we didn't find all of our loved ones. We did, however, encounter another child, a parentless, brown-skinned little Indian girl. We took her in and unanimously adopted her as one of our own. We called her Angie as we believed God sent the little angel to soothe us during our time of sorrow. I gave her my surname and my birthday, December 25. We estimated Angie's age to be eight years at the time we found her, and we have kept her chronology of years according to that estimate ever since.

The nine child survivors whom I also adopted included the Willet girls, Deborah, aged fifteen, Susan, aged fourteen, and the twins Bonnie and Becky, aged eleven. Mary Phillips, who was fourteen at the time of the flood, and Amy McKittrick, who was fifteen, joined the Green sisters, Liza and Elizabeth, and Flossie Marquez, aged thirteen, as part of my new family.

Throughout the years since the flood, my ten espoused daughters have been a great blessing to me. They've given me the courage I've needed to provide them with home and hearth, with love and patience, with food and encouragement.

All of them have reached womanhood as I write this in the year 1900. I have earnestly beseeched God for one favor besides granting good health to all of my girls--I have asked often that each and every one of them find men who will cherish them and give them bountiful family lives. I have believed my girls would be able to find relief from the horrible suffering they've endured due to their familial losses only by creating progeny with dearly beloved husbands.

I've always had faith that nothing is impossible with God, but I have often wondered, would He hear me and answer my prayers according to my will, or did He have plans of His own which countered mine?

When it came to my wishes for Deborah, a fair-skinned, brown-haired, green-eyed, insightful girl, I began to believe she would never take a husband. She'd rebuffed many a gentleman caller between the time we set up housekeeping in the three-room shack we'd been able to purchase after the flood and the years after that when we moved into our big house on Lincoln Avenue in Hope, Nebraska.

In the summer of 1895 Deborah had just turned twenty-three years of age. She'd become a terribly serious woman who worried about almost everything. When she and her sisters began to be plagued by intermittent thefts of their personal belongings, she grew even more stern and worried.

More than ever, she needed someone strong to lean on. She needed someone besides her sisters and me to ease her burdens, though she'd never admit to a soul just how difficult bearing them had become for her.

But Deborah had no interest in finding a man. She had other plans for her life.

Chapter One

Hope, Nebraska. July, 1895

Deborah's mind was so focused on the stolen goods she barely noticed she was approaching the entry to the _Nebraska National Bank_. She stopped her deliberate march along the boardwalk when she reached her destination and gave the bank a good looking over.

Odd that the wooden framed building appeared vulnerable to thieves when the purpose of her visit was to discuss a matter of stolen property, she thought. Fortunately for her peace of mind, she kept her funds in the fortress-like, stately brick and stone _Merchants Bank_ , the only other financial institution in Hope, Nebraska.

She set aside her silly, intruding deliberations, opened the six-panel oak door ahead of her and stepped out of the hot summer sun and onto the cool, gray marble floors inside. She looked past the dark oak tellers' cages, each with short lines of depositors waiting to do business, toward the area filled with desks and suited men.

She observed her sister Becky, wearing her favorite green plaid frock, standing next to a handsome young man sporting a dark suit and white shirt who was seated at a large brown desk on the other side of the bank's open office area.

Deborah had done business with _Nebraska National_ a time or two in the past, but she didn't remember ever having seen the man near Becky.

She'd have remembered him, had she ever seen him before. She was certain of that.

She angled her body toward her sister and moved in her direction. The urgent business on her mind distracted her so much she hardly noticed the elderly gentleman patron who nearly bumped into her upon rising from his chair near one of the desks.

As she pressed on, the scent of roses caught her attention. She glanced around to locate the source of the fragrance and saw a vase of flowers sitting on the desk of a dark-haired, attractive young woman who was scrutinizing a ledger. A wistful smile tugged at Deborah's lips. Judging by the mammoth size of the red bouquet, the woman's sweetheart must have been apologizing for some misdeed, or, perhaps, he was trying to impress her with his generosity and good taste.

She set aside her musings and continued toward her destination.

When Deborah reached her sister, Becky glanced at her.

"I need to speak with you," Deborah said curtly.

"Good afternoon, Deborah," Becky said politely.

"This is Deborah?" the gentleman sitting at the desk asked.

"Yes," Becky answered.

Deborah looked directly at him.

He smiled at her, and, to her great surprise, her heart skipped three beats. His jet-black hair was neatly combed, his fair skin cleanly shaven. His deep blue eyes twinkled as though something had amused him.

"I'm Steven Paxton," he said, extending his hand toward her.

She jerked slightly at the sound of his voice. "Deborah Willet," she said, shaking his hand. The fact that he didn't stand upon greeting her annoyed her, yet she couldn't help but notice his grip was warm, strong--and the feel of his skin against hers strangely interfered with her breathing.

Deborah pulled her hand away from him and looked at her sister. "Becky, we four sisters are going to meet at five to discuss the recent thef--the family business we need to discuss." She'd almost said _thefts._ Fortunately, she'd cut off the word before she'd completed it. She certainly didn't want Mr. Paxton to be privy to private family problems.

Becky tucked a strand of coffee brown hair behind her ear. "I'm pretty sure Mr. Paxton and I will be finished with our work on time to meet you, Bonnie and Susan by five, won't we Mr. Paxton?"

"I should think so, yes," he said to Becky. He cleared his throat, looked up at Deborah and leaned forward, his dark suit jacket touching his desk. "I'm terribly sorry to hear of the recent cases of larceny your family has experienced. From what I've learned in the few months I've been in Hope, thefts are fairly uncommon here."

She gave her sister a spiteful look. "Becky, have you been exposing family troubles to the public?"

"Of course not!" she said, her brown eyes filling with trepidation. "I've mentioned the problem only to Mr. Paxton."

Deborah smoothed her hands over her dark green skirt in an attempt to calm the ire rising inside her.

Wasn't it bad enough that her family was fully aware of her complete lack of competence in caring for her sisters? Now even this stranger knew what a terrible protector she'd been. How humiliating!

"There's no harm done, Miss Willet," Steven said. "I haven't mentioned anything Becky has told me to anyone."

Deborah looked at Steven and touched her light green shirtwaist, placing the palm of her hand over her heart in an effort to stop the thudding this man seemed to cause every time he looked at or spoke to her. "Thank you, Mr. Paxton, but that's not the point." She glanced at Becky. "My sister knows well I do not appreciate _anyone_ knowing _anything_ about our private family matters."

Becky bit the corner of her mouth. "I'm sorry, Deborah, but, honestly, am I not allowed to have a confidant? Just because you are intent on keeping every emotion you've ever experienced bottled up inside doesn't mean the rest of us are obliged to live that way."

"Becky!"

Steven raised his hands. "Perhaps we should take a moment to calm down," he said gently.

Deborah gave him a nasty look. She wanted to tell him to tend to his own business, but if she used the tone and volume she felt necessary in issuing such an order she'd garner the attention of every person in the bank. She, therefore, had to be content with conveying her feelings by the nasty facial expression she'd delivered to him.

"I'm sorry," Becky said.

Deborah took a deep, calming breath and gazed at her sister. "Me too. I didn't come here to argue with you. I wanted only to let you know we four sisters will meet at _Gianni's Restaurant_ at five to discuss how we're going to handle the matter troubling us."

"You mean the thefts," Steven said.

Deborah looked at him, and, once again, found amusement twinkling in his gorgeous blue eyes.

Did he find their problems entertaining?

"I'd like to help you ladies solve your mystery," Steven said.

Deborah gave him a terse shake of her head. "Thank you, Mr. Paxton, but we are quite capable of handling our difficulties ourselves."

"But I'd really like to help. I'm quite imaginative, and I'm brilliant when it comes to making deductions from pieces of evidence. Just ask Becky."

Deborah glanced at Becky and found her younger sister's countenance filled with enthusiasm. "Why, he's the smartest man in this bank," she said.

"I'm sure he is," Deborah said in a halfhearted tone. "However," she said, looking again at Steven, "you certainly have better things to do than to assist us with a problem we can surely take care of without anyone's help."

Steven touched the lapel of his dark suit with the palm of his hand. "Your competence is beyond reproach, I'm quite certain. However, being a gentleman and a man who's constantly willing to render assistance, it would be my great pleasure to help you--and Becky, too, as well as your other sisters--with this dilemma."

"A gentleman?" Deborah said indignantly. It hadn't escaped her notice that not only had he neglected to rise when they were introduced, but he'd remained seated throughout their entire conversation while Becky and she had been on their feet.

"Mr. Paxton is every inch a gentleman," Becky said defensively.

"Yes, of course... That is why he was so quick to join us in standing when I approached his desk, isn't it?" she said scathingly.

She wanted to take back the vicious words as soon as they'd left her mouth.

How could she be so vulgar?

Apparently the guilt engulfing her heart due to her inability to protect her sisters from thieves was destroying her temperament more effectively than she'd imagined.

"I'm terribly sorry for my lack of manners," Steven said, "but--"

"Deborah, you don't understand!" Becky exclaimed. She seemed to want to say more but, instead, she walked away.

Steven pushed away from his desk. "You see," he said, bracing his hands on his desk and leaning forward, "I had an accident a couple of months ago." He tried with obvious difficulty to rise from his chair.

Deborah placed a hand over her stomach. Her rudeness was even worse than she'd thought. She'd chastised him for showing poor manners, and now it was becoming quite apparent he hadn't risen because he was crippled.

Becky returned to Steven's side with a wheelchair. "Be careful, Mr. Paxton, we don't want you to fall."

Steven succeeded in attaining a full standing position and looked straight at Deborah. His stunning blue eyes couldn't hide the pain his rising had caused. The window into his agony made her stomach churn with guilt.

"Again, I'm terribly sorry for my lack of proper etiquette," he said, giving her a smile through his discomfort.

"I...I never meant to insult you, sir," Deborah said sheepishly.

Suddenly aware of an unsettling presence his new position had created, she marveled at how tall he was. He surpassed her five feet, three inches by a good seven inches, maybe eight. She lowered her line of vision and noticed his build was much stronger than she'd originally thought.

She raised her hand to her brow, nervously wiped away the inappropriate thoughts she was having about Mr. Paxton, and looked at him directly once more.

His smile broadened, and the pain in his eyes seemed to lighten. "Miss Willet, you have no idea how much I enjoyed being scolded by you for my lack of proper manners. Ever since I injured my knees everyone around me has been treating me like an invalid. They've been afraid I'll break in two if they treat me like a whole man." He stood up straighter, looking even taller--and every inch as powerful as any man Deborah had ever met.

"But you most certainly are a whole man, Mr. Paxton. An injury doesn't make a man any less a man."

He sighed and inclined his head toward her. "How refreshing it is to hear those words from someone else's mouth. I've been reciting them to myself like a litany every day since the accident happened. While folks around me have treated me like a toddling youngster, I've been trying to convince myself I'm the same man I was before I was injured."

Deborah's heart was hammering like the forge in the factory on the edge of town. She couldn't imagine anyone possibly thinking of Steven Paxton as less virile than the most powerful man in the state. He was a veritable stronghold as far as she could tell, whether he was in good health or not.

"It's kind of you to make excuses for my bad behavior, Mr. Paxton, but I am, nevertheless, quite sorry for being rude. It's one thing to _think_ bad things when I'm in a state of anxiety due to family problems; it's quite another to _speak_ without consideration for other people's feelings. Please accept my apologies."

He extended his hand to her. "The matter is forgotten."

"Thank you," she said, taking his hand.

He let her go and shifted his weight from foot to foot as he braced his hands on the desk.

"If you don't have anything else to discuss with us," Becky said, "Mr. Paxton and I really should get back to the ledgers we were reviewing. We need to finish as soon as possible if I'm going to meet with you on time."

Becky pushed Steven's desk chair aside and placed his wheelchair behind him.

Steven sat down. "Becky's right, Miss Willet. We need to retrieve some files and return to our accounting."

Deborah took a step back. "Yes, of course. I have a long list of things to do as well. And I have a short shift to work at my job before our meeting."

"Goodbye, Deborah," Becky said. "I'll see you, Bonnie and Susan at five at _Gianni's Restaurant_."

"I'll see you then." She looked at Steven, her heart wrenching upon beholding him in the wheelchair. "It's been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Paxton."

He gave her another potent smile. "The pleasure is mine."

Deborah tipped her head toward him and turned to leave. When she was a few steps away from his desk, she heard Steven say, "I look forward to seeing you at _Gianni's_."

She looked back at him, stunned to hear he hadn't heeded her petitions to stay out of their family business.

What nerve he had to insist on intruding on their meeting after she'd made it clear they did not require any assistance.

She wanted to verbally scold him, excoriate him, in fact. But she'd already made a fool of herself once. She didn't need to repeat her error.

She turned away from him, headed to the exit and firmly decided she'd tell Mr. Paxton when she saw him at _Gianni's,_ if he indeed had the audacity to come, that he wasn't welcome at their family meeting. _Their_ business wasn't _his_ business.

Besides, with the way his presence seemed to distract her, she'd be of very little help to her sisters if Mr. Steven Paxton joined them for supper.

And taking care of her sisters, helping them in every way, being their mother, father, caretaker, was her lot in life. She needed to be thoroughly vigilant if she was going to tend to her duties properly.

* * *

"Becky, is your sister always abrupt when she's talking with you?" Steven asked when Deborah left them.

A thoughtful look crossed her face as she watched her sister move through the bank lobby toward the front door. "You know, Mr. Paxton, when we were children Deborah was rarely anything but lighthearted and happy."

"Really?"

Becky put her hand on her hip. "The fact is, Deborah was the only one of us girls who didn't complain about being uprooted from our farm in Lawrenceville to take the wagon train to Casper in eighty-eight. I'm not sure she really wanted to leave Illinois for Wyoming, but she always acted as though she was excited about the journey. She was perpetually cheerful, a trait the rest of us found annoying."

"Your family left Illinois for Wyoming? How did you end up in Nebraska?"

She put her hand on her throat. "We...there was a flood...on the Wishek River that spring..."

Steven looked up her in wonder. "Becky, when you told me your family came here from Illinois, you never mentioned the year you'd moved or your original destination. Were you a part of the wagon train damaged in the great flood of the Wishek River? Is that how you ended up in Nebraska?" He'd heard a little about the flood of eighty-eight, about the wagon train which was nearly wiped out, about farmers who'd lost so much topsoil they'd had to give up their lands.

" _Damaged_?" she said. "Mr. Paxton, we were all but destroyed."

"What exactly happened?" As soon as he'd asked the question, he realized he shouldn't have. "Please, forgive me. It was quite inconsiderate of me to ask you to talk about what had to have been a dreadful experience for you."

"No...no," she said, waving her hands in front of her. "It's quite alright for you to be curious about what happened to those of us who were on the train. We've been working closely for weeks, and we're becoming good friends, aren't we?"

"Why, yes, of course. I hope we become even better friends." Becky was a wonderful girl, and she'd shared many confidences with him recently.

"If we're friends, I really should tell you about the flood. After all, it was an event which changed my life and the lives of everyone I love. As my friend, you should know all about it, shouldn't you?"

He reached up and touched her shoulder. "Only if you'd really like to tell me," he said, drawing back his hand.

She gave him a half smile, "I'd like you to know everything that happened to us back then."

She moved the chair he'd previously been sitting on next to his wheelchair and sat down.

He noted when Becky sat next to him that she was always kind to him in the most subtle of ways. She seemed to instinctively know he'd much prefer speaking to people at his eye level, and she'd do what she could to accommodate this need at every opportunity. For example, she'd always find clever ways to coax his clients to sit during a meeting so Steven wouldn't have to look up at them, even if it took a little delicate arm twisting on her part to get the job done.

"Thank you for trusting me enough to share an important part of your life," Steven said warmly.

Becky gave him a gentle nod as her brows drew together and a contemplative look covered her face.

"Bonnie and I awoke the morning of May 6, 1888, to the sounds of heavy rain and thunder. When we noticed Susan was peering outside through the canvas in the back of the wagon, we hastened to join her. Neither Mother nor Deborah was in the wagon with us, and we wondered where they'd gone, but we were quickly distracted from our thoughts by the next flash of lightning. We looked upstream, and, in the illumination of the thunderous flash, we saw a wall of water descending down the Wishek River."

"How frightening!" Steven said.

"The sight of it _was_ terrifying, but not nearly as horrifying as what we witnessed next," she said, wiping a hand over her forehead. "The water rushed down the river and instantly swept away our second wagon, the one my father and our brothers Leon and Frederick slept in. Our brother Sebastian slept in one of the Green's wagons, the one he drove for them on the trail. The Greens had parked on higher ground much farther from the river than the rest of us so our only consolation upon seeing Father, Frederick and Leon swept away in the wagon was knowing Sebastian was presumably safe."

She wrung her hands fiercely. "The water was rising very quickly. We three girls knew we had to ignore the horror of what we'd just beheld and get ourselves out of our wagon." She rubbed the waistband of her green plaid skirt. "The water was nearly up to our hips when we stepped onto terra firma, mine and Bonnie's hips, that is. We were eleven at the time. We took no more than three or four steps before our feet went out from under us."

"Oh, Becky, you poor dear!" Steven wanted to stop her from saying more. Remembering the details of the ordeal she'd been through was obviously upsetting her. Yet, she also seemed to want to continue telling her story.

"Just as I thought we'd be swept hopelessly into oblivion, our brother Frederick emerged like a saving angel. He hadn't been in the wagon we'd seen swept away after all. He was a strong young man of nineteen. He grabbed both Bonnie and me and easily whisked us to the safety of higher ground."

"Thank God for his great strength!"

"Frederick had barely taken us to safety when he turned right around to go after Susan. She was fourteen and bigger and stronger than Bonnie and me, but she was having a terrible time staying afoot in the brutal water." She wiped a hand over her forehead again.

"So Frederick saved your sister Susan too?"

"No," she said, placing her hand on her throat. "Before he could reach her, a log or a piece of one of the wagons, something very large hit him and knocked him off his feet. He went under the water, and that was the last time we saw him alive." She placed her hand over her heart and closed her eyes.

"Oh, my..."

"A moment later our brother Sebastian who was seventeen appeared out of nowhere, just as Frederick had earlier," she said, opening her eyes. "He quickly made his way to Susan and pulled her to safety, settling her with us."

"Where was Deborah at this time?"

"Once we three girls were on high ground, Sebastian told us Deborah was safe at the Green's wagon. He gave us orders to report there at once without stopping or looking back. He said he was going after Minnie McKittrick, Amy's mother, who'd been fighting the waters near the spot Susan had been." A tear spilled from her eye, and she wiped it away. "We three sisters headed toward the Green's wagon, but I didn't heed Sebastian's advice. I had to look back. When I did..." Another tear slid down her cheek. "...the lightning brightened the dawn, and I saw Sebastian and Minnie vanquished by the waters."

Steven took her hand. "Becky, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let you go on with your story. It's upsetting you terribly."

"But I wanted to tell you what happened--because we're friends...and...and because I don't want you to think poorly of Deborah just because she was surly today. Before the flood, she was a terribly pleasant person, and I'm sure someday she'll be like that again."

"Becky, please," he said, squeezing her hand before he released it, "don't fret about my first impressions of your sister. Actually, I think she's quite lovely. And, as for the less than perfect disposition she displayed today, I would imagine a tragedy of the magnitude you ladies have known could steal the joy from anyone's soul."

Becky tilted her head just a bit. "Indeed it could, and, in fact, it has. Yet, as horrible as it was to lose our family members and most of our possessions it wasn't the actual losses which have disturbed Deborah the most over the years."

"No?" What could have possibly been more disturbing than the events Becky had described, Steven wondered.

"You see," she said, "Deborah and Amy McKittrick, at age fifteen, were the oldest of the children who'd survived. Amy, having lost _everyone_ in her family, had little strength to take on the heaviest duties we faced after the flood. But Deborah, burdened in sorrow or not, immediately cloaked herself with responsibility. She helped Molly with everything needing to be done from finding the bodies of our deceased loved ones to obtaining a place for all of us to live."

_Dear heaven, at age fifteen Deborah was saddled with the task of finding and burying her dead friends and relatives?_ Steven rubbed his churning stomach. He didn't know many men who would survive so horrible a mission and not likely become hopeless drunks as they tried to forget the experience. How on earth had Deborah and the other children managed to deal with such a gruesome task?

"How many of you on the train survived, and how many were lost?"

Becky's lovely brown eyes grew even more sullen. She tucked a strand of coffee-colored, softly curled hair behind her ear. "Molly was the only adult member of our wagon train to survive. Nine children, all girls, three my blood sisters, were spared from death. A day or two later Molly found Angie, an Indian girl who was also orphaned by the flood. The poor little thing was wandering near the river, cold and shivering, without a stitch of clothing on. She became our sweet littlest sister when we took her in." She paused briefly, thoughtfully, and closed her eyes. "We lost nineteen members of our party."

She dragged her eyes open and looked at him, her features appearing much older than they should have at age eighteen.

The sadness of the moment was taking a monumental toll on her, and Steven wished he hadn't asked his questions.

"We never found all of the bodies...I mean Deborah, Molly and Susan searched for everyone we lost, but they couldn't find them all. Rushing water...well, sometimes..."

He covered her hand with his. "Don't tell me anymore, Becky. I should have kept my curiosity in check. I didn't mean to cause a stir of sad memories for you." He glanced in the direction Deborah had taken. "It's just that your sister...she looked so upset, much more distraught than I'd think would be possible after losing a few personal items to a petty thief. Why, considering the catastrophe which has fallen on you young ladies, I would think losing a few items, while upsetting, wouldn't be as serious as Miss Deborah seems to have made it." He drew back his hand.

"Some of what has been stolen is quite valuable, financially and sentimentally, but that isn't what bothers Deborah most. As I mentioned, she's taken on the yoke of responsibility for all of us Willet sisters and for the other six sisters who survived the flood. It's a burdensome load, and Deborah, being a stickler for doing a job right, feels as though she's failed in her duty to protect us."

"I see," he said pensively.

The fair-skinned, chestnut-haired lady with the deep green eyes was far too beautiful to lose her loveliness to the scourge of guilt, Steven thought.

"Mr. Paxton?"

Becky's gentle voice drew him from his deliberations. "Yes?"

"Would it be alright if we went to get the files we need now? I'd like to be on time for the meeting with my sisters."

"Yes, of course," he said enthusiastically. _I'd like to be on time for that meeting too_ , he added in silence.

Now that he'd met the lovely Deborah Willet and learned a little about her, he couldn't wait to pursue the answer to the question which had popped into his head the moment he'd seen her. _Why, when I'm at the lowest point of my life, in soulful misery due to my injuries and to my unmanly inability to walk, has God seen fit to tempt me with the most beautiful woman He's ever created?_

Chapter Two

"Becky's here," Bonnie said, "and she's pushing a man in a wheelchair."

"Why is she bringing a cripple to supper?" Susan was nothing if not blunt.

"That's Mr. Paxton," Deborah said.

"I think Deborah may be right," Bonnie said, pushing a handful of auburn hair off her fair-skinned cheek. "Mr. Paxton works with Becky at the bank, and the man in the wheelchair looks just like her description of him--except I don't remember her saying anything about him being crippled."

Steven and Becky approached the Willet girls' table in the corner of _Gianni's Restaurant_.

"I'm sorry we're late," Becky said. "It's my fault. I dropped one of the large ledgers and tore a page." She inclined her head toward Steven. "Mr. Paxton and I had to repair it before we could leave."

"Is Mr. Paxton joining us for supper?" Susan asked enthusiastically.

"I don't think so," Deborah said. "I'm sure he just wanted to be certain Becky arrived here safely."

"Don't be silly," Bonnie said. "I do hope you will join us, Mr. Paxton. Becky has told me a great deal about you. I believe you'd be a very amusing supper companion."

Steven smiled at Bonnie. "You flatter me, miss."

Becky stepped around Steven's chair. "My, but you're all so full of enthusiasm and opinions. Don't you think before we carry our conversation any further I should introduce you to Mr. Paxton?"

Bonnie brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. "Of course."

Becky tipped her head in her sisters' direction. "Very well, then." She looked at Steven. "Mr. Paxton, the woman with cinnamon-colored hair and green eyes to your right is Susan. She's the second oldest of the Willet sisters, and, as you may be able to discern from her brown plaid dress, she is partial to earthy colors."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Susan," Steven said, giving her a charming smile.

Susan returned his smile. "Thank you, Mr. Paxton."

"You know Deborah, the eldest, of course."

"It's lovely to see you again, Miss Deborah."

She gave him a curt nod.

"To our left is my twin sister Bonnie."

"Hello, Miss Bonnie," he said, nodding toward her. "With your auburn hair and green eyes, you certainly don't look much like Becky, do you?"

Becky tucked a lock of flowing brown hair behind her ear. "Nonetheless, we are twins. I'm the older," she said, smoothing a hand over the skirt of her green plaid dress, "having been born fifteen minutes before Bonnie."

"Oh, yes," Steven said, grinning, "you are _much_ older than your twin."

The ladies chuckled.

"Now that we've all been introduced to you, Mr. Paxton, might I inquire once again if you will be joining us for supper?" Susan asked cheerily.

"I'm sure he won't," Deborah said before Steven had the opportunity to reply.

"Oh, but you must!" Bonnie said. "We'd dearly love to have you join us, wouldn't we, everyone?"

"Of course," Susan said.

"We don't want to impose on him, girls," Deborah said. "I'm sure Mr. Paxton has other plans for the evening, don't you?" She glanced at him, hoping he'd accept her none too subtle plea to leave them alone to discuss their private family business.

He grinned at her, his amazing blue eyes twinkling with amusement. "I haven't a thing planned," Steven said. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do than dine with four lovely sisters."

Bonnie clapped her hands together. "Wonderful!" She slid her chair aside to make room for Mr. Paxton's wheelchair next to her at their table.

Becky pushed him into place and took her seat in the empty chair next to Deborah.

"Are you certain you want to stay?" Deborah asked. "I'm afraid you might feel out of place since we need to converse about a private matter."

He waved a hand as though he were wiping away her words. "I'm sure I'll feel right at home. Becky has confided the subject of tonight's discussion to me, and I'd like to do anything I can to help."

"How generous of you," Bonnie said.

"He's a particularly giving man," Becky declared, "and truly kindhearted. I believe he'll be an inspiration to us all."

Belinda Fisher, their blonde-haired, blue-eyed, sixteen-year-old waitress, arrived with the four roast beef suppers Deborah had ordered a few minutes earlier.

"It looks like we'll need one more plate of roast beef, Belinda," Deborah said. "We have an unexpected guest."

"Hello, Mr. Paxton," Belinda said. "It's wonderful to see you again."

Deborah was surprised to see Belinda's reaction to Steven. It looked like she was flirting with him--and it bothered her, even though there was no logical reason why it should.

"Hello, Miss Fisher," Steven said warmly.

"Would you like your usual lemonade with your roast beef, Mr. Paxton?"

"Yes, I would. Thank you."

Belinda rested the mammoth tray she'd been holding on her shoulder on the edge of the table and doled out the roast beef suppers to the women. She pulled back the empty tray and smoothed her free hand over the skirt of her dark blue calico dress. "I'll return in a few minutes with two coffees, one milk and two lemonades," she said. "It was lemonade you wanted, Miss Deborah, wasn't it?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Miss Fisher," Steven said, gazing at their waitress, "when the time comes, I sincerely hope you will bring me the bill for everyone's suppers."

"Absolutely not!" Deborah shouted.

"But you must let me treat you," he insisted. "It's the only way I can make up for my intrusion on your family gathering."

_You could leave_ , Deborah thought. If he left, her heart wouldn't be hammering, and her palms wouldn't be burning. Why on earth did he tend to have the most unsettling effect on her?

"How gallant!" Bonnie said. "How could we possibly refuse such a generous offer?"

"You can't," Steven said, smiling at her. He looked at Belinda. "You'll bring the bill to me, then?"

She gave him a wide-eyed smile. "Yes, sir, I will," she said.

Deborah's uneasiness grew. The man had completely charmed Belinda, and, from the way things looked to her, he was doing a pretty good job of worming his way into the hearts of every one of her sisters too.

It seemed Steven Paxton had a rather warm, welcoming effect on other women, so why was it he made her feel nothing but anxiety?

Each time he looked at her or spoke to her he caused her insides to behave in strange ways. Her heart beat heavily and irregularly; her stomach became highly sensitive; her skin flushed. With Steven's presence sending her completely out of kilter, how was she supposed to think while they tried to solve the problem of the thefts?

And if they couldn't figure a way to stop the thefts and recover their stolen goods, how was she supposed to protect her sisters?

"Deborah? Are you listening?" Becky inquired.

"I'm sorry," Deborah said, "did you say something?"

"I asked if Sheriff Feist has any news about the thefts."

Deborah shook her head. "No, he doesn't know a thing yet." She touched two fingers to her lips and drew them away. "Why don't we eat our meals before we begin our conversation regarding the thefts? We'll feel much better talking about an unpleasant subject if our stomachs are full."

"I completely agree," Susan said. "Enjoying this lovely meal will refresh us and satisfy us...and then we can figure out who's been taking our things and determine just how we're going to punish the culprit for his foolhardy accomplishments!"

Belinda promptly returned with Steven's supper and everyone's drinks. As soon as Steven had been served, the five of them said grace and set about eating their meals.

The supper conversation veered away from talk of the stolen goods toward unimportant things like the cost of new shoes, the shortening of the days and the shrinking length of some of the new skirts turning up in mail-order catalogues.

Once everyone had finished eating and conversing about trivial matters, and their soiled dishes had been removed, Deborah was eager to begin discussing the problem of the pilfered property--but she wasn't comfortable bringing up the topic in front of Mr. Paxton.

"Now that supper is over, I suggest we begin our deliberations right away," Susan said authoritatively while Deborah was still deliberating as to how the subject of the thefts should be dealt with in front of the stranger in their group.

"I believe our best course of action would be to begin making a list of the missing items and of possible suspects." Susan grabbed the small brown bag she held on her lap. "I have a pencil and paper in my handbag," she said, quickly retrieving the items, "and I've already begun the list of things which have been taken, though I haven't gotten very far yet."

"You've already begun the list?" Deborah said, casting a tentative gaze in Steven's direction before looking at Susan again. "Why don't you tell us what you've written down so far?"

Susan fingered the paper now lying on the table ahead of her. "The most important piece of property stolen is, of course, Mother's cameo. Becky was wearing it when it disappeared at the dance we attended two weeks ago."

"I'm sorry," Becky said woefully. "I wish I knew precisely what happened that night." She tapped a finger against her jaw. "I know the cameo was pinned over my heart on my lavender and white dress when I was dancing with Herman Snead because he'd commented on how pretty the black onyx and gold looked against my lavender and white. After dancing with Herman, I danced with several other gentlemen--Rory Halverson, Mike Landon, Percy Fenimore. It wasn't until I had to stop dancing because Harvey Schmidt had practically broken my feet stepping on them the way he always does that I noticed the cameo was gone."

"Did you intermingle with other guests in between your dances?" Steven asked. "Perhaps, you went for some fresh air or punch, or maybe someone bumped into you and snatched the cameo while you milled about among the guests."

"Naturally, I walked about the pavilion in between dances with and without my partners," Becky replied. "I suppose I could have bumped into someone who might have lifted the cameo without my being aware of it, but I really don't remember. I was having such a delightful time--until I noticed the brooch was gone," she said dejectedly.

"Oh," Bonnie said sadly, "how we all love that cameo. We've simply got to get it back!"

"We will," Deborah said, patting Bonnie's hand.

"And when we find the person who stole it, we'll have him tortured," Susan added.

"Susan, don't say such things. Even if the person who stole Mother's cameo deserves to be tortured, we shouldn't say so," Becky said. "Mr. Paxton will think we're barbarians."

"I doubt anything any of you could say or do would seem barbaric," Steven said.

"Nevertheless," Becky replied, "I believe I should explain why we feel so passionate about losing Mother's cameo so you can understand why our emotions run high over this heartbreaking loss."

"I quite agree," Bonnie said.

Becky laced her fingers together and laid them on the table. "You see, the cameo is the most precious possession we were able to save from the flood in eighty-eight. Father had given it to Mother on the day they were married."

"It was a wedding gift from your father to your mother?"

"The cameo was a wonderful expression of his love for her," Bonnie said sweetly.

Steven smiled at the little lady sitting next to him. "Then it was most precious, indeed," he said warmly.

"There's more to the story," Becky said.

"There is?" Steven replied.

She nodded and wiped a finger over her cheek. "As a special gift to us, Mother gave the cameo to Bonnie and me on our eleventh birthdays, the year before we left Illinois for Wyoming. Mother said we were about to enter into womanhood, and she felt we were now old enough to be trusted to take good care of it. She told us we were to share it by taking turns wearing it."

"After she died," Bonnie added, "we decided to share our precious memento with Susan and Deborah, each of us taking turns wearing it. On the night of that fateful dance, it had been Becky's turn to wear it."

"Now you can understand why we're terribly sentimental and highly passionate about the loss of the cameo," Susan said, "and why I think we should torture the thief who took it."

"I certainly can," Steven said.

"Did you make notes on the losses of anything besides the cameo, Susan?" Deborah asked.

Susan looked at the paper again. "Your gold-edged mirror turned up missing from your vanity two days ago, Deborah, and it was a week ago that I noticed the picture of Father I kept in my purse was missing."

Bonnie leaned toward Susan to try to see the paper she was perusing. "Did you make a note that my long red hair ribbon was taken?"

"Your ribbon might not have been stolen," Becky said. "You could have lost it while we were shopping last week."

"It was stolen," Bonnie said determinedly. "I'd tied it tightly. It couldn't have just fallen from my hair. Someone eased it away from me without my knowing it. I'm sure of it."

"I lost my blue hair ribbon that same day, but I don't think it was stolen," Becky said. "Sometimes, ribbons just come loose."

"Why would anyone steal a hair ribbon?" Steven asked.

"What do you mean?" Bonnie said.

"Well," he said, lacing his fingers together, "it just seems...well, you know...a hair ribbon isn't worth much more than a penny or two. Why would someone steal something worth only a few cents?"

"Why would anyone steal hair combs or monogrammed hankies?" Susan asked, tossing a hand into the air. "They, too, are worth only a few cents, yet, we were all victims of the theft of our hankies and hair combs during a social ten days ago."

"Did you write the hankies and combs on the list, Sue?" Becky asked.

"I'll add them to the other items now," Susan said, writing feverishly.

Steven stroked his jaw thoughtfully. "I can understand someone wanting to take a valuable cameo or a fancy mirror. He could sell them for cash. But what good are inexpensive hair ribbons or hankies or combs to anyone? And why would someone steal a picture of a man from a woman's purse?"

"You see?" Deborah said smugly. "We've got a real conundrum on our hands. Even though some of the items stolen from us have little monetary value, these belongings have nonetheless been whisked away from us. If only one or two or even three possessions had gone missing, we could attribute the disappearances to carelessness on our parts. But careful ladies who've had good reason to guard their property cautiously, having lost so much at the time of the flood, would not suddenly recklessly misplace their things. No, indeed. Someone is stealing from us, and we must find out who it is before anything else is taken from us."

"I couldn't agree more," Susan said solemnly. "The flood of eighty-eight took our parents, our brothers and almost everything we owned. We won't stand idly by while some shiftless bandit makes off with what little we've managed to save or accumulate during these last years of great struggle. We're going to find out who the son-of-a-snake is, and we're going to make him pay for what he's done!"

Chapter Three

Steven thought he might feel out of place dining with four sisters, three of whom he'd just met, but he'd decided before he and Becky finished up the day at the bank he'd risk the possibility of being ill at ease. Any discomfort he might experience would be worth it, as long as he'd be able to get closer to Deborah Willet.

She absolutely fascinated him.

Her milky skin enticed him. Her sharp green eyes reminded him of Christmas morning, a time of delight and surprises. Her long brown hair entreated his fingers to entangle themselves inside it.

Yes, he'd have committed the most egregious breaches of etiquette, if it were necessary, in order to be invited to join the Willet girls at this supper.

He'd found himself categorically compelled to try to solve the mystery of why the Lord had seen fit to thrust Deborah Willet into his life at a time when he was in his lowest, most vulnerable condition.

And how could he solve his mystery unless he learned more about the fascinating young woman?

"Mr. Paxton, don't you agree?"

Becky's familiar timbre jolted him from his musings. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said I think we should each shout out names of people whom we think might have taken our things. Don't you suppose that would be a good way to start compiling a list of suspects?"

He tugged the lobe of his ear. "It sounds like a splendid idea, Becky, but I'm wondering," Steven said, shifting in his wheelchair, "why don't you let Mr. Feist handle this matter?"

"I'll answer that," Susan said, lifting her chin. "Sheriff Feist couldn't find the center of town without a map and a bloodhound."

Bonnie and Becky chuckled.

"What Susan means, Mr. Paxton," Deborah said, "is that, though he's taken our statements and made inquiries around town, he has no idea who has been stealing from us." She laced her delicate fingers together and laid her hands on the table. "What's more, we don't need a lawman or anyone else to assist us in finding the perpetrators of the crimes against us."

"She's right," Susan said. "We've been taking care of ourselves for years, one way or another, and we intend to keep right on doing it."

"I see." It seemed determination defined the souls of his lovely supper companions.

"I'll start with the list of suspects," Bonnie said insistently. "First and foremost, we've got to mark down the names of the men whom Becky was dancing with before she noticed the cameo was gone."

Susan began to write on the paper in front of her. "I'm putting down the names of Rory Halverson...Harvey Schmidt..."

"You know," Bonnie interjected with a pensive look on her face, "I don't mean to interrupt, but I just remembered something important."

"What's that?" Becky asked.

"There's a lady I've seen around town," Bonnie said thoughtfully, "a lady who always wears a veil. I'd never seen her before the thefts began, but now I see her somewhat frequently."

"I've seen her hereabouts too," Becky said. "She's attended several socials during the last few weeks."

"There's most certainly something mysterious about a woman who won't show her face, alright," Susan said. "Should I add 'veiled woman' to our list of suspicious people?"

"Don't be silly," Deborah said. "I hardly think someone should be considered a possible thief just because she wishes to remain incognito. Or maybe she's in deep mourning."

"You could be right, Deborah," Becky said, "but you could be wrong. Maybe she wears a veil so no one will be able to recognize her when she steals from them." She looked at Susan. "Write her on the list, Sue."

"Yes, write down 'veiled woman,'" Bonnie said.

Susan gave Deborah an inquiring look, one that assured Steven the eldest sister was definitely in charge.

"Go ahead," Deborah said with a sigh. "Add her to the list. After all, Becky suggested we call out the names of _anyone_ and _everyone_ who may be a suspect."

"With that in mind," Bonnie said, "I'd like to add Percy Fenimore's name to the list. He's been sweet on Becky since we were sixteen. I wouldn't be surprised if, since he couldn't have her, he decided to take her things--maybe her sisters' things too!"

"And he was dancing with her the night the cameo was stolen," Susan added.

Becky's cheeks turned bright red. "It isn't my fault he's sweet on me. I only danced with him because he cornered me and cajoled me until I agreed to do so. Otherwise, I've done everything I can to inhibit his advances."

Steven picked at a scratch on the oak table. He hoped the tendency to discourage a man's attention didn't run in the family, now that he was interested in pursuing Miss Deborah.

Susan marked her paper and looked up. "I added Percy's name to the list of suspects and also Mike Landon's and Herman Snead's. Do I now have the names of all the men you danced with between the time you knew you had the cameo and the time you noticed it was missing, Becky?"

"I think you do--Rory Halverson, Mike Landon, Percy Fenimore, Herman Snead and Harvey Schmidt, right?"

"Yes, I've got them all. Frankly," Susan said, touching the tip of her pencil to the side of her head, "I think Herman Snead might have taken it. His eyes are set a little close together. That's a definite mark of a thief."

_Can't argue with that logic_ , Steven thought with an inward smile.

"Marcie Wilhelm!" Susan said enthusiastically. "She was at the dance too, and she's always coveted our cameo. I'm putting her on our list of suspects."

"Oh, yes, of course," Bonnie said reflectively. "I've often seen her staring at it no matter which of us is wearing it."

"And she told me one time how much she admired my blue hair ribbon," Becky said.

"And my green comb," Deborah said.

"You know who else often comments on my hair combs?" Becky said.

"Who?" Bonnie asked.

"Albert Anderson."

"Ah, yes, the retarded boy," Susan said. "He tries to touch my combs every time he sees me."

"How old do you suppose he is?" Deborah asked.

"He's fifteen," Bonnie said.

Steven wondered if the ladies might be getting a little off track. Surely they didn't really suspect a harmless lad like Albert could actually steal anything.

"You know, I think Albert could be our thief," Deborah said resolutely. "He's not only admired our combs he's been awed by the embroidery on our hankies too."

"I've noticed that," Becky said.

"Me too!" Bonnie said. "Maybe he is our thief!"

"But if he is, we won't be able to punish him with any form of torture," Susan said. "It would be a most grievous sin to harm a boy like Albert, no matter what he's done. The poor fellow likely doesn't truly understand the difference between right and wrong."

"May I say something?" Steven interjected.

"Of course, Mr. Paxton," Bonnie said, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear.

He looked from one lady to the next until his gaze rested on Deborah. "It might not be a good idea to focus on one individual alone, even if you have a valid reason to suspect he is doing the stealing. Perhaps you are right about Albert. If he's shown an interest in your things, maybe he has taken them. However, as I believe one of you pointed out earlier, there could be more than one thief."

"He's right," Becky said.

"Yes, perhaps Albert has taken some of our things and someone else has taken others, whether he's worked in conjunction with Albert or not," Bonnie said.

"I bet Marcie took our cameo," Susan said. "And I know just how we could torture her if we find out she did take it."

Steven could hardly believe a lovely, quite civil young woman like Susan was about to describe a method of torture she intended to inflict on another woman.

"This fall when her trees are full of apples," Susan said, her pretty brown eyes twinkling with mischief, "we could collect worms from infested orchards and set them loose in her groves. No one loves apple cider or hates worms as much as Marcie. She'd be devastated if their harvest of apples was somewhat diminished."

Steven placed a hand over his mouth to shield the ladies from the amusement he was experiencing due to the revelation of the _serious_ plan of torture Susan wanted to mete out to a thieving Marcie.

So this was the sort of behavior Becky had thought would cause him to think the women could behave barbarically?

"She'd be devastated indeed," Deborah said. "I wonder if it would be illegal to plant noxious worms in her apple orchard." A pensive look lingered on her beautiful face for several moments before she spoke again. "Illegal or not, Marcie would deserve harsh treatment if she did indeed steal our cameo."

Steven leaned forward, laying his hands on the table. "It seems to me the best way to find out who is taking your things is to catch the thief in the act of taking something."

The look Deborah gave him defined astonishment. "Are you suggesting you'd like to see us lose more of our property?" she asked incredulously.

"No, of course not, but the thieving has been going on consistently for a few weeks. Chances are the thief or thieves may intend to strike again. I'm merely suggesting that if he intends to commit further crimes against the four of you, perhaps we should find a way to catch him in the act of stealing. Then you'd have irrefutable proof who the thief is, and you won't end up torturing--" he nearly choked on the word knowing what they considered torture-- "the wrong person."

"What a good idea!" Bonnie said.

"It sounds like a good idea alright, but what would be the plan of action?" Becky asked.

Deborah leaned forward. "Up to this point, none of us has seen the thief take our things. What makes you think, Mr. Paxton, we'd be able to witness who is involved in future thefts when we've never seen anyone taking our things up to now?"

He shrugged casually. "Well...I...have a plan...of sorts...which I think would help us catch the thief."

"What kind of plan?" Susan asked, seeming intrigued by his suggestion.

He glanced at Deborah. "You've mentioned you've had things taken while you've been at social gatherings," he said, looking from Deborah to each of her sisters, "haven't you?"

"True," Susan said. "We've lost several things at social events."

Steven gave Deborah a tentative look. "I was thinking, if Miss Deborah and I were to pose as a couple, she being the sister among you closest to my own age and therefore the most believable as a companion to me, we could observe the crowd at the next social and see if we could identify possible thieves or even catch someone in the act of stealing from one of you."

"Why, that's the most ridiculous idea anyone ever had!" Deborah said indignantly.

"I think it's the most brilliant plan I've ever heard!" Susan said.

"So do I!" Bonnie said.

"Me too," Becky added.

"The two of you could hold hands and pretend to be infatuated with each other all the while watching _everyone_ who thinks you're not paying attention to _anyone_ but each other," Susan said.

"Deborah has excellent peripheral vision," Bonnie said.

"She'd make a great spy," Becky added. "Hadn't she covertly seen us doing things we weren't allowed to do when we were children, Bonnie, and then punished us for our offenses?"

"Many times, unfortunately," Bonnie replied.

"If you're sure you wouldn't mind being encumbered with our big sister, Mr. Paxton, we'd unanimously favor your help in catching our thief," Susan said.

"We would not!" Deborah shouted. She looked at her sisters collectively. "Do you really expect me to cavort with this man, to pretend we are in love when I barely know him? Why, that would be positively scandalous!"

Steven wanted to release a chuckle, yet he couldn't allow the women to see the depth of his amusement regarding Miss Deborah Willet's objections. No, he needed to maintain a serious expression on his face so he could convince Deborah to accept his proposal--for the girls' sakes and, admittedly, for his own selfish reasons.

He hoped that, quite possibly, a pretense of a courtship might lead to a real one--the first serious one he'd ever wanted to instigate with any woman. And, _who knows,_ he mused, _the plan might actually yield them a thief._

"Deborah," Susan said in an admonishing tone, "how can you refuse Mr. Paxton's generous offer? Don't you want to catch the thief? Wouldn't you do _anything_ to retrieve our cameo and our picture of Pa and everything else?"

"Including taking on the _unpleasant_ task of pretending to be courting me?" Steven thought a jibe might help her to acquiesce to his plan.

Deborah gave him a fatal, fearful look. "I didn't mean the idea of pretending to be your sweetheart would be repellent to me, Mr. Paxton. I wouldn't want to insult you."

"Oh, I'm not insulted. I assume you're merely being cautious of a man you hardly know."

"Precisely."

"You have no idea whether I'm a reputable man or not, whether I might overstep proper bounds, behave in an un-gentlemanly manner, isn't that what you meant?"

Her entire face turned bright red. "I...I hope you don't take it terribly personally, but, y-yes...that's basically what I meant."

He leaned back in his chair and grinned just a little. "How could any man take those sentiments personally?"

Her blush deepened and spread from ear to ear.

"You do have one assurance, Miss Willet," he said to Deborah in the warmest tone he could muster, "which should give you great comfort when it comes to protecting yourself from me, in the event that I do anything you determine is out of line."

She cleared her throat and tilted her head to one side, which only made her more attractive. "What is that, Mr. Paxton?"

He looked at her intently, hoping to give the impression of a grave seriousness on his part. "Given my present physical condition, should you choose to rush away from me for any reason while we are pretending to be lovers, you'd escape quite completely, wouldn't you?"

She seemed to swallow hard, as though she could barely manage the act at all. "I...I suppose you are correct."

"She's going to do it," Susan said victoriously.

"You are, aren't you, Deborah?" Bonnie said, her words laced with hope.

"Of course, she is," Becky said. "Just like the rest of us, she'll do anything to find the person who's been stealing our things. She owes it to us, and she owes it to those whom we've lost."

Judging by the look on Deborah's face upon hearing Becky's declaration, it seemed at least one twin knew exactly what to say to get Deborah to do what she wanted.

Deborah gave Steven a cautious look. "If you'll swear to me you'll be every inch a gentleman, I'll agree to your plan."

Three sisters began to cheer, and Deborah quieted them with a stern glance.

"I only want to help," Steven said sincerely. He truly did want to help these lambs, and, if in doing so, he could ease Deborah into making their pretended romance a real one, what harm would it do? He had no doubt the Lord had sent her his way, and, if He did, He must have had a good reason.

"Very well, then," Deborah said, giving him a steadfast nod. "I accept your generous offer."

He was pleased to have her verbal acceptance, but did it have to be accompanied by a look she'd no doubt display if she'd just learned she'd been sentenced to a term in the Nebraska state prison?

"There's an ice cream social next week in the _Town Square_ ," Deborah said flatly. "You may escort me to the event, Mr. Paxton."

"Thank you."

"We'll pay close attention to all of those attending, but we'll scrutinize even more intensely those whom we've listed as our main suspects. If anyone attempts to steal from any of us, or anyone else for that matter, we'll capture them before they can make an exit, and we'll question them to see if they've stolen any other property from us."

"Excellent," Susan said, giving the table a slight slap with the palms of her hands. "Now that we have a good plan in place, I finally have hope of retrieving our things."

"Me too!" Becky and Bonnie said in unison.

"Let's hope and pray we do indeed find the thieves," Deborah said, her words rich with emotion. "Maybe then we can all feel safe again, and I can once more be a dutiful protector to my dear sisters."

Steven's heart skipped a beat upon hearing Deborah's revealing statement.

While he'd been thinking mainly about getting to know Deborah for his own reasons, she'd been suffering great guilt over not being able to protect her sisters from a thief.

And he couldn't have that.

No, he couldn't stand the thought of Deborah suffering.

Suddenly filled with shame for trivializing their financially small losses, he obstinately promised himself he'd never allow Deborah to be unprotected again.

With that vow being sworn to God, Steven experienced an epiphany.

Everything was suddenly crystal clear to him.

The Lord had sent Deborah his way so that he might protect the lovely protector.

Quite unexpectedly, he realized with total clarity he could no longer reject his physician's orders to do the exercises which might help bring about an end to his inability to walk.

Now, more than at any other time since his accident, Steven had brutally strong motivation to try to heal his nearly useless limbs--he needed to be strong to protect Deborah.

Chapter Four

Deborah couldn't believe she was sitting at a table in the middle of Hope, Nebraska's _Town Square_ pretending to be Steven Paxton's sweetheart. Of all the silly ideas which had ever been concocted by any human being since the time of Adam and Eve, this had to be the silliest.

"You should always wear pale blue and white, Miss Deborah. You look quite fetching in those colors," Steven said smoothly.

"You don't need to say things a beau would say," Deborah said complacently. "Our charade requires only that you _act_ like we're lovers, not that you speak as though we were."

"Forgive me. I'm doing my best to play the part. I didn't mean to offend you."

"Offend me? You didn't offend me, Mr. Paxton. I just wanted to let you know flirtatious flattery isn't necessary. You aren't really my beau. You need only to look like you're my beau by your actions when we're in public."

"Yes, of course," he said, inclining his head in her direction.

Deborah turned her attention to the people and the setting surrounding her. She inhaled the scent of roses from a nearby flower bed and the fragrance of popcorn being roasted in a big kettle a few feet away.

She carefully scanned the crowd, hoping to eye at least one of the people from the list she and her sisters had compiled of the suspected thieves.

"Do you see anyone we're looking for?" Steven asked.

She shook her head. "Not yet." Rather than looking at him as she spoke, she continued her perusal of the folks gathered in _Town Square_.

For several minutes neither she nor Steven spoke. The silence put her at ease. If Steven wasn't speaking, if he wasn't delving into her soul with those scrutinizing blue eyes of his, she wouldn't have to admit to herself just how unsettled her emotions became whenever he was nearby.

"Mr. Paxton, do you think if we--" She stopped speaking when she felt his hand on hers. "What are you doing?" she asked, looking at him in shock.

"I've taken your hand so I can hold it the way a beau would," he said, grinning at her.

"It's unseemly." The feel of his warmth against her gloved hand flustered her more than his soul-searching eye contact had when he'd come by the house to collect her earlier.

"A beau taking his lady's hand is perfectly appropriate, Miss Deborah."

She shook her head. "This just doesn't seem right."

"Yet, you've not withdrawn your hand, have you?"

She gave her hand a slight tug, and he tightened his grasp.

"Do you want me to let go of your hand?" he asked softly.

His searing eye contact heated her from crown to soles.

"N-no, I suppose not. I did say we should _do_ things a couple would do, but don't...don't you dare say things a beau would say."

"Never again."

She gave him a steadfast nod. "Good."

Another attractive grin touched his lips before his gaze left her and settled on the crowd of people around them.

"Isn't that short, skinny boy with the round face, mussed-up brown hair and glasses standing near the willow tree Albert Anderson?"

Deborah looked to her left at the lad in the blue plaid shirt and black pants. Her broad brimmed white chapeau with the blue ribbon shaded her eyes from the bright afternoon sunshine. "He's the Anderson boy alright."

"He looks harmless enough at the moment."

"Retarded or not, he's usually well behaved at public events, but, still, we should keep an eye on him. He could be our thief. He's taken an uncommon interest in several of our things."

"I don't suppose he can get into much trouble eating ice cream at a social," Steven speculated.

"Let's hope not," she said, hoping the boy wasn't the thief. Considering his mental shortcomings, life had to be difficult enough for the boy without getting into trouble with the law.

A flash of red on her periphery caught Deborah's attention, and she immediately turned to determine the source of the bright color. Seeing Albert had put her senses on alert, and the presence of one suspect reminded her of the purpose of being at the social with Steven.

Marcie Wilhelm, another suspect, dressed in a bright red, form-fitting dress, stood a few yards away gazing at Deborah. She nodded and twirled her red and white parasol when Deborah caught her eye. "It's Marcie."

"Where?" Steven said.

"There, near the man with the handlebar mustache, white shirt and black bow tie."

Steven glanced in the direction Deborah had indicated. "Do you mean that lovely blonde woman dressed in red is the despised Marcie Wilhelm Susan wants to torture?"

Deborah tugged Steven's hand, and he looked at her. "She only wants to torture her if she's taken our mother's cameo."

"Yes, of course." Steven glanced at Marcie again. "I hope she's not the thief. I'd hate to see any harm come to her. She's a very beautiful woman."

His complimentary declaration regarding Marcie set Deborah's stomach on fire. _Humph_ , she thought, _I'm fetching, but she's beautiful?_

"I suppose she is, if you like that kind of girl."

"What man wouldn't?"

Deborah jerked his hand. "What did you say?"

Ooh, she hadn't meant to add such an annoying tone to her words. In fact, she hadn't meant to say the words out loud at all. She sounded and, worse yet, felt like a jealous shrew when she had no reason to be jealous at all. She and Steven were _not_ sweethearts.

"I said Miss Wilhelm is a beautiful woman, the kind most men would find quite attractive--even men who were in love with someone else altogether." He tilted his head, a gesture she found terribly attractive, and grinned at her. "A fact is a fact, Miss Deborah, and the fact is that Miss Wilhelm is a lovely lady. Surely you can't argue against evidence anyone can plainly see," he said, leaning his head in Marcie's direction.

Deborah glanced at Marcie briefly before settling her gaze on Steven again. "You're absolutely correct. Marcie Wilhelm is beautiful."

"That's all I'm saying," he said with a wave of his hand.

"But she might just be a black-hearted thief too!"

"You and your sisters have made your suspicions regarding Miss Wilhelm quite clear." He shifted in his seat. "Do you want me to keep an eye on her, or would you prefer I spy on Albert?"

Deborah lifted her chin a notch. "I'd better watch Miss Wilhelm. I wouldn't want her beauty to distract you so much you wouldn't notice her thieving hands."

"Whatever you say. I'm at your service." Was that a look of satisfaction she saw in his eyes? Just what did he have to be satisfied about?

"Thank you, Mr. Paxton."

"You've got to stop calling me by my surname, Miss Deborah. If someone should overhear you calling me Mr. Paxton, they may be suspicious of our relationship. You should probably call me Steven, just in case we're overheard."

His request seemed perfectly reasonable so she agreed to do as he'd suggested. "I suppose you're right, Mr. ...Steven."

"Thank you, Deborah." There was that look of satisfaction again.

Steven's gaze left her and settled on something or someone behind her. "Who is the blond-haired boy dressed in black standing by the oak tree near the gazebo? He's been staring at Becky."

Deborah glanced at Becky who was in front of the _Platte Café_ before she looked behind her at the boy next to the gazebo. "Why, that's Percy Fenimore. He's admired Becky for a very long time."

"He's the one whose attentions she's discouraged, the intrepid boy who won't give up his pursuit of her?"

"Yes," she said, looking at him.

He lifted a shoulder and let it fall as he gazed into her eyes. "You can't blame the boy. Becky's not only pretty, she's smart, warm and even funny. I imagine she's garnered her fair share of male hearts."

"Yes, she has, but none of those who wish to be her beau have been successful in their attempts to win her over. Becky insists when she finds the man she's to court she'll feel his importance from the tips of her hair to the bottoms of her soles, and, so far, that hasn't happened."

Steven chuckled. "I hope things transpire for her just as she supposes they will." He suddenly sat up straight and looked around. "Where's Percy? I don't see him anymore."

Deborah examined the crowd carefully. She didn't see Percy anywhere either.

"He's disappeared," she said. Suddenly concerned for Becky, she glanced in the direction where she'd last seen her. Becky was still in front of the _Platte Café_ , but her hair ribbon was gone.

"Becky left home today with a pale blue ribbon, the same color as her dress, tied to the bottom of her braid," she told Steven. "Now it's gone."

"And so is Fenimore."

Steven rolled over the cobblestones away from their table when Deborah sprang from her seat.

"I'm going to search the crowd for Percy, Steven. You ask Becky about her ribbon. Maybe she stuffed it in her pocket, or maybe she lost it."

"Be careful, Deborah. Percy seems harmless enough, but if he's a thief, and you corner him, we don't know how he might react."

Deborah was already moving away from him when she said, "I can handle things with Percy, Steven. You take care of Becky."

She briskly but carefully weaved her way through the town folk, returning greetings to people who offered them to her, and being careful not to bump into anyone.

For the first time that day, as she weaved her way through the happy gathering of her neighbors, she saw the woman in the black veil.

Deborah shivered just a little upon seeing her, as though the woman who seemed to be gazing in her direction, was looking right through her. Since the woman's veil completely obscured her eyes and most of her face, Deborah had no way knowing if she was actually staring at her or if she was simply imagining she was.

She felt the urge to confront the woman and ask her who she was, but, like an unexpected burst of sunshine shooting through a whole in a cloud, Percy Fenimore suddenly appeared before her.

A blue ribbon hung from the breast pocket of his black shirt.

"Hello, Miss Willet," he said respectfully.

"Good afternoon, Percy." A compulsion to look again toward the veiled woman struck her soundly. She gave in to the impulse, but when she looked where the woman had been, she was gone.

"Are you having a nice time?" Percy asked, drawing her attention back to him.

"Very nice, thank you."

"You've got a new beau, haven't you?"

"What? A new beau?"

"Yes, I saw the two of you holding hands. I wish I could get Miss Becky to let me hold her hand."

Poor, lovesick Percy. His pretty blue eyes revealed a heart filled with pain--and his shirt boasted a breast pocket filled with a blue ribbon.

Had he stolen it from Becky?

"Where did you get that ribbon, Percy?"

"Ribbon?"

It seemed to take him a minute to figure out what she was referring to.

At last, he touched his pocket. "Oh, this ribbon? I found it."

"You _found_ it?"

He fingered a piece of the ribbon sticking out of his pocket. "I noticed Miss Becky was wearing a blue ribbon in her pretty braid today, but I can see from here she isn't wearing it anymore. Do you suppose this is hers?"

"It might be."

"I'd be happy to ask her if this ribbon belongs to her," he said, turning to move in Becky's direction.

Deborah took the seventeen-year-old boy's hand. "Let's both go ask Becky if she's lost her ribbon."

A moment later they were standing next to Becky and Steven in front of the _Platte Café_.

"Hello, Miss Becky," Percy said in the shy way he had about him.

"Good afternoon, Percy." She scowled at him. "Is that my hair ribbon?"

He pulled the ribbon from his pocket. "I don't know. I was coming to ask you if it belongs to you. I found it by the oak tree," he said, handing her the ribbon. "Is it yours?"

Becky took the ribbon and examined it. "It's my ribbon alright." She frowned at him again. "You _found_ this, Percy?"

"Yes, miss. By the oak tree. The one next to the gazebo."

Becky reached for the long braid which had been resting on her back. She pulled it over her shoulder and tied the ribbon to the bottom of it. "Thank you for returning my ribbon, Percy."

"It was my pleasure, Miss Becky." He shifted from one foot to the other. "I'd sincerely enjoy buying you an ice cream, if you'd like to have one--strawberry, peach, banana--whatever flavor you're most partial to."

"Well...Percy... I, ah--"

A scream rang out, and Becky--and everyone else present--stopped talking and looked in the direction it came from.

Steven visually searched the crowed as did Deborah, Becky and Percy.

"What's going on?" Deborah asked.

"I can't tell," Steven said. "My vantage point from this confounded chair is terrible when everyone around me is on his feet."

"Look!" Percy said. "Miss Susan is coming this way lickety-split."

Deborah glanced to her left. Sure enough, Susan was hastening through the _Square_ , hiking up the skirt of her brown plaid dress as she deftly moved toward them. She was breathless when she arrived.

"What's wrong?" Deborah asked.

"My ring!" she gasped. "The one Pa gave me for my tenth birthday." She stopped to catch her breath. "I wear it on my little finger these days." She paused to breathe again. "I wore it today, and now it's gone. It simply vanished!"

"You didn't see anyone acting strangely around you?" Steven asked.

"You didn't feel it slip from your finger?" Becky inquired.

Susan shook her head fiercely.

Deborah looked around. "The thief's got to be here." She gazed at Susan again. "How long ago did you notice the ring was gone?"

"How long ago did you hear me scream?" Susan retorted. "I screamed the minute I noticed my bare finger."

Deborah scanned the gathering of people again until her eyes settled on _her_ \--the woman in the black veil.

"Look! It's the veiled woman! Near the gazebo," Deborah said.

"And there's Marcie Wilhelm!" Becky said. "Do you see her standing beside the rose garden?"

"Were Miss Wilhelm or the veiled woman anywhere near you when you noticed your ring was missing?" Steven asked.

"As a matter of fact," Susan said thoughtfully, "they were both within fifteen or sixteen feet of me when I realized my ring was gone."

Deborah touched Becky's shoulder with her right hand and Susan's with her left. "Steven, you and Becky approach Marcie. Engage her in conversation; see if she acts the least bit suspiciously. Susan and I are going after the woman with the veil."

"We sure are," Susan said tenaciously, "and if I find out she took my ring, do you know what I'm going to do?"

"Torture her?" Steven suggested.

Deborah gave him a scornful look, and he gave her a half grin.

"Yes, I'm going to torture her in the most hideous of ways, like...like...oh, I don't know. I guess I'll rip off her veil so everyone can see what she's trying to hide!" She stalked off towards her intended target, and Deborah followed close behind.

They carefully made their way through the gathering, closer and closer to the veiled woman. They were within a few feet of her when someone called out their names.

"Deborah, Susan, stop!" the gentle voice said a second time.

They turned and saw Bonnie edging through the folks around them as she moved toward them.

Bonnie was visibly upset when she reached her sisters. "I can't believe this has happened again. Did you see anyone suspicious? Do you know who the thief is? Did our plan work?" she asked.

"We were in pursuit of the veiled woman when you petitioned us to stop. We think she might be the thief," Susan said.

"Then you saw her take my parasol? You and Mr. Paxton saw her steal it, Deborah? Did our plan work?"

"Your parasol was stolen?" Deborah asked.

"My ring was taken too," Susan said.

"It was?" Bonnie said in a worrisome voice. "Surely, you saw who took them, didn't you, Deborah, since you and Mr. Paxton were keeping watch? Who's the thief? Is it the woman with the veil? Where's Mr. Paxton?"

"He's with Becky," Susan said. "They went to confront Marcie Wilhelm."

"Look, they're coming this way," Deborah said.

"Are you now saying Marcie took our things, Susan? I thought you said the veiled woman was the thief," Bonnie said.

Becky wheeled Steven to the three sisters.

"What did you find out?" Deborah asked Steven.

"Not much."

"We learned Marcie, like most other women, finds Steven very attractive," Becky said. "She flat out told him so."

Deborah folded her arms firmly and tightened her jaw. "Is that all you discovered?"

"It appears Miss Wilhelm's time can be accounted for this afternoon by a selection of young bachelors," Steven said. "They've been taking turns at trying to win her attention ever since she arrived at the social."

Susan snickered. "She's certainly never lacked male companionship, but she likes nice things, and she's a very resourceful woman, creative enough to find a way to get my ring if she wanted it. So did she have my ring or not?"

"No, she didn't," Steven said.

"What about the cameo?" Deborah asked.

"As far as we could see she didn't have the cameo either," Becky said.

"And she's not shy about showing what she has," Susan said snidely. "Maybe she's not the thief."

"And maybe she is," Deborah said. "She was here so she's a suspect. She could have slipped away from her admirers and taken your ring, or she might have coaxed someone to steal it for her."

"Did you question the woman in the veil?" Steven asked.

Deborah shook her head. "Before we could reach her Bonnie caught us and told us her parasol was stolen."

"It was? Which one did you bring today," Becky asked, "the light blue and pink one or the pastel yellow and green one? I can't remember which you had when we left the house, and both would look lovely with your white dress."

"I brought the light blue and pink one." She turned to Deborah. "I'm sorry, Deborah. You kindly lent me your favorite parasol, and now I've gone and lost it."

Deborah touched Bonnie's shoulder. "No, sweetie, the theft wasn't your fault, it's mine. I was supposed to be looking out for you today, for all of you. I'm terribly sorry I've failed you again," she said, drawing back her hand.

Susan gently patted Deborah's back. "Let's go home."

"Becky," Steven said, "would you mind pushing me? I'd like to walk all of you home, or, if you'd prefer, I'd be happy to treat everyone to a streetcar ride."

"I'd rather walk," Bonnie said dejectedly. "Walking might take some of the heartbreak away."

"I agree," Susan said. She wiped her cheek. "The ring Pa gave me meant a great deal to me. Walking a while might help ease the pain of its loss."

"We'll walk, then," Becky said, "and, Mr. Paxton, it would be my pleasure to push your chair if you'd like to accompany us."

"Thank you, Becky," he said.

"I'm going to tell Molly we're going home," Susan said. "She and the others are at the far end of the _Square_. You can start home without me, and I'll catch up."

"Don't tell Molly we've been victimized again. She worries too much about us already," Deborah said.

"I won't say a word about the thefts." Susan went immediately to tend to her errand.

The three sisters and Steven left _Town Square_ and headed down Center Street. Four blocks into their journey they met Washington Avenue where they turned north. Susan caught up with them while they hiked six blocks along Washington Avenue until it met White Street. They went east on White Street one block until they reached Lincoln Avenue. They proceeded along Lincoln Avenue until they stood in front of their stately home.

The large yellow clapboard house with the black shutters was on a huge lot which encompassed nearly half a block in both directions.

The girls and Steven moved swiftly up the brick walkway. When they reached the bottom of the porch steps, Bonnie excused herself and went into the house so she could use the water closet.

Becky, Susan and Deborah stayed with Steven. Obviously, he couldn't climb the stairs, and none of the women was strong enough to carry him inside.

"I'm sorry our plan to spy on and capture the culprits didn't work," Steven said. He seemed genuinely stricken by their failure to do what they'd intended.

Becky patted his shoulder. "It'll work next time."

"Next time?" Deborah said. "I hardly see any point to repeating an exercise which failed completely."

"But Deborah," Susan said, "if at first we don't succeed--"

Bonnie bolted from the front door. "It happened again!" She hastened down the stairs. "The doilies Mother crocheted, the ones we'd stored in the Green's wagon while we were on the trail from Illinois, they're gone."

"How could you notice their absence so quickly?" Steven asked. "You went into the house only a moment ago."

"As I ambled through the dining room I noticed the door to the china hutch was open. I went to close it, and I saw that the doilies we display with the china were gone."

"What about the china?" Susan asked.

"Yes, what about the china?" Becky asked. "We saved for years to be able to buy it. Was it stolen too?"

Bonnie shook her head and caught her breath. "I think only the doilies were taken. It didn't look like any of the china was missing, but I don't know for sure. It would be impossible to take a complete inventory of the entire set of china in a few seconds."

Deborah plopped down on the stairs. What a miserable failure she was! She was completely impotent when it came to protecting her sisters from further losses.

"I'm terribly sorry girls," Steven said. "I promised I'd help you, hoped I could protect you, and I've been utterly useless."

Bonnie and Becky quickly consoled him and expressed appreciation for his efforts.

"You're kind to be so forgiving, but I swear I'm going to make up for my lack of diligence," he said resolutely.

"What do you intend to do?" Susan asked.

"Well," he said, rubbing his hand on the armrest of his chair, "I've got another idea. If you'll hear me out, perhaps you'll agree that this new approach to our clandestine activities might give us a better chance at successfully identifying and catching the thief."

Chapter Five

"You don't need to be here with me, Mr. Paxton," Deborah said as dusk settled on the Longfellow yard.

"Nonsense. Watching over your home while the others are at the Saturday night dance was my idea. I'm happy to keep you company."

"But I don't mind being by myself. After all, protecting my family is my responsibility, not yours, and I can do my duty on my own."

"I have no doubt you can," he assured her.

"You'll go, then?" she asked, her head wishing he'd say yes, her heart hoping he'd say no. It was very unsettling to feel two ways about a man.

He shook his head.

"Please, you must. What if someone saw us alone here amongst the lilac bushes? My reputation would be ruined."

"No, it wouldn't," he said, giving her a smug grin. "People think we're sweethearts, remember?"

Her jaw locked in frustration. He was right. She'd let him hold her hand at the ice cream social the previous week. And several times since then they'd been seen together around town because they wanted to reinforce the potency of their charade just in case they needed to do some more spying at another social event.

Folks definitely thought he was her beau.

Why had she agreed to this silly pretense? Worse yet, why did she now wish they truly were sweethearts?

She stepped closer to the largest of the five tall lilac bushes in the garden at the edge of the yard and inhaled the scents of earth and sweet leaves.

"I don't like folks thinking something about me which isn't true," Deborah said.

Steven wheeled his chair over the uneven ground within the circle of lilacs until he was next to her.

"Maybe we could make what they think true, then," he said, taking her hand.

The warmth of his touch traveled up her arm straight into her heart.

She looked at his large hand enveloping her small one and swallowed hard when the meaning of his words began to sink in.

His hand did _not_ belong on hers.

She wanted no man in her life, not now, not ever.

"You're being silly," she said, freeing her hand from his grasp. "I don't like to be teased." She decided if she acted as though he were joking, even though she was certain he wasn't, it would be easier to refuse his overture without hurting his feelings.

"But I'm not--"

"It's getting dark!" she said, intentionally cutting off his words before he finished his thought. She had been able to tell practically from the first moment she met him he was interested in her. When a man looked at her in a certain way, in that manner men have when they're interested in a woman, Deborah usually rallied her defenses and made it as clear as she could she wasn't interested.

Most men got the message and relented. A few, like Steven Paxton, seemed to be completely oblivious to obvious rejection.

Or maybe they considered a woman who thwarted their advances a challenge.

"It's getting dark," she said again. She walked behind his chair. "I'll push you to the cobblestone walkway since it's difficult for you to maneuver over this uneven ground. You can find your way home once you're on the cobblestones, can't you?"

He turned and took hold of her hand. "I'm not going anywhere," he said firmly. "Watching for the thief's approach to your house while the others are at the dance was my idea, and, if you don't mind, Deborah, I really would like to stay." He gently rubbed his thumb against the palm of her hand. "Please?"

She'd never before noticed the palm of her hand could be so sensitive.

"I...I suppose it would be alright if you really want to stay." She knew she should pull her hand away from him, but she couldn't. Her perceptive palm and her vulnerability to his charms wouldn't allow her to rebuff him at the moment.

"I do indeed want to stay."

She paused before she replied to his sincere sounding sentiment. "Four eyes can see more than two can," she said, trying to convince herself she had good reason for allowing him to stay.

"True."

She lifted her chin and pulled her hand from his. "I'm going to help you get closer to the bushes. I noticed a break in the leaves at your eye level," she said as she began to move him into position.

He helped her maneuver the chair until it rested in the spot she'd chosen for him. "You're right," he said, gazing at the house through the break in the boughs. "I have a perfect view of the north side of the house and the front porch."

She moved a few steps away and peered through another hole among the thick leaves. "I can see the south side and the back porch from here," she said, looking at him. "Unless someone leaves the walkway and follows the hard dirt path into this circle of lilacs we should be quite invisible to everyone, now that darkness is settling in. Even with a nearly-full moon it would be hard for anyone to see us from the area around the house."

Steven gazed at the Longfellow home. "Between the moonlight and the illumination of the gas street lights we should be able to see the figure of anyone who approaches the house."

"Mmm," she said, looking at the house again.

Several minutes of silence passed between them. Deborah assumed Steven was watching the house just as she'd been doing, but she couldn't help feeling he may have been spending part of his time looking at her.

"You and your sisters have mentioned the flood of eighty-eight a number of times," Steven said softly, breaking the silence. "Becky told me you lost your parents and brothers when you were traveling by wagon train from Illinois to Casper, Wyoming."

Her stomach muscles tightened as they always did when she thought about May 6, 1888, the most horrible day of her life. The night before, May 5, hadn't been much better. It was then she'd been shocked to find her mother in the arms of another man.

"Why do you bring that up now?" she said in a low tone.

He didn't respond immediately.

"I...Deborah, I don't know if you're aware of this, but I admire you greatly. In fact, I'm in awe of you and your family. Your entire family, your real sisters and your adopted sisters and Mrs. Longfellow--the way all of you held together after the flood is absolutely remarkable. I don't know how you had the courage to endure your circumstances. Yet, you not only endured, you prospered. Each of you has succeeded in making your livings and in keeping your new family in tact. Why, from what I hear, you ladies saw to it your home was one of the first in Hope to have electricity and indoor water facilities."

She gave him a wry look. "You seem to be very well informed."

He shrugged his right shoulder. "Becky and I have been talking more lately, becoming closer friends. In fact, in some ways she seems like another sister."

" _Another_ sister? You have sisters?"

He nodded. "Two of them, both older. Cynthia, the eldest of us, is married to a minister. They live in Duluth. Morgana is married to a railroad man. They live in Minneapolis. It was Morgana's husband who hired me to work for the railroad when I lived in Minneapolis. He transferred me to Hope to work for the railroad here. Unfortunately, shortly after my arrival, I had an accident while working."

"Is that how you ended up in the wheelchair?"

"Yes, it is."

She gazed at the house. Now that darkness had engulfed it, the immenseness of it seemed foreboding.

"Do you like your job at the hotel?" he asked in the same low tone the two of them had been using.

She glanced at him. "I don't mind serving people their meals, but I do have other ambitions."

He casually unbuttoned the jacket of his black suit. "Such as?"

She smoothed her hand over her dark violet skirt. "I'm quite good with the design and sewing of lady's clothing. I intend to open a dressmaking shop very soon."

"What a wonderful ambition," he said delightedly.

"I truly believe I could make my fortune working in the garment industry. People always need clothes, and they might as well buy them from me."

"You intend to make a _fortune_ selling women's fashions?" he asked with a bit too much mirth mixed with his words.

"Are you making fun of my goals?" She hadn't meant to sound surly, but her words seemed to come out that way anyway.

"No, I'm not making fun, just teasing a little, though I don't really know why. I truly admire your ambition, and, even though I've known you only a short time, I have no doubt you'll succeed at whatever you set your mind to doing."

She put her hand on her hip. "Now it sounds like you're patronizing me."

It looked to her in the dimness of the evening light that he was grinning at her. "I'm sorry," he replied, "I assure you I meant what I said most sincerely."

She dropped the hand she'd placed on her hip to her side. "What are _your_ aspirations, Mr. Paxton?"

"Thank you for asking," he said quite pleasantly. "I have three specific goals, actually. One is to regain the full use of my legs so I can return to my job with the railroad. Two, I'd like to have a family someday, and three," he said, "I'd like to get you to call me Steven instead of Mr. Paxton."

She gave him the first full smile she'd ever issued to him. "I suppose I could call you Steven, if you'd like. After all, you said you and Becky are becoming close friends, and I like to be on a first-name basis with my sister's friends, Steven." She'd called him by his given name the day they'd attended the ice cream social in _Town Square_ , but she hadn't done so again since then.

He put his hands on the armrests of his chair. "Thank you, Deborah, for addressing me by my given name and thereby helping me to reach one of my goals."

She gave him a crooked nod.

"And now," he said, pushing himself to his feet, "on to the completion of another goal."

"Be careful, Steven!" she said when she saw him stand and falter.

"I'm fine," he said, steadying himself. "You see, Becky has been working with me, helping me to regain the use of my legs. My doctor told me shortly after my accident that he felt I'd be able to heal my knee injuries if I judiciously exercised my legs, but, up until recently, I've been feeling too sorry for myself to take his advice."

She marveled at how solidly he was standing. He'd certainly improved his strength in the weeks since she'd first seen him rise to his feet in the bank. "I don't believe for a minute you are the type of man who would wallow in self pity."

"You're right. I'm not that type of man, but wallow I did--for months."

"And now, all of a sudden, you've decided to take your doctor's advice?"

He nodded.

"Why would you be so abruptly inclined to follow your physician's orders after months of despondency?"

He took two shaky steps toward her.

She drew in a sharp breath when it looked like he might fall. "Please be careful."

"I won't fall, Deborah. Now that I have good reason to stand on my feet I most definitely won't fall." He took two more steps toward her.

"Good reason?" She frowned at him. "What do you mean? Has your brother-in-law made you an offer with the railroad to encourage you to rehabilitate yourself?"

"Yes, but he made that offer less than a week after my accident."

"So, it isn't a chance at a more desirable job which has inspired you to finally begin your efforts to restore your strength?"

"No."

His determined but shaky approach toward her created one of the most spell-binding moments she'd experienced in years.

"What, then, has inspired you to begin to work hard to regain the use of your legs?"

"Not _what_ , but _who_ ," he said, closing the space between them. "You are my inspiration and my motivation." He reached toward her, touched her hair, "You see, I decided soon after I met you that I must have you in my life, and I want to be a part of your life. I want to--"

"Steven," she interjected, "no. You're making a mistake. You can't--"

He pressed a finger to her lips, and, in doing so, he lost his balance and began to fall.

She reached out and caught him before his legs buckled completely.

He righted himself and gazed down at her.

In that moment, in a lilac garden awash with moonlight on a warm July evening, she realized he was holding her tightly, and she was gazing up at him. Up at him, not down, but up, looking into his beautiful blue eyes.

"Steven..." She could barely breathe.

He leaned toward her, tightened his arms around her.

When he touched his lips to hers she felt something inside her release. A dam of emotions she'd meticulously kept under control ever since the flood had saddled her with her burdensome responsibilities seemed to be utterly released. All her troubles were no longer hers alone. This connection between them, this sharing of emotions had somehow set her heart free.

She held him closer, and he kissed her more passionately.

Dear heaven, he was overtaking every part of her. She'd been kissed before, but never like this. Never with this much giving and tenderness. Not once had she shared a veritable meeting of the souls with any man--until now.

Deborah found herself so drawn into the passion of Steven's embrace, the eagerness of his caresses and kisses, she was barely aware of a world outside the two of them.

Until she heard the slamming of a door.

She pulled away from him brusquely.

He instantly lost his balance and tumbled to the ground.

She glanced toward the house and saw a figure bathed in obscurity several yards from the house.

"Dear heaven! Someone's been inside the house, and we missed him!" She wanted to vociferously scold Steven for making her miss her chance to catch the thief, but how could she?

He was crawling on the ground, trying to reach his chair.

The pitiful sight tore at her heart. She went to him immediately and offered him her help.

"Don't!" he shouted roughly. "Go after the prowler! See if you can catch him."

She glanced toward the house again. "He's gone, Steven."

"Then go into the house, see if anything was taken."

"Let me help you," she pleaded, feeling guilty for the part she'd played in his fall.

"No! Go!" He sounded angry. "Please," he said, softening his voice as he reached his chair and began to climb into it. "Go inside and see if anything was taken."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Alright. I'll be back directly."

She slipped away and ran to the house. An inventory which took her much longer than she thought it would indicated the absence of only one item, Grandma Willet's lamp, the one they'd been able to save from the flood because it had been in the Green's wagon.

Once her search of the house was completed she intended to return to Steven in the lilac garden. However, she discovered when she left the house that he was at the foot of the steps to the front porch.

"Anything gone?" he asked when she stood next to him.

"Yes, Grandma Willet's lamp."

"I'm sorry, Deborah. It's my fault."

She was about to agree with him when Susan, Becky and Bonnie came running up the walkway, all of them talking at once.

"The mystery's been solved!" Becky shouted over the voices of her sisters.

"Jonas Iverson told us just a little while ago they know who the thief is," Susan said. "He suggested we come to the sheriff's office first thing Monday morning to learn his identity and reclaim our stolen goods." She wrung her hands in front of her. "Boy, oh, boy, as soon as we get our hands on the culprit, we can begin to mete out the torture. I can hardly wait to confront him!"

Chapter Six

Deborah had been in the sheriff's office twice before. The building housing Hope's law enforcement facility was made of wood, lath and plaster. The front office was a white-walled room with pine plank floors. At one end of the large room three solid pine desks flanked by a set of filing cabinets on each side formed a U. A waiting area with a half dozen pine chairs suitable for use around a kitchen table formed a huddle in one of the corners at the other end.

Electric lights hadn't yet found their way into the county lockup, but, if Sheriff Feist had his way, they soon would, according to the talk around town.

An odorous mixture of stale cigar smoke and fresh-brewed coffee filled the air. Deborah had noted on previous visits that the dingy room could use a good sweeping, dusting and window cleaning. The condition of the office was no cleaner now than it had been before.

She wondered if the cells in the back were as unkept as the outer office was. She'd never seen the back rooms where four stone jail cells were rumored to be located, and she hoped she'd never have to.

Her former discussions with Sheriff Sam Feist had been dominated by the facts in the Willet family theft case. This time she and her sisters had come to the office because the sheriff had sent for them. He'd identified Albert Anderson as the thief, and he wanted to discuss his findings with them.

"I wonder why Albert wanted our hair ribbons," Bonnie said.

"And our jewelry," Becky added.

Deputy Pete Mallory had told Bonnie, Becky and Susan when they'd arrived that the sheriff had identified Albert as the thief, a fact Deborah had learned earlier when she'd seen the sheriff at the restaurant where she was working.

Mallory had barely filled in Deborah's sisters with the news about Albert when a dark-haired, heavy-set woman in her fifties had entered the law office and requested immediate assistance in catching her cat.

Being duty bound to help the woman with her request, Deputy Mallory asked the four sisters to wait for Sheriff Feist while he went to capture the fugitive feline.

The Willet women sat in the circle of pine chairs in a corner of the office. In deference to the recent passing of their benefactor Mrs. MacAlistar, the woman who'd influenced her banker husband to grant a mortgage on their current home, the ladies had recently decided they'd pay their respects by wearing their black broadcloth dresses for a period of one week, even though Mrs. Mac was no relation to them.

"I don't know why the boy would want doilies or Grandmother's lamp," Deborah said, furrowing her brows. "His parents have a lovely home, and, from what I've been able to see, they've always given him things he's wanted and money to spend. He doesn't need to steal anything."

"Yet, he apparently has been stealing from us," Susan said, rising from her chair. She walked to the window and peered through the dirty pane. "There's just one thing really bothering me about discovering Albert is the thief we've been looking for."

"What's that?" Becky asked.

She looked at her circle of sisters from her position near the window. "The boy's retarded. He's not responsible for his actions, what with him not fully understanding the difference between right and wrong."

"Why does that bother you?" Bonnie asked.

Susan threw her hands into the air. "We can't torture a boy whose mind isn't right."

The women nodded in solemn agreement.

"I was looking forward to putting worms in Marcie's apple orchard so her supply of cider would be reduced," Susan said. She shrugged a shoulder. "Guess we can't do that now, her being innocent and all."

Deborah gave Susan a smug look and twisted her finger in a chestnut curl hanging loosely near her jaw. "I don't know how innocent she is," she drawled, "but, apparently, she's no thief."

Her sisters, fully understanding her implication, tittered.

When the chuckling subsided, Bonnie wrinkled a brow. "Deborah, do you know how the sheriff discovered Albert is our thief?"

"Oh, my, yes, I'd forgotten," Becky said, "that you've mentioned a few times that the sheriff sometimes eats at your restaurant. Was he there for breakfast today? Did he give you more information than Deputy Mallory gave us?"

"Yes, he was there, and he did tell me more than the deputy has told you." She'd talked to him at the hotel restaurant when she was working the breakfast shift. Sheriff Feist had taken time to fully explain what had led him to the conclusion Albert had been stealing their things. "You see, Deputy Jonas Iverson and the sheriff were carefully watching the crowd at the dance on Saturday night. They'd received word some men were trying to sell illegal liquor, and they wanted to see if they could catch them in the act."

"Illegal liquor?" Bonnie asked. "But, I thought liquor is legal here in Nebraska."

"It is if it's duly licensed and produced by those who carry licenses to produce it," Susan explained. "Some folks, though, make their own beer or whiskey. Back in Illinois Papa used to talk about the hill folk who made liquor and sold it in town on Saturday nights. When they were caught, they went to jail."

"Goodness! It hardly seems fair to put someone in jail for making a product which is perfectly legal," Bonnie said.

"Girls," Deborah said, "do you want me to tell you how the officers learned Albert was our thief or not?"

"Sorry, Deborah," Susan said. "I guess we got sidetracked."

Deborah grinned. "It isn't the first time that's happened during one of our discussions."

Her sisters chuckled.

"Go on, Deborah," Becky said. "Tell us the rest."

Deborah folded her hands in her lap. "As I said, the lawmen were at the dance looking for men selling illegal liquor. And, while they were doing their observing, Sheriff Feist noticed Albert slipping a comb from Susan's hair."

"He did? I never felt a thing!" Susan said. "I had no idea my comb was gone until I arrived home. I thought it had simply fallen out." She looked at Bonnie. "Remember when we were getting ready for bed, and I mentioned my comb was gone?"

"Yes, of course."

"I told you that was the first I'd noticed it missing." She looked at Deborah. "Albert took it? Sheriff Feist saw him steal it?"

"Yes," Deborah said. "The sheriff didn't do anything about Albert's theft at the time because he didn't want to embarrass the boy in front of everyone, and he didn't want to abandon his duty to watch for the men who might be peddling illegal liquor."

"He should have arrested Albert immediately," Susan said. "The boy needs a good dressing down for what he's done. He's not so bad off that we can't make him understand it's not right to take other folks' things."

"But if he'd have embarrassed Albert in front of everyone, he might have been emotionally damaged enough to take to hiding in his tree again," Bonnie said, her voice dripping with empathetic concern. She turned to Becky. "You remember the summer when he climbed to the top of the tree and wouldn't come down?"

"I sure do. Some children had made fun of his short haircut, and he hid up in the big oak tree in front of his house until men with extra tall ladders pulled him out."

"We couldn't let that happen again," Bonnie said. "Four times he nearly fell! I waited with him the whole time he was up there, beseeched him to be extra careful. Why I cried like a baby each time he nearly fell. I felt terribly bad for him."

"Could I finish my report, please?" Deborah interjected.

Bonnie bit her lip. "Sorry."

Deborah tugged at her collar. "Later in the evening Jonas Iverson was following a person he suspected of selling the illegal liquor through the streets of town. While he was in pursuit of the liquor maker he saw Albert behaving oddly not far from our house."

"Behaving oddly?" Susan asked. "In what way?"

Deborah lifted a brow. "He wasn't clear on that point. The sheriff just said Albert was behaving oddly, and, since they knew he'd stolen your comb, the deputy wondered if he might have been planning to steal something else from us."

"And he did!" Susan said. "He took Grandmother's lamp." She paced several steps back and forth and drove her fist into the palm of her other hand. "I wish we could torture him."

The door to the office opened and over six feet of broad, lean, solid man entered. A lock of dark blond hair which had escaped the hold of his cowman's hat slid to the side of his face when he nodded toward the sisters who were sitting. He looked directly at Susan who'd remained on her feet, and took a step closer to her. She looked small next to the bulky handsome sheriff.

"Where's Albert? Why didn't you bring him to the jailhouse?" Susan's diminutive size, compared to the sheriff's, did little to curb her quick tongue.

"Good morning, Miss Willet," Sheriff Feist said to her. "Would you sit down, please, and I'll explain why Albert's not with me."

"But I don't feel like sitting, Sheriff."

He shrugged off her comment. "Suit yourself, miss." He looked at Deborah, and she stood. "Miss Willet, our suspicions have been confirmed. When I presented the Andersons with the court order I'd obtained to search their premises for your stolen goods, they willingly let me go through everything in the house. I found these." He stepped closer to Deborah and stuffed his big hand into a muslin bag she hadn't noticed he was carrying and pulled out a fistful of ribbons and combs. "Take a look. See if all the missing combs and ribbons are accounted for." He put the items back in the bag and handed it to Deborah.

Susan joined her sisters. She grabbed the bag from Deborah and emptied it onto Bonnie's and Becky's laps. The women proceeded to sort through the hair adornments one by one. They murmured as they examined their belongings and verbally laid claim to each one of them.

"Are all the missing ribbons and combs accounted for?" the sheriff asked in his husky voice after a few minutes had passed.

Deborah looked at him. "Yes, every one of them."

"Glad to hear it," he said, inclining his head toward her.

"But we're missing much more than these few things," Deborah added.

"Where is the rest of our stolen property?" Susan asked, stepping close to him.

He turned his sky blue eyes on her. "Missy, he didn't have anything belonging to you ladies except the hair combs and the ribbons."

"He didn't have anything else?" Bonnie asked.

"Nothing?" Becky said.

"No ring, no cameo, no lamp, no parasol, no doilies?" Susan asked.

The sheriff shook his head. "Not one blamed thing but the ribbons and combs, and, believe me, I searched the house quite thoroughly."

Deborah plopped back into her chair. "Then he's not the thief we've been looking for."

"Well," the sheriff said, "yes, he is. I've just shown you the goods he stole from all of you."

"Of course," Deborah said, "and we're grateful to have our hair fixings back, but compared to the other things we've lost, their practically worthless."

"Not worthless," Becky said, "but they don't mean as much to us as Mother's cameo and Grandma's lamp."

"And my ring!" Susan said. "Did you truly look _everywhere_ for my ring, Sheriff?"

"Yes, missy, I did. What's more, after questioning the boy, I believe the hair doodads are the only things he's taken."

"What makes you so certain your _beliefs_ are factual?" Susan asked.

He straightened to his full height. Deborah couldn't determine if the gesture was intended to induce Susan to regard his authority with a bit more respect or if he was merely trying to maintain his composure upon receiving Susan's implication that he may not be doing his job as competently as he should.

"Little misses, I sat Albert down and looked him squarely in the eyes. I said, 'Son, what else did you take besides those hair doodads?' He fidgeted the way he does when a body speaks to him succinctly and answered me right back. He said, 'My ribbons, my combs. My ribbons, my combs. No more.' His ma intervened at this point and said she's sure he didn't take anything else. She told me they'd noticed the hair ribbons and combs, but they thought Albert had bought them with the money they give him each week." He took off his hat and pushed his long, dark blond hair off his face. "You see, the boy derives a great deal of pleasure from sticking combs into the manes of the family's horses, and he enjoys tying ribbons on his dogs."

"Oh, my," Bonnie said, placing her fingers over her lips.

"How distressing that our ribbons and combs have been attached to the hides of animals," Becky said.

"Yes, miss, I'm sure it is," the sheriff said. "When his mother explained Albert's reasons for wanting the ribbons and combs, I asked why she supposed he took the items only from the Willet girls."

"Ours were the only ribbons and combs you found?" Becky asked.

"I found a few belonging to his mother, of course, but none belonging to anyone else but you ladies."

"Why do you suppose that was?" Deborah asked.

The sheriff cleared his throat. "As I was trying to explain, when I asked Mrs. Anderson why he'd taken only the Willet doodads she said it was likely because Albert was uncommonly fond of Miss Bonnie Willet. She said Miss Bonnie had stood vigil at a time when the boy had stuck himself up in a tree and no one could coax him out." Sheriff Feist looked at Bonnie. "She said you'd remember, Miss Bonnie. I had no idea what she was referring to, and I didn't want to press the matter any further. The more we talked, the more upset the boy became."

"Naturally, I remember the event Mrs. Anderson referred to, Sheriff. It happened before you came to town."

He bobbed his head toward her. "I figured so." He looked at Deborah again. "Mrs. Anderson asked if it was necessary to charge the boy with robbery, and I said I didn't think so, not as long as you ladies received back the stolen goods." His gaze drifted from sister to sister until it rested on Deborah once more. "Am I right?"

"You're absolutely certain he didn't take any of our other things?" Susan asked.

"Yes, miss, I am," he said, looking at her. "He wanted nothing more than the combs and ribbons for his dogs and horses, and he wanted the ones belonging to the Willet sisters due to his fondness for Miss Bonnie. In addition, as I mentioned earlier, I searched his home quite thoroughly, and I found none of the other items you've reported missing."

"Well...if you're sure," Susan said.

"Miss, Deborah?" he said, gazing at her.

"Yes?"

"What about those charges? Do you want me to bring in Albert, or are you satisfied to have your goods returned?"

Bonnie stood and wiped her cheek. Deborah looked at her more carefully and noticed she'd apparently shed a tear or two. "We have no intention of pressing charges against Albert," she said most assuredly. She wiped her cheek again. "What's more, I intend to go to the mercantile when I leave here, buy Albert a comb and a ribbon for his animals and take them directly to him. I've been negligent in nurturing our friendship, and I'm going to change that right now."

Deborah sighed. Sometimes it seemed Bonnie was too soft hearted for her own good. "We'll press no charges, Sheriff."

"But we will be pressing for justice, Mr. Feist," Susan said, lifting her chin. "If Albert didn't steal the rest of our property, who did?"

"I'd like to know the answer to that question too," Becky said, standing.

"So would I," the sheriff said, "but right now, I have no concrete clues in the case."

"In the meantime, our property continues to be stolen." Susan said, putting her hands on her hips.

"I'm as sorry as I can be about that, missy."

"Humph," she said, bringing her arms to her front and folding them over her chest. "If you can't find the person stealing our goods, then we'll find him ourselves." Susan waved her hand. "Come with me, ladies, we'll do our own sheriffing." She headed toward the door.

"Miss Susan, Miss Deborah, please stay out of lawmen's business. You're liable to find yourselves in heaps of trouble if you don't."

Deborah scowled at Sam. "We're already in trouble, Sheriff, as you well know."

"And, if you can't get us out of it, we're going to get ourselves out of it," Susan said spiritedly.

"You stay within the law, missy," he cautioned Susan, "or I'll have to make room for you in my cells."

Susan gave him a smug grin. "You do what _you_ have to, Sheriff, and we'll do what _we_ have to."

Chapter Seven

Early August, 1895

Becky pushed Steven's chair round the corner of White Street and Lincoln Avenue. Once they turned onto Lincoln he had a wonderful view of the magnificent Longfellow home.

It had been impressive when he'd seen it at dusk the evening he'd spent with Deborah, the night he'd first kissed her, but, frankly, he'd been much more interested in learning the details of his chosen lady than he'd been in observing the intricacies of her house.

He really hadn't paid much attention to the exterior appearance of the house the other times he'd dropped by either, and, so far, he hadn't been introduced to the interior since his ability to climb stairs hadn't yet returned in full.

But today was special, and he wanted to observe the house with great enthusiasm--the exterior, and, if things went the way he'd hoped, the intimate interior as well. After all, this was Deborah's home. This house was an important part of her life, and whatever was important to her was important to him.

As he and Becky had traversed the walkway on White Street his view from the wheelchair had been obstructed by the bushes lining the Longfellow property, but now he saw the house and its beautifully groomed yard in all their splendor.

The black shutters and trim perfectly accented the soft yellow clapboards. Judging by the number of windows in the front of the house Steven determined the second floor must have at least four bedrooms on the front side of the home. Likely as not an equal number of bedrooms were on the back side of the house, unless, of course, one of the rooms had been converted to the bathing room. At this point, Steven had no idea whether the bathing facilities were on the first or second floor.

"Becky," Steven said, turning as best he could to look up at her, "I want you to know how much I appreciate your inviting me to your lawn party. It means a lot to me to be included in your circle of friends."

"I'm terribly pleased you could come, Mr. Paxton. And why wouldn't I count you as a friend? We are much more than co-workers, after all, aren't we?" My, but she had the sweetest way about her. What a treasure she was.

He reached up and touched Becky's fingers which were firmly attached to the back of his chair. "As far as I'm concerned, we're quite good friends which is why," he said, smiling at her, "you should call me Steven instead of Mr. Paxton, at least when we're not at the bank."

Her cheeks turned red. "Gosh, are you sure you'd like me to address you informally? You are my superior."

"Only at the bank," he said. "Everywhere else I'm your friend."

"Alright, Steven." It seemed difficult for her to say his name. "I'll try to use your given name, but I'm afraid I may not feel right in doing so."

"Don't worry," he said tenderly, "the more you address me as Steven the more comfortable you'll feel in doing so."

When Steven faced forward again he noticed they'd made enough progress along the Lincoln Avenue walkway to be directly in front of the Longfellow house.

Becky turned his chair onto the brick path leading to the entrance of the fine home. It appeared Molly or one or two of the girls had done some additional gardening since the last time he'd been at the house. He was sure the white daisies in front of the porch had stood alone before, and now they were joined by bright red geraniums. Since the white flowers were at his eye level, he couldn't help but notice them the last time he'd come to the Longfellow home.

As he and Becky drew closer to the house two women approached them, one appearing to be about forty years old, the other seemed to be around fourteen or fifteen.

"Hello, Molly," Becky said. "Hi, Angie."

"I'm glad you're here, Becky. I've been terribly eager to meet Mr. Paxton," Molly said. She looked down at him. "Welcome to our home, Mr. Paxton. I'm quite pleasured to meet you. My girls have often spoken fondly of you."

He couldn't help but wonder--or rather hope--that Deborah was among the girls who'd spoken favorably of him.

He extended his hand. "It's my pleasure, Mrs. Longfellow, to finally meet the matriarch of these lovely girls, a matriarch, I might add, who looks more like another sister to them than a mother." Steven noted Molly with her auburn hair, which she wore up, her fair skin, and stunning dark blue eyes was every bit as pretty as the young women in her family.

Molly's cheeks blossomed into red roses. She added a second hand to their handshake and smiled. "I just knew you'd have a bit of the blarney in you," she said in a delightfully native Irish way.

He gave her a gentle smile. "I assure you," he said warmly, "I mean what I said most sincerely."

She patted his hand sweetly and drew away from him, her radiant smile remaining on her lovely face. "This is our beloved Angie," she said, slipping an arm around the teen's shoulders.

Angie nodded toward him. "Hello, Mr. Paxton. We're pleased you could join us today."

"Why, thank you, Miss Angie." The girl was a flawless beauty. Becky had never mentioned from what tribe of Indians Angie had descended. Neither had she said how lovely the little lady was. Her eyes were ebony, her cheeks rosy. Her skin, the color of creamed coffee, appeared silken and smooth. Her long black hair was held away from her face by a bright red ribbon, the same color as her dress.

Since Angie and Becky were now wearing colorful dresses, Steven figured the time for wearing black as a sign of respect for their recently-departed friend Mrs. MacAlistar must have come to an end for the ten sisters. Molly, however, continued to wear black which she'd done ever since she'd lost her family in the flood, according to Becky.

The Willet sisters had mentioned Mrs. MacAlistar a few times, saying she'd helped them to secure a loan for their large home.

Though the girls were extremely grateful for the influence Mrs. MacAlistar had apparently claimed to have lorded over her husband so they might acquire the loan they needed, Steven knew that lending the money for the purchase of the Longfellow home had been sound business for the bank. It hadn't been granted for any other reason. Not only were payments made in full and on time month after month, just as they'd been on the family's first house in Hope, their current house was now worth a great deal more than it was at the time of its purchase, thanks to the hard work and improvements lavished on the structure by its occupants. Mortgage oversight being part of his duties at the bank, Steven knew all the details of Molly Longfellow's loan and her excellent credit dependability.

He thought it was wonderful that each year the Longfellow family had a huge party to celebrate the day they moved into their home. He was delighted that, this year, his first year in Hope, he had been invited to join in the festivities.

"That's a lovely dress you're wearing, Miss Angie," Steven said.

She brushed a hand over her full red skirt. "Deborah made this dress for me from an old one Elizabeth brought with her from Indiana."

"She did a fine job. The dress suits you beautifully." Deborah's ambitions toward owning a dressmaking business were well placed if she possessed this sort of talent, Steven thought.

"Thank you, Mr. Paxton."

"Our Deborah is an exceptionally talented woman when it comes to dress designs," Molly said proudly. "My other daughters are also quite talented in many areas, but Deborah's abilities with a needle and thread are unmatched by anyone in the county."

"I can see that," Steven said, smiling at her.

Three more ladies approached.

"Molly," the dark-skinned girl in the deep blue dress said, "Mr. Ross needs to see you. Something about having trouble setting up the croquet course."

"Oh, my," Molly said, glancing at her pendant watch, "croquet is scheduled to begin in twenty minutes. I'd better see to what he needs right away." She gazed at Steven. "I hope you'll excuse me, Mr. Paxton." She looked at each of the five ladies surrounding him. "Girls, please take good care of Mr. Paxton. See to it he has whatever he wishes to eat and drink."

"Yes, ma'am," all five said in unison.

"Becky, be a dear and greet any new arrivals. Though the grounds are fairly full of guests already, I'm expecting another dozen people to arrive shortly."

"I'll take care of it, Molly," Becky said assuredly.

"Oh, my," Molly said, chasing a wisp of red hair from her forehead, "I must introduce these three daughters before I leave you, Mr. Paxton."

She took the hand of the little lady who'd informed her of the croquet fiasco. "This is our Flossie, Flossie Marquez. She's one of the hardest workers you'll find anywhere in Hope and among the kindest women you'll ever meet."

Steven nodded toward her. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Marquez."

"Thank you, Mr. Paxton."

"And this," Molly said, releasing Flossie's hand and taking the hand of the girl with the jet-black hair and dark blue eyes, "is Elizabeth, Elizabeth Green. She's a stoic young lady who reserves talking for the times she has important things to say."

"I'm pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Paxton," Elizabeth said graciously. "Becky speaks of you often."

"I hope she hasn't said anything too dreadful."

Elizabeth gave her head a shake. "Nothing dreadful so far."

Molly let go of Elizabeth's hand and stepped next to the young woman with full blonde hair and sad, dark blue eyes. "Our Mary is more shy than gregarious, so be gentle with her. Mary Phillips."

Steven smiled at her. "There's nothing in the world wrong with being shy, Miss Phillips. Sometimes I think the world would be a more peaceful place if we were all a bit shier."

The sullenness in her eyes lightened. "I don't know about that, Mr. Paxton, but I do know I, like my sisters, am pleased to meet you at last, considering how fond of you Becky is."

"Thank you."

Molly stood erect. "Well, now that the introductions have been completed, I must see to Mr. Ross's difficulties. I've promised the pleasures of croquet to our guests, and I don't want to disappoint them." She looked again at each of her daughters. "Remember, girls, take good care of Mr. Paxton and all of our guests."

"We will," the five said in unison.

Becky moved from behind his chair to join her four adopted sisters. What a beautiful rainbow of colors could be found in their garments and in their individual skin colorings.

Becky's milky skin contrasted with Flossie's dark skin as sharply as her pale blue dress differed from Flossie's deep blue frock.

Mary's gently sun-kissed skin was slightly lighter than Elizabeth's tawny complexion which was several shades lighter than Angie's lovely coffee-colored skin.

Angie's bright red dress looked even brighter next to Elizabeth's pale yellow skirt and shirtwaist, and Mary's deep green plaid frock stood out as the only costume with a lively pattern.

"Which of you ladies convinced the good Lord to give us a perfect summer day for your party?" Steven asked.

"That would be Angie," Flossie said brightly. "God gives her whatever she asks just like we do."

Angie lightly slapped Flossie's hand. "Stop it! I am not spoiled. I work just like all the rest of you do, and God is no quicker to answer my prayers than He is to answer yours."

"That's not exactly true," Mary said.

"I should say not," Becky concurred. "Wasn't it Angie who was the only one to receive what she'd wished for last Christmas?"

Angie lifted her chin. "Perhaps it was because I was the only one who didn't wish for one of the new automobiles all of you desire so intensely." She looked at Steven. "I'd asked the good Lord to send me nothing more than a kitten." Steven found her Irish intonation charming. It seemed Molly had influenced the girls in many ways.

"And God gave you a kitten for Christmas?"

"As a matter of fact, He did." Angie's dark eyes sparkled. "It was half past midnight on Christmas Eve when I heard a noise outside my window, don't you know? I thought perhaps a branch was brushing the shutter. My room is on the second floor."

"She has the room I wanted," Mary said, "but, as usual, Molly succumbed to Angie's entreaties and decreed the room should be hers." She made her comment with a warm smile, indicating she wasn't as resentful of her sister's good fortune as her words might indicate.

Steven was completely enchanted by the sisterly banter.

"I am not spoiled!" Angie said to Mary. It sounded by her tone that perhaps her sisters frequently christened her the favored one of the group.

"What about the kitten?" Steven asked gently.

Angie looked at him again. "When the noise sounded several more times, I rose from my bed, went to the window and opened it. As soon as I raised the pane, a black and white kitten, no bigger than the palms of my two hands held together, slipped across the sill, looked up at me and mewed sweetly."

"The kitten appeared out of nowhere?" Steven asked, only half believing Angie's story.

"Yes, sir," Becky said resolutely.

"Perhaps someone in the neighborhood had a batch of kittens, and the black and white one ran off and wandered to your window," Steven suggested.

The secretive look Becky and Elizabeth exchanged led Steven to think that, perhaps, the two of them knew more about the kitten's sudden appearance than either had divulged.

"None of our close neighbors had a litter of kittens," Elizabeth said demurely. She delivered another sly look to Becky.

Upon seeing the exchange, Steven decided he wouldn't be surprised in the least to learn that Becky may have had a lot more to do with the cat's unexpected appearance at Angie's window than she was willing to admit, knowing what a thoughtful person she was.

"The kitten just showed up," Becky said.

"By the grace of God, most likely," Mary added.

"I told you the Lord bestows His greatest favors on Angie," Flossie said, "and that is why we have the loveliest of all summer days today. Angie entreated God to give us a good day, and He, as usual, granted her request."

Steven decided he'd just heard the longest answer to a rhetorical question he'd ever heard, but how lovely it was to have heard it! These girls were simply enthralling, every last one of them.

"I've been waiting and waiting for all of you!"

Steven hadn't noticed Bonnie approaching.

"Hello, Bonnie. We've been visiting with Mr. Paxton," Becky said.

"So I see." She nodded toward him and folded her hands in front of her golden dress which was set off by a black belt and black trimmings. "Good afternoon, Mr. Paxton. I hope you are well today."

"Hello, Miss Bonnie," he said, inclining his head toward her. "I'm not only well I am completely captivated by your sisters."

She gave them a tentative look. "I suppose they can be amiable when they want to be, but I suspect they may be using their magnetism at the moment to not only spend as much time as they can in your company but also to avoid the duties afforded them as hostesses."

"Bonnie's the most serious of all of us, Mr. Paxton," Flossie said.

"She certainly is," Mary agreed, "but, in this case, she's right. We have been neglecting our duties and our other guests."

"But who could blame us?" Elizabeth said, her previous sullenness gone from her eyes. "It isn't often we are treated to such agreeable male companionship."

"I completely concur," Bonnie said. "Mr. Paxton is a delightful man. However, I'm afraid your _serious_ sister has got to insist that each of you come with me immediately so we can tend to our other guests."

The little group released a collective groan which warmed Steven's heart. How uplifting it was to have contact with and acceptance by the outside world once again. And not just with the outside world, but with a group of women full of life and vigor. He'd spent months avoiding social situations due to the depression which had consumed him after his accident. In fact, his _date_ with Deborah at the ice cream social had been the first function he'd attended outside of his employment commitments since he'd been confined to his wheelchair.

He was ashamed now as he enjoyed the company of these spirited young women that he'd spent so much time feeling sorry for himself. His accident and resulting disability had been nothing when compared to the sufferings the little Longfellow ladies had endured as children when the terrible flood took away their families and many of their possessions.

"Bonnie?" Steven said.

"Yes, Mr. Paxton?"

"I wonder. . .before Becky leaves to tend to other guests would you mind if I imposed upon her to wheel me to Deborah? I see she's standing across the yard, near the lilac bushes. I haven't yet had a chance to greet her."

Becky went immediately to the back of his chair. "I'll catch up with you in a few minutes, Bonnie."

She nodded and smiled. "Of course."

As the ladies bade Steven farewell, each of them promised him they'd see him later. Bonnie vowed she'd bring him a slice of cake and a glass of lemonade within the hour.

Then Becky took him to Deborah.

Chapter Eight

When Steven and Becky were only a few yards from Deborah two young ladies approached her.

"It looks like you're about to meet two more sisters, Steven," Becky said.

"It seems you have an endless supply," he said, smiling up at her.

She returned his smile. "I'm a very fortunate girl."

"You certainly are."

She wheeled him next to Deborah and the only two sisters from the Longfellow household whom he hadn't yet met.

"Hello, Deborah," Steven said. She looked beautiful in her dark blue skirt and pale blue shirtwaist with the lace trim.

"Steven--Mr. Paxton, I didn't know you'd arrived," Deborah said, turning toward him when she heard his voice.

"So this is Mr. Paxton?" said the young lady who, with her jet-black hair and dark blue eyes, had to be Elizabeth's sister. Except for being taller and having much brighter eyes than Elizabeth the young woman was practically a twin.

"Yes," Becky said, coming round to the side of his chair. "Mr. Paxton, this is my sister Liza Green. And this," she said, sweeping a hand away from the young woman in the dark brown dress with black trim to the lady in the black skirt and black and white shirtwaist, "is my sister Amy McKittrick."

Amy inclined her head toward him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Paxton," she said. Steven noted Amy's hair was almost as dark as Liza's, and her sad eyes were the same shade of dark green as the leaves on the lilac bushes behind her.

"Thank you, Miss McKittrick. Are you enjoying yourself today?" Judging by the morose look in her eyes he doubted she was.

"Yes, of course. How could a person have anything less than a lovely time at a gathering like this one on a lovely summer day?" Her tone was so joyful Steven wondered how someone whose eyes seemed as sad as hers could sound as cheerful as she did.

"We're all having a wonderful time," Liza said.

"I wish I could stay and visit with all of you," Amy said, "but Bonnie's already pointed out I've been neglecting my obligations."

"Truthfully," Liza said, "Amy and I are supposed to be in the kitchen churning ice cream right now. Molly will scold us in her full Irish brogue if we don't have her ice cream ready to serve by the time she wants to lavish cake on our guests."

Amy sighed "We'd better prepare to wear out our arms on the churn, I suppose."

"It was nice to meet you, Mr. Paxton," Liza said. "I'll bring you some ice cream as soon as it's ready."

"That would be lovely," he said, giving her a smile.

"Perhaps Mr. Paxton would like to join you now, Liza," Deborah said. "He just might be a fan of the dasher."

Amy chuckled, and her unhappy eyes brightened slightly. "Somehow I can't envision Mr. Paxton spooning ice cream from the dasher. He seems much too civilized."

Steven had no intention of spoiling Amy's opinion of him by confessing he'd always volunteered to do the ice cream churning for the family whenever he was at home simply because he'd have first chance at the dasher when the job was completed.

"We'd better tend to our duties," Becky said.

The other girls agreed, grouped together, bade their farewells and began to move away.

Steven caught Deborah's hand when it seemed she intended to join her sisters.

"You're not leaving, are you, Deborah? We haven't had a chance to speak since the last time we were near the lilac bushes."

Deborah glanced at her sisters who were several yards away now.

When she gazed at him again he was certain, judging by the look in her eyes, she remembered quite vividly the kisses they'd shared within the circle of lilacs.

"I think we have a few things we need to say to each other." Steven said. "Don't you?"

She tugged her hand from him and lifted her chin. "I certainly have something to say to you."

He grinned at her. "I thought you might."

"I wish you hadn't come to the restaurant. My employer thinks you're my sweetheart now. He wanted me to neglect my duties and accept your request to sit with you while you dined."

"So did I," he said smoothly. "Why didn't you join me, if your employer gave you permission to do so?"

"Because we have nothing to say to each other."

He reached out and took her hand. He drew her closer, and took her other hand too.

"Deborah, I'm not a love-struck school boy like poor Percy Fenimore. I'm not going to give up on you simply because you rebuff me. I'm a full-grown man with all the needs and desires of a man. What's more, I'm the type of man who goes after what he wants with gusto." He squeezed her hands tightly. "And I want you, and you...you want me. I know you do. You erased any doubt I had about your feelings for me the last time we were here in this garden."

She bit her lips, her sweet, sweet lips, tightly together.

"I don't think you're the type of woman who would have responded to my kisses the way you did if you didn't have deep feelings for me," he said gently.

"Don't you...aren't you...what I'm trying to say, Mr. Paxton, is that you've misinterpreted my response." She pulled her hands from his grasp. "It is in my nature to occasionally do something irrational. It's in the nature of all women to do so, men too. I'm afraid you caught me at a weak moment, and I responded to your overtures through purely biological reactions."

He placed his fingers over his lips so he wouldn't chuckle out loud at her ridiculous declaration.

She looked away, probably to hide the guilt her eyes would likely reveal after telling so monumental a lie.

He took her hand again, and she looked at him.

"Deborah," he said tenderly, once he'd pushed aside his amusement at what she'd said, "God gave you those _biological reactions_ for a reason. He wants us to love one another, and physical responses between men and women are part of the feelings of love we have for each other. Don't you want someone to take care of you, Deborah?" He caressed her fingers with his. "I want so much to lighten your burdens with my devout friendship, to wipe away your tears when you're crying, to be your fortress when you need protection."

The look in her verdant eyes turned from confused to fulfilled, as though he'd finally reached the part of her soul he'd been struggling to find each time he'd talked with her before.

"Your words are practically poetry, Steven. You certainly know how to say things a woman likes to hear, but I'm afraid they're wasted on me."

"They aren't just words. I meant everything I said." Perhaps he wasn't getting through to her after all.

She pulled her hand away and held it in front of her. "I don't know how I can respond to you except to say once more, I don't want a beau." She brushed a lock of silky brown hair from her forehead. "I like you, Steven, and I have great respect for you. I hope some day you find a good woman who will let you comfort her, protect her and who, in return, will be devoted to you in every way."

He wanted to bolt to his feet, take her in his arms and kiss some sense into her, but he couldn't, not in front of the guests milling around them.

"I don't need to search for a good woman, Deborah, I've already found her."

She looked away.

He reached out, touched her fingers and drew back his hand. "I understand you need time to realize the capacity for love you keep locked away in your heart. Therefore, I am willing to wait as long as it takes for you to have your awakening. In the meantime," he said, taking her hand, "why don't we forget all the seriousness I've been heaping on our relationship and simply have a little fun."

She looked at him quizzically. "I beg your pardon?"

He grinned at her cheerfully. "Let me take you to the _Wheat Harvest Ball_ next week. I'm making wonderful progress with my legs. I can walk with a cane, though not very far. That's why I'm here in my chair today instead of using the cane. But by next week I'm sure I'll have made more progress, and I'd really love to be able to dance a few steps with you at the ball."

She captured his hand in both of hers. "Oh, Steven, it's wonderful that you're walking better. It'll be simply heavenly if you're able to dance a few steps by next week. I truly do hope you can."

The joy she expressed regarding his progress gave him hope. "You'll let me take you to the ball then?"

She gave her head an unyielding shake. "I'm afraid I can't. You see, that night...the night of the ball...I have plans with another man."

Chapter Nine

It had been eight days since the silver flatware setting and the china cup and saucer with the little pink roses on them had been taken. These latest items were stolen from the kitchen the night before the annual yard party they'd hosted to celebrate the purchase of their magnificent home.

Three days before the tableware vanished, Deborah had suffered the loss of her ring, Great Grandmother Willet's ring, the gold one with the tiny ruby. Her mother had given it to her on her thirteenth birthday. She'd removed the ring to try on a pair of gloves when she was shopping, and, when she went to retrieve it from the counter where she'd placed it, it was gone--and no one had seen anyone take it.

Would the thefts of their property never end? Would the perpetrator of the crimes never be found?

Deborah's shame over not being able to protect her sisters reached new heights very early in the morning on the day of the yard party when Bonnie reported she'd discovered the china and silver were missing.

At this point, with the recent loss of Deborah's ring, the china cup and saucer and the setting of silverware, Bonnie had called the entire family to a meeting. After some discussion as to what should be done to catch the thief, the girls voted unanimously to take turns keeping a constant watch on the house and on each other.

Deborah's humiliation had reached its zenith at that family meeting despite the fact that she was greatly heartened by the support all her sisters showed with their eagerness to help catch the horrible person stealing from the Willet girls.

During the discussion at the family meeting it was decided each of Deborah's blood sisters, unless she was at her place of employment, was to be accompanied by another sister, blood or adopted, wherever she went. In this way two sets of eyes would witness any further attempts at larceny and, hopefully, the girls would be able to prevent the loss of anymore property.

In addition, the ladies had decided a sentinel secretly sheltered within the circle of the lilac bushes on the edge of the yard would keep a constant covert watch on the house. Both the front and rear entrances could be seen from there. Deborah had insisted at the meeting the morning of the garden party that she'd take the early night watches every evening of the week while the others tended to duties, social activities or rested from the day's responsibilities.

As had been her habit during the evening for about a week, Deborah watched the house from the lilac garden while the rest of the household attended the _Wheat Harvest Ball_. The night was cool so she'd worn a light jacket to keep out the chill. Though fashion was not important while she exercised her duties as house guard, the dark blue jacket was a nice match to the dark blue skirt and light blue shirtwaist she was wearing.

The scent of roses emanating from the bed on the other side of the lot filled the air just as it had each night when the breeze blew from that direction.

For eight consecutive evenings Deborah had observed the house from within the circle of lilac bushes, and each night, throughout the quiet lonesomeness of fulfilling her obligations, she relived the intimate moments she'd shared with Steven there.

Dear heaven, how she cared for him. She wanted to love him, hold him, kiss him. She wanted to spend time with him more than she wanted to eat or sleep or breathe.

She wanted to feel his hand securely wrapped around hers even more than she wanted to catch the thief who'd been wreaking havoc in their lives.

How she wished she were dancing with him instead of standing alone in the dark, watching a sleepy house surrounded by a yawning yard.

Ignoring her feelings for Steven had been nearly as difficult as rebuilding her life had been after the flood, but what else could she do?

She didn't want a serious relationship with any man, and Steven had made the weightiness of his intentions quite clear. It would be unfair, no, it would be cruel to let him think there was any possibility she might share his desire to have a future together.

"Oh, Steven..." she whispered.

"I'm here, Deborah."

She gasped and turned toward the voice she'd heard.

She saw nothing.

Then, like an ethereal mirage, he stepped into the dimness of pale moonlight, walked shakily to the center of the lilac circle and stopped a few yards away from her.

"It's you," she said in awe.

"Hello, Deborah." He was wearing a dark suit with a high-collared white shirt. His hair was neatly groomed, and his beautiful blue eyes looked darker in the dim light of the moon.

She stared at him, unable to move.

He took three confident steps toward her.

"My, God, my dear, sweet, heavenly God, Steven, you're walking!" The wonderful sight of him taking one strong, potent step after another moved her deeply.

His face lit with a smile. "The streetcar brought me as far as the corner a block from here. I walked from there." His smile broadened, and he held up a knotted wooden cane. "I've been using this new device for three days, and I'm getting quite good with it," he said proudly.

Deborah put her hands over her mouth. Tears slipped from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. "I'm terribly happy for you," she said, letting her hands fall from her lips. "Surely, you must be elated about the progress you've made."

"I'm elated, alright," he said, taking a step closer to her, "and I'm more grateful than I could possibly say."

"Yes! Yes, grateful to the good Lord for helping you to regain the use of your legs." She wiped joyful tears from her cheeks.

He tilted his head to one side, and the edge of his mouth curved into a half smile. "I do indeed thank God for His help, but Becky deserves a good deal of credit for her tireless work with me. She was quite the overseer, especially when I wanted to give up because my exercises were simply too painful."

Deborah proudly lifted her chin. "Becky is the most determined woman in the United States, maybe in the world. I think that is why the staff at the hospital calls on her frequently as a volunteer."

"She is, no doubt, a great help to all patients at the hospital in need of encouragement, just as she's been to me," he said softly, "and I am eternally grateful for all she's done for me."

He took another step toward her. "I'm thankful to her for helping me walk again, and I'm thankful to her for explaining to me that the _other man_ with whom you'd claimed you had plans when we spoke at the lawn party was the thief who's been bothering you and your sisters."

He closed the space between them. "She told me this morning you've been keeping watch here every night since the party last week."

"Yes, I have."

"Well," he said on a sigh, "when I learned you were standing vigil again tonight, I couldn't pass up this opportunity to come to you. I've got something very important to tell you."

"You do? What is it?"

Why was he standing so close to her? Didn't he realize that the nearness of him, the intoxicating spicy manly scent of him caused her heart to behave erratically? Was he aware that his presence exorcised all common sense from her mind?

She looked away and closed her eyes. _Dear God, make him leave...please_ , she prayed, _make him leave_. _You know how he weakens me._

"I've come to thank you."

She looked at him, astonished by his declaration. "Thank _me_? But I haven't done a thing for you."

He reached out and touched her chin. "Miss Deborah, you've done much more for me than you could possibly know."

She swallowed hard. It wasn't fair.

He shouldn't touch her, not her chin, not her hair, not her heart.

"I've done _nothing_ for you."

In the muted light of the moon she saw his brow lift. "Ah, but you have. You see, my sweet, it is because of you I'm walking again..." His fingers softly stroked the tender flesh of her jaw line. "Because of you, I'm breathing again, feeling alive again."

She tried to speak, but her words caught in her throat.

He was so tall, so magnificent, so...so...

His cane fell to his side, and he wrapped both of his arms around her.

"Dear God, Deborah, I love you with all my heart and soul."

He pressed his hands into her back, his lips to hers, and Deborah thought she'd burst from the pleasure surging through her veins. Just as when he'd kissed her before, she felt their souls join and her troubles melt into nothingness because she no longer shouldered them alone. Her pain nearly ceased because he was there to share and relieve it. He gave her comfort beyond any she'd ever experienced, and he gave her so much more.

His kiss awakened hidden, repressed stirrings within her, deep within her.

And when one of his hands moved from her back to her side and round to her belly, she thought she'd cry out due to the exquisite pleasure he evoked inside her.

No longer was he merely sharing the burdens placed on her shoulders, her heart and even her soul. He was taking her to plains of happiness she'd never experienced before.

His kisses grew hungrier, and his fingers slipped higher, to her ribs, touching each one of them, moving higher still, coming to rest just below her breast.

Was she breathing?

Was she in heaven?

His lips captured hers in a fresh kiss, one which took her over the threshold from extreme pleasure to pure ecstasy.

Deborah had never before indulged in this sort of heavenly pleasure. She hadn't even dreamed the kind ecstasy she was enjoying existed anywhere on earth.

And, just when she was certain she could be no happier, no more enthralled or excited by the caresses of her sweet, strong Steven, he slid the hand he held against her ribs higher until it covered her breast.

She dragged her mouth away from his and cried into his ear on a ragged breath, "Steven, oh, dear Steven, what are you doing to me?"

Before he could reply, she kissed him.

The next few moments were frenzied ones. Fingers released buttons, jackets fell to the ground and kisses were not enough to sate her overpowering desires.

It wasn't until Deborah felt Steven's fingers slip beneath her shirtwaist onto the sensitive skin below her collarbone that she realized she was exposed to him.

She jumped back with a start, and Steven nearly lost his balance.

She gave him a frightened look as she grabbed her unbuttoned shirtwaist and closed it inside her fist.

He wiped his wrist over his mouth. His breaths were heavy, ragged, as frayed and rough as hers were.

She was even more horrified when she saw his unbuttoned shirt and realized she'd done the unfastening.

She turned away from him to right the clothing he'd undone.

"Deborah..."

"Fix your shirt," she called softly over her shoulder. "Put your jacket on again."

In the next moments she heard his movements and hoped he was doing what she'd asked him to do.

When silence prevailed behind her, and she was certain her clothing was snuggly closed and her waist jacket on securely, she turned to face him.

"I don't know what happened." She couldn't look at him. She'd never been so ashamed in her life.

"I know exactly what happened," he said, taking a step closer to her. "You let yourself behave like a woman. You opened your heart to me. Deborah," he said, touching her chin, "you allowed yourself to love me. Dear, God," he said, taking her in his arms again, "you love me! You love me as much as I love you!"

"No!" She pushed out of his arms. "I don't. I won't. I can't! I want nothing to do with loving anyone else. My life is already filled with more responsibility than I can handle. How could I possibly survive loving one more person knowing how my responsibilities will only grow with another person to care for?"

"What are you talking about? Loving me won't be a burden to you. If anything, loving me, letting me love you, will ease your responsibilities. I thought I'd made it clear that I want only to love you, to make your life easier, to take away your pain."

She shook her head vigorously. "I know that isn't the way love works. Love may offer joy from time to time, moments of happiness, but, more than anything else, love comes with pain, disappointment and heartache." She grasped her head with her palms. "The pain that comes when we lose love..."

"But you're not going to lose me," he said, taking hold of her wrists and bringing her hands down to her sides.

"You don't know that! I loved my brothers, my father...my mother." She shook free of his grasp and turned away from him. "My mother...Father in Heaven," she said prayerfully, "what I wouldn't do to have ten more minutes with my mother."

Her shoulders slumped and tears bled from her eyes.

Steven put his arm around her. "I wish more than anything I could give you those ten minutes, Deborah, so you could hold your mother and kiss her one more time."

She looked up at him. "Hold her?" she said in disbelief.

"Yes."

She glanced away. It seemed obvious he'd concluded she'd said she'd wanted more time with her mother for sentimental reasons. He, of course, had no reason to suspect Deborah wanted to see her so she might have the opportunity to interrogate her. She desperately wanted to ask her why she'd been in the arms of Amy's future stepfather the night before the flood.

Only one other person knew about her mother's indiscretion--Susan. Deborah had told her she'd witnessed their mother and Mr. Wilson wrapped in each others' arms on that horrible, frightening night. She'd been so upset she'd intended to run off to Omaha the first chance she had.

Susan had been plenty upset about the matter too, but she, even at her youthful fourteen years of age, had maintained a cool perspective and had recommended that fifteen-year-old Deborah wait until the following morning after she'd had time to calm down and think things through to discuss the matter with their mother. Susan seemed confident there was a logical, platonic explanation to what Deborah had seen.

Only, the events of the next morning erased all chances Deborah would ever have of learning what had happened between her mother and Howard.

How she wished it hadn't--for so many, many reasons.

Steven draped his arm over Deborah's shoulders. He cooed and comforted her with gentle words.

She allowed herself several long moments to accept his warmth and kindness before she stepped away from him.

She wiped her cheeks with her hands and lifted her chin. "I'm going to leave now, and I don't want you to come to me again. Not here, not anywhere. Not ever."

She didn't wait for him to respond. She immediately pushed her way through the lilacs.

It wasn't until she was halfway to the house that she noticed the veiled woman on the porch. She froze instantly and remained completely unable to move.

She watched helplessly as the woman descended the stairs, crossed the brick walkway and hastened up the cobblestones on Lincoln Avenue.

"Deborah," Steven said, touching her shoulder when he caught up with her. "You can't run away from me like this."

She shook his hand form her shoulder.

"The veiled woman. Look!" she said, pointing at her. She was nearly out of sight now. "I'm sure she was in the house. I saw her on the porch!"

He took hold of her arm and urged her forward. "We've got to catch her."

She shook free of his grasp and looked up at him. "No, not _we_ , I. _I_ will go after her alone. You will only slow me down."

In the dim mixture of pale moonlight and muted streetlight she could see in his eyes the pain her true but cruel statement had caused.

"I'm sorry, Steven. I didn't mean to hurt you."

He waved away her words. "Never mind that. You're right, of course. I would slow you down. Go after her on your own."

"I'm on my way," she said enthusiastically. "I'm going to follow her all the way to her abode without letting her out of my sight. Then I'll confront her and search her home from attic to cellar until I find the cache of things she's taken from us."

She turned away from him and ran toward her target.

"Godspeed!" she heard Steven shout.

It didn't take long for her to come within a few dozen yards of the woman. When she noticed how unsteadily the thief was progressing, she slowed her pace and kept out of sight as much as possible.

She didn't want to give away her position. She couldn't expose herself now, not when she was on the verge of once again fulfilling her duties as family protector.

Heaven help her, she was finally going to capture their thief!

Chapter Ten

The veiled woman lived in a tiny house at the end of an alley seven blocks from the Longfellow home. Even in the pale light of the moon from thirty feet away it was easy to see the home was in dire need of white paint to replace what had chipped away over time.

As she moved closer to the structure Deborah noticed its porch floorboards were broken in several places. When, at last, she walked up the stairs and onto the porch, the sturdy-looking boards she treaded on squeaked softly with each step she took.

She made her way to the one and only window on the front of the house, squatted down and looked inside.

The parlor, lit by two ancient kerosene lamps, was about the same size as the smallest bedroom in the Longfellow home. Two doors could be seen from Deborah's vantage point. Based on what she'd seen from the outside as she'd approached the house, she guessed one likely led to the kitchen and the other to a bedroom.

The yellow flowered wallpaper was pealing off the walls in half a dozen places. Furnishing the room were a large, dark-stained cedar chest which sat ahead of a well-used brown settee, a small table at one end of the settee, two pine rockers in the corners of the room, and a coal stove placed near the far wall.

The veiled woman was nowhere in sight, but Deborah had seen her go into the house. Since the lamps burned in the parlor she had no doubt the woman would return to the room momentarily.

Several minutes passed before one of the two doors opened and the woman, dressed in black from neck to ankle, came forward into the parlor carrying a blue china cup. Still wearing the veil, she went to the settee, set the cup on the table next to it and seated herself with a plop onto the couch.

She leaned forward, opened the chest and pulled from it a wad of white cloth. She placed the fabric in her lap and slid back on the sofa.

Suddenly a fit of coughing overtook her body. The violence of it continued at least a minute, maybe longer.

When relief came she leaned her head against the back of the sofa.

A few minutes later she reached for her cup, slipped it beneath the veil and put it to her lips. She engaged in a long drink before she returned the cup to the table.

She paused briefly before she unrolled the wad of white cloth, treating it as though it held the relics of an admired saint.

It wasn't easy to see the contents of the fabric package from Deborah's vantage point. She strained and stretched as much as possible to get a better look, but, still, she couldn't see what the woman had inside the cloth.

Another fierce cough shook the woman, and it appeared she'd placed a hand over her mouth. When she settled down again, she moved her fingers back to the contents of the white cloth.

The first item the woman removed and lifted into the air looked like a hanky. She admired it, fingered it gingerly and slipped it beneath her veil. She appeared to draw in a deep breath. Judging by the movement of her throat, she may have said something, but Deborah didn't hear anything.

A moment later she took another hanky from the cache of goods and treated and reacted to it the same way she had with the first one.

A third time she took a hanky and behaved again in the same manner.

It frustrated Deborah that she could not determine from what she was able to see whether or not the hankies the woman was fondling were the property of the Willet sisters.

The next item the woman retrieved from the mixture of things on her lap was small. She delicately fingered it. The awesome respect she paid to the tiny trinket implied it was of great value to her.

Deborah vigorously wished she could see what the woman cherished so abundantly, but no amount of stretching or straining to get a better view rewarded her with a good look at it.

At last, the woman took the treasure into two fingers of one hand and placed it on the third finger of her other hand.

When she held out the hand displaying the valued item and began to admire it, Deborah recognized the gem at once.

Even from several feet away she knew the jewel on the veiled woman's finger was Great Grandmother Willet's ring--her ring, the one with the little ruby, the one which had disappeared when she'd removed it from her finger in order to try on a pair of gloves.

There was no doubt about it. Deborah had finally found the bothersome thief.

Her heart hammered. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She rose from her crouched position, stepped over the damaged boards and placed herself in front of the door.

She grabbed the knob and turned it forcefully.

When the door opened, she bound into the room.

"You thief! You scoundrel!"

The veiled woman jerked and angled her head toward her accuser.

"Those things belong to my sisters and me. You have no right to them!"

The woman dipped her head and rolled the fabric around the items she held in her lap. When she'd secured her package, she set the bundle beside her.

"Do you often burst into a woman's home without knocking?" she said in a hoarse voice as she raised her head again. She coughed several times, but not as violently as she had before.

Deborah folded her arms firmly across her chest. "Since when does a thief have the right to lecture me on good manners?"

The woman chuckled. "I should think using good manners would be important to a young lady no matter what her situation, if she was raised properly."

Deborah gave her a vicious look. "How I was raised is none of your concern."

She braced her hands on either side of her against the sofa and stood.

Deborah hadn't noticed before, but now, as the woman arose, she found something very familiar about her, familiar yet indefinable.

"I'm afraid I'll have to disagree with you on that count," she said pointedly.

"I beg your pardon?" The woman was making no sense. Perhaps, like Albert, she was not right mentally.

Susan would be terribly disappointed if they were to discover this thief were as mentally disadvantaged as Albert. She'd been looking forward to being able to torture the thief once he, or, rather, she had been caught, and she would never consider torturing anyone who wasn't altogether, mentally speaking.

"I thought I'd hidden well from you," the woman said. "I'm surprised you found me. I didn't want you to find me." Her voice was so raspy it had little femininity in its tone.

"Thieves rarely want to be found," Deborah replied contemptuously.

She chuckled again. "I suppose that is true enough, but I don't see how what thieves may or may not want has anything to do with me."

Deborah gave her a puzzled look. Was the woman so deranged she didn't realize taking other peoples' property was against the law? If she was, Susan was going to be disappointed indeed.

"You, my not-so-good woman, _are_ a thief," Deborah said definitively. "You have been taking things from my sisters and me for weeks." She was pleased she was able to express herself succinctly. The flurry of emotions stirring inside her could easily have destroyed her poise, no matter how satisfying it was to have finally accomplished her mission. "The ring you have on your finger is mine," she said sternly.

The woman held up her adorned hand. "This ring? You claim this ring is yours?"

She lifted her chin. "You know very well that is my ring."

"And how do I know this is your ring, Deborah?"

"You know because you stole it, of course. Somehow you got your hands on it when I removed it to try on a pair of gloves."

"You should be more careful where you put your things, my dear."

"Madam," Deborah said, intending to scold her further.

"Yes?"

Like a bolt of lightening streaking across the sky, realization struck her. "Did you call me Deborah?" she asked the woman.

She nodded. "Yes, I called you Deborah."

She glanced at the bundle of stolen goods lying on the settee. "You know my name from the monogrammed hankies?" Or, perhaps, Deborah speculated, she was the kind of thief who wanted to know _everything_ about her victims--including their names.

The woman released a mournful sigh. "I've known your name longer than you have," she said, her raspy voice taking on a quiet, aching tone.

Her cryptic words only increased Deborah's level of anxiety. What on earth could the woman possibly mean by what she'd said?

Deborah was beginning to wonder whether she should take the woman to the sheriff or escort her to a doctor who specialized in mental upsets.

"If you are trying to disrupt my clear line of thinking by saying things which make no sense, you needn't bother," Deborah said, hoping to appear much more confident than she felt. "I'm a thoughtful, clever woman, and you'll stand no chance trying to match wits with me. Neither will your cunning use of words turn me timid or make me afraid of you."

The lady in black clapped her hands together. "Bravo, Deborah. I've never been more proud of you."

The woman's unhinged reaction to Deborah's stern declarations struck her so profoundly she took a step backward, away from the figure of insanity.

The woman coughed again. When she raised her hand to slip it beneath her veil the bright red stone in the ring glistened in the lamplight, causing Deborah's bravado to return in earnest.

"I'll have my ring back now," she said, walking to the woman and taking her hand.

The woman jerked her hand away. "Not yet! I won't give it up yet. It was mine long before it was yours, Deborah, and I mean to keep it a little while longer." Her voice sounded raspier than ever.

"There you go making no sense again. I tell you, I don't know whether to take you to the sheriff or to a physician."

"You're not taking me anywhere," she declared assertively.

Deborah folded her arms across her chest. "Are you going to give me my ring, or am I going to have to take it from you?"

"I'm going to give it to you, but not yet. I need it a little while longer."

Deborah had had enough of this woman's erratic behavior and her nonsensical words. She untangled her arms and reached for the woman's hand again. "I'm taking my ring now!"

"No!" The woman pulled her hand away. "I told you I'll give you the ring in due time. You know I'll give it to, Deborah. I gave it to you for your thirteenth birthday, and I'll give it to you again soon."

Deborah stumbled backwards a step or two upon hearing the woman's proclamation. "My thirteenth birthday!" Her hand found its way to her heart. "But how could you know that ring was a gift to me for my thirteenth birthday?"

"I know because I gave it to you," she said deliberately.

Deborah shook her head. This was impossible. She began to wonder who of the two of them was more mentally unbalanced. "Who...are...you?"

"You know who I am, Deborah, sweet Deborah whom I named before you were born, whom I cradled in my arms, nursed at my breast. You know me better than anyone, my precious baby girl."

Deborah reached toward the woman who was claiming to be Margaretha Willet. "Mother? No," she whispered just before everything around her went black.

Chapter Eleven

Deborah was lying on the worn brown settee when she opened her eyes.

The veiled woman sat on a stool beside her, holding her hand.

A flood of memories bombarded her mind--some real and logical, others...others were so unfathomable they had to be imaginary, didn't they?

She stared at the woman beside her. Who was she? Had she truly claimed to be Margaretha Willet, her mother?

Impossible! She must have dreamed it.

Deborah tugged her hand away from the woman and wiped her wrist over her forehead. "Who are you?" she asked, her words choked on the heavy emotions evoked by the woman's claim to be Margaretha.

She stood, pushed the stool around the end of the sofa and walked to the other side of the cedar chest. "I'm your mother, Deborah."

She shook her head in unyielding denial. "Mother died in the flood over seven years ago."

The woman coughed and lifted her chin when she'd finished. "Did you find her body?"

Deborah closed her eyes and shook her head. "Molly and Susan and I searched for days," she said, looking at the ghost standing near her. "We buried the bodies we recovered, but there were some whose bodies we never found." She clutched her throat. "We never found Mother, but she couldn't have survived. None of them, no one could have survived. The debris tangled in the flood waters tore and mangled the bodies of everyone it touched. The people we found...they were battered so badly...their skin white...cold." She sat up and dropped her feet to the floor. "I tell you, not one person on that wagon train besides the ten of us survived that flood! There was Angie, of course, but--"

The woman walked to one of the pine rocking chairs in the corner of the parlor and sat down. "I survived, Deborah. Barely, but I did survive." She slipped a hand beneath her veil and appeared to rub her face. "You are right about the debris in the water. It was merciless."

Deborah began to feel lightheaded again when she wondered if it were possible that this woman was indeed her mother.

She stared at the veiled mystery in silence.

Had God spared Margaretha Willet's life? Was she staring at her mother?

She stood and went to her. "If you are Mrs. Frederick Willet, prove it," she demanded.

"I am she. Who but I would know your name was chosen long before you were born? Remember my telling you just a few days before the flood that I'd chosen your name even before I'd met and married your father, that I'd called you Deborah throughout the time you were inside me? I think it was shortly after we'd crossed the border from Iowa into Nebraska when I revealed to you that I'd felt from the beginning of my pregnancy I was going to have a girl, wasn't it?"

Everything she'd said was true, but this woman couldn't be her mother. She just couldn't be.

The woman coughed again. "And who but I and other members of our family would know that I gave you your great grandmother's ruby ring for your thirteenth birthday?"

She couldn't be-- Yet it seemed she was...this woman was the mother she'd thought dead.

Deborah dropped to the floor and put her hands into her mother's lap. "Why didn't you reveal your presence to us? Why have you been living in secret?"

"I didn't want you girls to see me this way, honey." She covered her daughter's hands with hers.

"How long have you been in Hope? What happened to you after the flood? Have you been here for years and years? None of us noticed you until a few weeks ago."

Margaretha caressed Deborah's hands. "My story is a long one, Debbie. If you'll be kind enough to be patient with me, I'd like to start my tale at the beginning."

Deborah felt her heart squeeze when the woman called her Debbie. No one but Margaretha had called her by that name. "Begin wherever you please, and explain fully," she said, trying to squelch her emotions. She wanted to remain clear headed and objective. This woman certainly seemed to be Margaretha Willet, but Deborah had to be sure. "I need to know everything, absolutely _everything_."

"Of course, my dear."

Silence filled the air for several long minutes.

"I know part of what I'm about to tell you only because it was told to me by the man who found and rescued me." She pulled away one of her hands, put it under her veil and raised it to her cheek. She wiped her fingers across her face.

"Two or three days, maybe four, after the flood a man from Philadelphia, Doctor Martin Mendel, found me somewhere down the river. He'd been attending a medical seminar in Omaha and had taken a ride in the country. It was a miracle he happened to come across my barely-alive body. He said I had almost no clothing on, and I was half frozen." She paused and coughed again. "He packed me onto his horse and took me into Omaha. I was so severely injured the doctors in Omaha could do nothing to restore my health, not even bring me to consciousness."

"How horrible..."

"Dr. Mendel was taking the train back to Philadelphia, and he told his colleagues he was sure the doctors would be able to help me there so he took me with him. I regained consciousness just as we were about to leave, but I was in a lot of pain and talking out of my head. Dr. Mendel medicated me, and I slept all the way to Pennsylvania." She waved her hands as though she were clearing the air around her. "I've got to stand. Please, Deborah, let me stand."

Deborah pulled her hands from the woman's lap, stood and moved away from the chair.

The veiled woman immediately got to her feet.

"The following three years are very unclear to me." A spell of coughing overtook her for fifteen to twenty seconds. "The doctors tried one operation after another trying to fix the disfigurements to my face, but I'm just as hideous as I was the day the water-driven debris slashed me."

She stopped and took several deep breaths, coughing after each one. "Nothing could be done to restore my looks, but I eventually grew strong enough to make my living. Though I could never repay all I owed for the medical treatment I'd received, I have continued to give Dr. Mendel's associates regular stipends." She coughed again most vigorously.

Deborah rubbed a hand over her face. She was beginning to believe this woman was her mother, and she wasn't sure she should. "Why didn't you come to us before now?" she asked. "The mother I knew would have returned to us immediately. If you were well enough to earn a living, you were well enough to find your family."

"I couldn't come back. For a long time I didn't know where you were, whether or not you were alive. Besides, I'd counted on Frederick, both of my Fredericks, your father and your brother who was nineteen when we were on the wagon train, to take care of you. I couldn't imagine either of them had been taken by the flood. They were strong, bold men. For my own good, I had to believe all of you who had survived were able to take care of yourselves without me."

"But we weren't! Do you have any idea how horrible life was for us without you or Pa or Frederick, Sebastian or Leon? Why didn't you come back to us? Why did you abandon us?"

"I'm telling you I couldn't come back!" She rubbed her arms as though she was freezing, and she coughed again. "Once I was able to earn a living all my money went for medical expenses and keeping body and soul together. I had nothing to pay an investigator to learn what had become of my family."

"I don't believe you. If you could come back to us now you could have come back to us years ago."

"I could not come before this, I tell you!"

"Then why now? How is it that all of a sudden you could return to us? And why, once you did find us, didn't you tell us you were here? Why, instead, did you terrorize us by stealing our things?"

She grasped her head with the palms of her hands. "Oh, Deborah, Deborah, why did you have to find me?" Her voice sounded even raspier. "I knew it was best for my girls if I didn't show myself to them. I did what I thought best." She coughed again and brought her hands to her sides.

Deborah found herself terribly confused. "Why didn't you want me to find you? Why didn't you want us to be with you? Was it because you didn't want us to see your disfigured face?"

She waved her hands in front of her. "No, no, that's not it. Although there isn't a woman alive who'd want anyone to see her when she looks the way I do now, I had other reasons for staying out of your lives."

"What reasons? Tell me!"

Margaretha wrung her hands. "I understand the horrors of the flood which all of you endured. You girls lost so much...your father, your brothers...me. You'd put me to rest in your hearts as you did your father and brothers. I didn't want to enter your lives now only to be wrenched away from all of you once more."

"What are you talking about? Are you planning to leave Hope?"

She turned away. "There's no easy way to say this," she said, turning back to Deborah again, "so I'm just going to say it." A severe coughing spell overtook her and lasted several minutes. When it finally subsided she lifted her chin a notch. "I'm dying, Deborah. I'm very near the end now, in fact. I learned two months ago I wouldn't outlive the summer. As soon as I heard the news, I sold the little I'd been able to accumulate over the last few years and engaged an investigator to learn whether or not I had any surviving family. He located you girls quickly, and I borrowed more money from Dr. Mendel and took a train here immediately."

She laced her fingers and rested them against the front of her black dress. "As I said, I didn't want to disrupt your lives by making an appearance and cause all of you another bout of grief over having lost your mother a second time, but I couldn't keep myself from finding some way to feel close to you."

She lifted her hands, placed them under her veil and rubbed her face. "I know it was a selfish thing to do, but I desperately needed to have a piece of my girls, a part of the life I had in the past when times were happy."

"So you stole our things?"

"Yes, I did. I took your things...my things. I needed them. They brought me the only comfort I've had in over seven years."

Deborah could scarcely believe her ears. "Your comfort...that's all you could think about? Do you have any idea the kind of pain we've been suffering over having our things stolen?"

Margaretha turned away. "If what I did caused you pain, I'm sorry."

Deborah's jaw hardened and anger welled in her heart. "You're sorry?" She clenched her teeth. "You're sorry?"

"I didn't want to hurt you, not any of you. And I didn't, really. Surely you don't begrudge me comfort now when I'm close to the end of my life, do you?"

Deborah waved away her mother's words as though she were batting at an annoying bee. "This is too much, it's all too much." She gave her mother a stern, biting look. "In seven years' time you couldn't afford to hire someone to find your family, and then, when it suited you, you suddenly, quite miraculously are able to find us?"

"I couldn't look for you before now. I tell you, it was facing my demise which prompted me to find you. I had to see you all again before I die."

Deborah's jaw grew even harder. "If you could find us now in 1895, you could have found us years ago."

"I tell you, I couldn't."

Deborah tossed an angry hand in her direction. "You abandoned us! You left me to be father, mother, sister and caretaker to Susan, Bonnie and Becky. I lost my youth taking on responsibilities no girl should have to endure. I've given my life to nurture and support my blood sisters, my adopted sisters and Molly. You've cost me my dreams, my hopes, my heart!"

"I didn't, Deborah, please, you've got to understand. I did the best I could."

"You did what you wanted. You shirked your responsibilities, and I took them upon myself." She wiped tears from her cheeks. "Do you have any idea how much I wish I could relinquish my responsibilities?"

"Deborah--" She stepped closer to her.

"No, Mother, don't come near me," she said. "I don't want you to touch me. I don't need anything else from you. This final lesson, your teaching me by your actions that you never loved me, that you'd rather do as you please than show your love by taking up your responsibilities and relieving me of mine, has made everything clear as fine crystal to me."

"Deborah, you're misconstruing everything I've said."

"You don't love us. You left us to fend for ourselves, and, now, that's exactly what we're going to continue to do--live our lives without you." She rushed to the door, opened it, and then changed her mind about leaving.

She left the open door, went straight to the settee and picked up the bundle of stolen goods. Seeing a wooden basket lined with a blue calico cloth in the open cedar chest, she took hold of it, dumped the things belonging to her and her sisters into it and placed its handle over her arm. She reached inside the chest one more time intending to retrieve the parasol which had been stolen from Bonnie, but she didn't pick it up.

"I'll take my ring now," she said, holding a hand toward her mother. "And I'll be back for the larger items another time." She gave Margaretha a smug look. "Maybe I'll come in and steal them while you're gone so you can have a taste of what it feels like to have someone encroach on your privacy."

"Deborah, I understand you're upset," Margaretha said, slipping the ring from her finger and handing it to her daughter. "You have every right to be upset." She coughed again.

"I wish you'd never come back." She put her ring in the basket and wiped away the annoying tears which insisted on trailing down her cheeks. "I wish to high heaven you'd never come back!"

"Deborah! Forgive me!"

When she got to the door the most horrible thought of all stopped her cold.

She turned and looked at Margaretha, her heart filled with even more contempt and misery.

"We never found his body either," she said, her heart turning as cold as ice.

"Whose?"

"You were with him all this time, weren't you? The entire explanation you've exposited to me is a lie. You've been with Howard Wilson. You ran off with him instead of staying with your family." Sickness filled her mouth. She had no doubt she was about to vomit out all the pain, disgust and horror she'd experienced over the last seven years.

"Deborah! How can you say anything so vicious?" She coughed. "How can you even think it?"

She whirled away from her mother and bolted from the little house.

"Deborah, stop! Please, forgive me!"

Ignoring her mother's pleas for forgiveness, refusing to heed her wailing entreaties that she not tell her sisters of her return, Deborah ran several dozen yards through the alley until she could no longer hold back the contents of her stomach.

When she'd finished her retching, the spilling of years and years of sickness, she went to a nearby backyard well, set down her basket and drew out water. She thoroughly rinsed her mouth and washed her face.

Once her head cleared and her stomach settled, she picked up her basket and made her way down the alley, following the dark, personless lane to the main road. Her mind being a mush of anger, confusion and disbelief, she traveled the route leading home by instinct more than by intellect.

If she hadn't been looking down as she slogged along the cobblestone causeway, she wouldn't have run into him--but she did.

He was as big as a tree, looking down at her through the hazy moonlight, his eyes ominous, worrisome, foreboding.

Dear heaven, where had he come from--and what did he want?

Chapter Twelve

"What are you doing here?" Deborah asked. "Why haven't you gone home?"

"You can't be serious," Steven said. "I've been looking for you everywhere. I've nearly worn out my knees trying to find you."

She glanced down at his legs and up at him. "You should be at home resting. I don't need your injured knees on my conscience too."

"What are you talking about?"

She stepped around him. "I'm going home. I suggest you do the same."

He gripped her arm firmly. "Are those your stolen things?" he asked, inclining his head toward the basket she carried on her arm. "Did the veiled woman have them?"

"The veiled woman..." she said, looking away. She breathed in the chill of evening air, hoping to calm her heart and her thoughts before she said anything more.

"The veiled woman?" She set down the basket and pulled away from Steven's grip. She took a step back and rubbed her arms vigorously. "Yes, Steven," she said, looking up at him, "the veiled woman took our things, and I took them back. Some of them. I'll get the rest later." She rubbed her arms again. She wasn't cold, but she began to shiver anyway.

Steven immediately dropped his cane and took her into his arms. "You're cold, my sweet," he said soothingly.

She struggled against his hold. "Let me go...please," she said as tears began to return, "let me go."

Instead of releasing her, he tightened his hold on her. "I'll do no such thing. I'm not going to let you suffer without offering you comfort. Not now, not ever!" He affectionately kissed the top of her head.

For a moment, she wanted to give in. She wanted to let him take away her pain, comfort her, hold her, caress and kiss her as he'd done so masterfully earlier. She'd never been more vulnerable, and giving in to him would have been easier than falling asleep after a fifteen-hour work day.

But she had no intention of relenting. She'd told him clearly how she felt, and she'd meant what she'd said.

"Steven, let me go," she commanded as she struggled against his hold on her. "Don't comfort me; don't tell me you love me. Leave me. Please, please leave me. I don't want to be loved. I can't stand the pain of it or the imprisonment of it. I don't want the responsibility of it. I want nothing to do with love--not ever!"

"Deborah, stop fighting me, and stop talking nonsense." He released her, stepped back and grasped her forearms. "Look at me," he demanded.

She turned her teary-eyed gaze on him and tightened her jaw. "I'm looking at you."

He let go of her and tenderly pushed a lock of hair from her forehead. "I'm going to continue to love you no matter what you say. You can count on it."

He touched his finger to her chin. "I don't know what inspired your unusual ideas about love, but I will tell you this: love is tenderness and kindness. It's lifting someone up when she's down. My love comes with comforting arms and peaceful words. My love for you will never require anything from you which you are not fully willing to give."

He stroked his fingers along her jaw line. "Do you believe me, Deborah?"

She wanted to believe him, wanted it more than she wanted her next breath.

She closed her eyes and wished she had the courage to believe him.

Three heartbeats later, he engulfed her in his arms and kissed her sweetly, so very, very sweetly.

He drew away from her much sooner than she'd have liked.

"Deborah, why did the veiled woman take your things?" he asked, taking her hand.

She sighed mournfully. "Oh, Steven, I hardly know how to begin to tell you what happened."

He soothed the palm of her hand with the gentle caress of his thumb. "What did the woman have to say when you confronted her?"

She didn't even want to remember what had happened, let alone discuss it.

"I followed her." She said the words slowly, deliberately. Maybe she didn't want to discuss it, but perhaps she needed to talk to someone...anyone...to Steven.

"I crept behind her in secret, hoping she'd lead me to her hoard of our goods, and that's exactly what she did."

"I'm glad you were successful at catching her with the stolen goods," he said, his words laced with encouragement and pride. "Tell me more."

"I watched her go inside her home, a tiny, dreadful shack it is, and it's in dire need of repairs. I waited a few minutes then went to the front window and peered into the house."

"Did you see your stolen things right away?"

"None of our property was readily visible," she said, "but it wasn't long before the woman pulled a few items from a cedar chest in her parlor and began to fondle them. I wasn't sure if the first goods she examined were ours, but once I saw Great Grandmother Willet's ring--" she trembled as she remembered what had happened after that. "When I saw the ring, I knew it was my ring, and I figured the other things were likely ours too. I immediately charged through her door and into her parlor."

"You did?" he asked, fascination gleaming in his eyes.

"I did."

"What happened next?"

She cast her gaze downward. "The veiled woman scolded me for not knocking, and then she began to speak to me in the most cryptic manner," she said, looking at him again.

She pulled her hand free of his grasp, turned and took several steps away from him before turning back. "I was in the house with her, talking with her, interacting with her for a good many minutes, but I never recognized her."

"You didn't recognize her?" he asked, frowning at her. "Do you mean when you saw her without the veil?"

She threw her hands into the air. "I never saw her without her veil. She didn't take it off. Still, I should have known her, and I didn't."

He gave her a perplexed look. "Why should you have known her? And why was she stealing your things?"

Deborah wrapped her arms around herself. She breathed in and out, in and out, hoping the brisk, crisp night air would help her to think clearly.

"There is no way to gently tell you the awful truth I discovered tonight," she said fretfully. She stepped closer to him and looked directly into his eyes. "I...the veiled woman is..."

She couldn't say it.

"Go ahead, Deborah," he urged in his delightfully gentle voice.

"The woman who stole our things..." She took another deep breath. "The veiled woman is our mother, Margaretha Willet." There, she'd said it. The horrible, awful truth was out.

He picked up his cane and leaned on it, as though he were bracing himself in reaction to the far-fetched truth she'd just revealed. "I beg your pardon?" It was obvious he didn't believe what she'd said.

"Our mother came to town a few weeks ago after spending the last seven years in Philadelphia. She claims her doctors recently told her she won't live much longer." The words of explanation came much easier now, and Deborah was relieved she could unburden herself to Steven.

"Upon hearing her fateful news she decided she wanted to be near her daughters, but she didn't want to insert herself into our lives because she didn't want us to suffer the pain of losing her all over again. So," she said on a sigh, "she decided to snatch up as many of our precious belongings as she could in order to feel close to us by possessing our things."

Steven wiped a hand over his face. "Either the woman is an accomplished liar, or she is completely confounded," he said confidently. "Her story is thoroughly unbelievable since your mother died years ago."

Deborah folded her arms. "We _presumed_ she was dead when we didn't find her body. We've presumed for years every person whose body we were unable to recover was dead. What else could we think when we saw the aftermath of the powerful, cruel, destructive flood? But she isn't dead, Steven. She's here in Hope, less than a mile from where we're standing right now."

"Deborah," he said pointedly, "if your mother had survived the flood she'd have revealed herself to you years ago. This woman is a charlatan! You caught her with your things, and she, obviously knowing something about the history of your family, made up an incredible story to get herself out of a bad situation. I think we should go straight to Sheriff Feist and have the woman arrested before she scurries out of town with the remaining treasure she's stolen from you." He seemed to be every bit as angry as she felt, albeit for different reasons.

She ground her teeth. "Ooh, how I wish she were a charlatan! But she isn't, Steven. She really is our mother."

"I don't believe it," he said.

She bit her lip and nodded crookedly. "It's true."

He gave her a quizzical look. "You're absolutely convinced?"

"Yes, I am."

"But how?"

"She knew things only my mother would know."

"Such as?" he asked, raising a brow.

"She knew Great Grandmother Willet's ring was a gift to me on my thirteenth birthday. She was wearing the ring when I confronted her, and she claimed it was hers long before it was mine. And it was."

"That's quite astonishing, but those facts could have been obtained by a clever investigator, couldn't have they?"

"Yes, of course. Someone could have at some point overheard a conversation or been a participant in a conversation about the ring. People do notice it and ask me about it from time to time."

"Then that's how she knew about the ring," Steven said.

"No, it isn't," Deborah said unequivocally. "Based on other things I learned during our encounter, I know without doubt she knew the history of my ring because she was a part of it."

"But how? How can you be certain this woman is your mother?"

Deborah wiped her wrist over her forehead. "She told me my name had been chosen for me long before I was born, even before she married my father. This fact my mother had revealed to me for the first time during an intimate discussion we had just a few days before the flood. No one, and I mean _no one_ , but my mother and I know about that conversation. I've never told anyone about it."

"Oh, Deborah," he said, seeming to be quite dumbfound.

She sighed soulfully. "Our mother is here in Hope. I wish she weren't, but she is."

In the feeble light of the moon she watched a look of confusion cover his face. "You're certain this woman is your mother..."

"I am," she said resolutely.

He shifted his cane from one hand to the other and adjusted his stance. "Not more than two hours ago you told me you'd give anything to have ten minutes more with your mother...why...why do you now say you wish she weren't here? Are you so angry with her for stealing from you, with her deception, that you can forget the love you once had for her?"

"Forget her love?" she repeated.

She blew out a breath of exasperation and knotted her fingers together. "I...I never said I wanted to see her...because I needed to tell her I loved her."

He touched her chin, and she looked at him. "Then why did you want to see her again a little while ago and now you don't?"

Deborah untangled her fingers and dropped her hands to her sides. "When we talked about her earlier, you assumed I had sentimental reasons for wanting to see her again, and I saw no point in telling you otherwise. The real reason I wanted to see her once more was so I could ask her--"

No, she wasn't going to tell him about her suspicions regarding her mother's relationship with Mr. Wilson. It was the uncertainty of that relationship which had caused her to tell Steven earlier that she'd wanted more time with Margaretha. She'd wanted to hear from her mother's own lips that what she'd seen the night before the flood had been nothing more than a friendly embrace of comfort.

But was it?

No, she absolutely could not discuss her mother's possible infidelity. Not now. No!

"I had my reasons for wanting to see her again, but, now that I know she abandoned her children, that she didn't even bother to find out whether or not her family had survived the flood, that she, knowing it would cause us anguish, stole precious belongings from us--"

She clenched her fists. "Who would want to have anything to do with a woman like that?"

Her anger with her mother returned in full force.

Steven took one of her hands and loosened her fingers. "I understand your wrath, Deborah, and, believe me, I'm certain it's justified, based on what you've told me." He rubbed his thumb against her palm. "But she is your mother, and it sounds like she won't be with you long, if her health is poor. Perhaps you should forget your anger and look upon her reappearance as a miracle. Be grateful you have her again, and use this time with her to renew the love you once had for her--no matter what harm she might have caused you heretofore."

She pulled away from his grasp and folded her arms. "I have every right to be livid, and I have no intention of relinquishing my rage. That woman, whom I cherished, left me, her first-born daughter, to face the sheer horror of surviving the flood--the losses, the destruction, the corpses--dear, God, those pale white, lifeless faces. Father's, Frederick's, Sebastian's and little Leon's faces, all of them distorted, death-stricken, practically inhuman. Their bodies hard as stones, heavy, burdensome remains Susan and I had to bury before Becky and Bonnie could see them in their macabre state."

Her stomach lurched, and the taste of bile filled her mouth.

"Even worse than having to bury the people we loved was having to carry on with life as though we had a reason to live." She caressed her throat with her fingers, hoping to hold down the contents of her stomach. "I couldn't let my sisters, not any of the girls, see me as anything less than a pillar of granite. I accepted the yoke of responsibility for the people I loved, and I became a mother, father, guardian at the age of fifteen."

She gave Steven a sharp look. "She could have spared me from my scourge, but she didn't even bother to find out whether or not I was alive." She thought about the possibility of her mother being with Howard Wilson instead of being with her daughters. Dear heaven, had she been with him all this time?

Steven took her arm. "We're not far from home. Let me take you there."

Deborah released a sigh, hoping the sick feeling in her mouth would leave with the air she expelled.

It didn't.

She reached for the basket she'd set on the cobblestone walkway and picked it up. "Yes, I need to go home." She was suddenly so tired she wasn't sure she could walk the final block to her house.

But she did. With Steven's help.

When they entered the yard, Bonnie came up to them immediately.

"Where have you been? I've been searching frantically for you. I was worried sick when I went to relieve you of your guard duties and I couldn't find you." She suddenly stopped carrying on and eyed the basket Deborah held. "What's that?" she asked, looking closely at the things inside the woven vessel. "Are those our stolen goods?"

Deborah pushed the basket toward her. "Some of them."

"These _are_ our stolen goods!" she said when she fingered through the vessel's contents.

"Yes, they are."

She looked up at Deborah with joy in her eyes.

"Where did you find our things?"

Chapter Thirteen

"Bonnie," Deborah said, "let's go inside."

"I'm going to go home," Steven said, pulling his watch from his waistcoat pocket and glancing at it. "I can catch the last streetcar if I hurry to the nearest stop." He returned his watch to its pouch.

Deborah looked up at him. "Do you need any help getting there?"

"No," he said, placing his hand on her arm. "I'll be fine." He drew back his hand and glanced at Bonnie. "Please give my regards to your sisters, my dear."

"Of course, but I'll have to squeeze in your regards among an awful lot of chatter," she said, grinning at him. "Everyone will be thrilled to have our things back."

He smiled at her warmly. "I'm sure they will."

Bonnie and Deborah told Steven goodnight and watched him hobble over the cobblestone walkway and up Lincoln Avenue.

"Do you think he's alright?" Bonnie asked. "Becky told me he was walking pretty well on his own, but he seems to be having a great deal of difficulty."

She'd noticed him struggling too. "He's a very capable man. He'll be fine, I'm sure." Her brave assurances to Bonnie did little to quell her real feelings. Guilt pooled in Deborah's belly each time she saw him falter. He was likely in a great deal of pain, and it was partly her fault. He'd been looking for her, wanting to help her. If he hadn't had to spend significant time on his feet searching for her, he'd be suffering a lot less now.

Once Steven turned the corner from Lincoln Avenue onto White Street Bonnie turned away from him and looked at Deborah.

"He seems to be doing well enough," she said. "Let's go inside and assemble in the parlor before Susan and Becky fall asleep. It's probably best if you tell us all at once how you came to rescue our stolen goods from the thieves."

Deborah nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I don't want to have to tell my tale more than once," she said, putting her free arm around Bonnie's shoulders and taking her inside.

Once they were in the house Deborah went to the parlor and Bonnie went to get Susan and Becky.

Deborah found Molly, dressed in black as she always was, sitting in the dark green chair near the window with the velvet evergreen draperies reading a book. "I thought you were outside standing guard in case the thief came by again," Molly said, removing her reading glasses and looking up at her.

Deborah walked closer to her. "There's no need to keep watch any longer," she said tentatively. "I've discovered who the thief is, and I've retrieved many of the things which were taken."

Molly bolted to her feet. "You have? Why, darlin' that's wonderful!" She set her book and her glasses on the table next to the chair.

"Yes...I suppose it is."

She raised an auburn brow, the way she did when she was concerned about one of the girls. "You sound as though you're not sure you're pleased to have solved your mystery."

Deborah set her basket on the table next to Molly's book and glasses. "Naturally, I'm terribly content to have recovered our stolen goods, but...you see..." She couldn't even look at Molly while speaking to her.

Molly had lost every member of her family in the flood. All of the bodies of her loved ones were recovered except little Annie's.

Ah, Annie...Molly worshiped the child. At eight years old, the little girl with hair as red as Molly's and a temperament ten times as feisty had wormed her way into the hearts of everyone on the wagon train.

For years Molly had prayed her sweet baby girl had somehow survived, that she'd been found and taken in by kind folks and raised in a good Christian home. She'd asked God every day of her life to someday, somehow, lead her to her Annie.

How could Deborah tell Molly it was Margaretha who'd returned from the dead instead of Annie, and that she wished she hadn't? Oh, how she wished it had been Annie she'd found tonight instead of her mother. How happy Molly would be!

Her stomach began to churn more fiercely than ever.

"Darlin'," Molly said, breaking the awkward silence which had settled upon them, "you seem a bit reluctant to explain how you came upon the stolen goods."

"I'm sorry, Molly. I don't mean to be evasive. Bonnie went to get Susan and Becky, and, as soon as they arrive, I'll give the details of what happened tonight to all four of you."

"Surely, I can hardly wait to hear what has transpired," Molly said enthusiastically in her Irish intonation.

A cacophony of young female voices sounded outside the parlor.

Momentarily, Susan, Becky and Bonnie entered the room.

"Bonnie says you've recovered some of our stolen goods," Becky said. She was wearing her light blue cotton bed clothes. Her soft, brown hair hung loosely down her back.

Deborah inclined her head toward the basket on the table. "I brought what I could. I'll go back for the rest tomorrow or the next day."

All three girls went immediately to the basket.

"Our hankies!" Bonnie said.

"My picture of Pa," Susan said sweetly. She kissed the worn paper photo and held it to her heart. "I've missed you, Pa, missed you more than practically anything except Ma."

Deborah felt her heart add several extra thumps when Susan mentioned their mother.

"Our cameo," Becky said, pulling the brooch from the basket. She pressed it to her cheek. "Having this back is almost like having a piece of Ma with us again."

Deborah felt tears welling in her eyes. She hadn't thought the girls would be this emotional merely handling their formerly missing items. She'd been so focused on just how she was going to tell them about their mother, she hadn't given any thought at all to how her sisters would react to the return of their things.

Susan, who, like Becky, was wearing light cotton night clothes, gently took the rings and mirror from the basket. Her sweet cheeks were as red as cherries when she looked at Deborah and smiled. "Thank you for bringing back my ring. I'm glad you found your ring and your mirror too."

Bonnie held up the china cup. "It's so delicate," she said, fingering the beautiful rose pattern. "Just like Ma. She was always gentle and delicate with us."

"I miss her," Becky sighed. She kissed the cameo. "At least we have back the things which belonged to her."

"I think that's what angered me the most about having our things taken away," Susan said, pushing a handful of loose auburn hair away from her face. "These things, the ones which had belonged to Ma, they were our only connection to her. Losing them was practically like losing her all over again."

Molly went to Susan and put her arm around her shoulders. "A girl's connection to her mother is mightily important. Having your mum's things again will be a great comfort to you, I'm sure."

Deborah took a step closer to Susan and Molly. "You are our mother now, Molly. You've been a mother to us for more than seven years, and we are terribly, terribly grateful for everything you've done for us."

"We certainly are!" Susan exclaimed.

"Most assuredly," Bonnie said sweetly.

Each of the girls kissed Molly's cheeks.

"I don't know what we'd have done without our sweet, sweet Molly," Becky said.

"Ah, girls," Molly said, "you're as precious as water to a man in the desert to be this kind to me. It's true I've done the best I could, but I never intended to take the place of your mother. No one can replace a girl's mother."

Molly gave Deborah one of her lighthearted smiles. "Besides, I'm much too young to be the real mother of a girl like you who's in her twenties already."

Deborah issued little more than a smidgen of a titter to her in response. It seemed the prospect of telling these precious ladies what she must tell them was getting more difficult to face by the moment.

"I've always thought of you as a big sister," Susan said to Molly a little sardonically.

"She sure has," Becky said. "If she considered you a sister rather than a mother, Molly, she felt less compelled to follow your orders."

"And just when did Miss Susan _ever_ follow my orders?" Molly said in her warm way.

A corner of Susan's mouth lifted. "I do tend to do what I darn well please a good deal of the time."

"That you do, darlin'" Molly said.

"And right now," Susan said, returning the things in her hands to the basket, "I've got something very specific I'd like to do." She looked at Deborah.

"And what is that, Sue?" Deborah asked.

She lifted her chin and folded her arms. "I'd like to find out who our thief is so I can go upstairs, put on my clothes and set about implementing a plan of torture to be meted out to the black-hearted soul."

"Susan!" Molly exclaimed. "If you were a boy, I'd swat your hands for saying such a thing. Then I'd take a cake of soap to your mouth. We'll not be torturing anybody. We'll let the law handle the villainous criminal."

"No," Deborah said. "We're not going to turn the thief over to the law."

"What do you mean?" Bonnie asked.

"We've got to tell Sheriff Feist we've found the thief," Becky said. "He and his deputies have been searching for him."

"Naturally, we'll let the sheriff know we've found the thief, but we'll not press charges," Deborah said firmly.

"That's right," Susan said. She looked at Molly. "Whether you think it is proper or not, ma'am, if Deborah says we're not to turn the thief over to the law then we'll impose our own punishment, isn't that right?" she asked, looking at Deborah.

Deborah tugged off the jacket she was wearing. She'd forgotten she was wearing it until now when she realized she was intensely warm. She laid it on the arm of the chair in which Molly had been sitting.

"Susan, Bonnie, Becky, Molly," Deborah said gently, "please, all of you, sit down--on the sofa. I want you together, close together while I tell you all about what happened tonight."

The four of them ambled to the long brown and green plaid sofa. All but Bonnie sat immediately.

Bonnie wriggled out of the black jacket she'd no doubt put on over the gold and black dress she'd worn to the dance in anticipation of fulfilling her chilly night guard duties. She laid the jacket over the arm of the couch and sat down next to Becky.

Deborah stood before them and looked from one woman to the next, cogitating how she was going to break the news she'd learned a short time ago.

"Who took our things?" Bonnie asked.

Deborah didn't respond. She couldn't.

Weakness overtook her, and she feared she'd faint just as she had earlier when she was with her mother, as she nearly had when Steven had kissed her into light headedness.

Before she lost consciousness, she made her way to the small dark green upholstered chair opposite the sofa.

"Are you alright?" Molly asked. "You look terribly pale."

Deborah plopped into the chair and laid back her head. "I'll be fine in a minute."

She rested several moments while the others remained silent.

When the faint feelings left her, she rubbed her face, sat up straight and placed her hands in her lap.

"Well?" Susan said. "Now do you feel up to telling us what happened tonight?"

Deborah nodded weakly. "Alright. I'm ready to explain everything."

Chapter Fourteen

"Just as I've done for the last eight nights," Deborah said, "I took my place in the circle of lilac bushes and watched the house. Things were as quiet as usual until dark." She stopped and swallowed hard when she remembered what had happened after dark...with Steven. Her cheeks warmed as she recalled the sweetness of his hands on her body, the excitement of his lips kissing hers.

She twisted her finger in a strand of hair. "It had been dark for about an hour when I saw the veiled woman standing on the porch."

"The veiled woman! I knew it was her!" Susan exclaimed.

"What veiled woman?" Molly asked.

"Haven't you noticed her?" Bonnie said.

"We've seen her at a few of the social gatherings over the last few weeks," Becky explained. "It seemed as though she was often around when some of our things turned up missing."

"Please, ladies, it will be much easier for me to describe what happened tonight if you refrain from interrupting," Deborah said firmly.

"One more question," Bonnie said meekly.

Deborah tipped her head toward her.

"Was the woman trying to enter the house when you saw her, or was she attempting to leave it?"

She tugged at the neckline of her shirtwaist. "She was, ah, leaving..."

"Why on earth didn't you see her go _into_ the house?" Susan asked.

"Well, I, ah..." She was certain her cheeks were filling with the red glow of embarrassment as every nerve ending in her body remembered precisely why she'd not seen the woman enter their home.

She pushed several strands of hair from her face. "What difference does it make why I didn't see her enter the house? I saw her come out, and, when I did, I followed her."

"Oh, my," Bonnie said.

"Did she see you?" Molly asked.

Deborah shook her head. "I kept my distance, and, when it was necessary, I hid behind trees, bushes and fences. I wanted to follow her in secret."

"That was a good idea," Susan said. "I bet she led you straight to her house and to our things, didn't she?"

"Yes, she did."

"Does she live far from here?" Becky asked. "Is her home as mysterious as the woman is?"

"What does she look like without her veil?" Bonnie asked.

Deborah rose from her chair and walked to the window. "She did indeed lead me to the place where she lives." She turned round and looked at Becky. "Her home's not far from here and there's nothing mysterious about it. It's little more than a shack, really. It needs repair almost as badly as did the first house we lived in after the flood."

"Regarding her veil," she said, looking at Bonnie, "I don't know what she looks like without it."

"You mean you didn't rip it off of her the moment you had the opportunity?" Susan asked.

"Susan! Of course, she didn't," Molly said. "Your sister's a lady. She wouldn't abuse anyone, not even a criminal."

Deborah took a breath, hoping to gain courage from the sweet family air she inhaled. "During the course of our conversation, the woman told me she'd become horribly disfigured a few years ago, and that is why she never removes her veil."

"Disfigured...how awful," Bonnie said gently.

"If she's disfigured," Susan said, a tone of empathy in her voice, "then she's already been tortured. She's probably tortured every day of her life, every time she looks in a mirror, every time a stranger scorns her, every time she remembers the beauty she had before the awful disfigurement occurred." With each phrase her tone had filled with more and more compassion.

Deborah wiped a hand over her face. She hadn't considered the things Susan had articulated so adroitly.

For the first time since she'd discovered the veiled woman was her mother, Deborah felt a pang of sorrow for her.

"When I reached her home, I didn't knock on the door. Instead, I covertly watched from outside the window on her porch. I had a perfect view of the parlor from there. I waited patiently until I saw her begin to handle the items she'd stolen from us. As soon as I was completely certain the things I saw her fondling were ours, I burst in the door."

"Oh!" Becky said. "How thrilling!"

"Did you grab our things from her immediately?" Susan asked.

Deborah began to feel weak again. She returned to her chair and sat down.

The moment of truth, the gut-wrenching, horrible, unbelievable moment of truth had arrived, and she could not delay the revelation of her shocking news a second longer.

"Molly, sweet sisters, please, don't say another word until I've told you the awful facts I must reveal." A tear trickled down her cheek, and she wiped it away.

The women sat attentively without saying a word.

Deborah stared at them, unable to speak for several minutes.

"Go ahead, darlin'" Molly said compassionately. "Tell us what needs to be said. We'll not interrupt until you've finished."

More tears made their way down Deborah's cheeks. Her heart broke for Molly as she wished again it was Annie whom she'd found alive tonight instead of Margaretha.

"I'm not going to give anymore details regarding what happened from one moment to the next. None of the specifics matter now. Only one truth bears saying, and I don't know how to reveal it to you." She raised her face to heaven and closed her eyes. "Dear God, I don't know how to tell them."

Molly went to her immediately, crouched down beside her and took her into her arms.

Deborah sobbed into Molly's shoulder for several minutes before she was able to get her weeping under control.

"Are you alright now, darlin'?" Molly asked, pulling back.

Deborah looked at her and saw the love of a mother in her eyes, the love she'd seen in Margaretha's eyes every day of her childhood until the flood had destroyed her happy life.

"I'm sorry for blubbering like a child, Molly." She stood and looked at her sisters who were now huddled together holding each others' hands. Deborah's crying and carrying on had obviously upset them.

Molly stood next to her. "No need to apologize, darlin'. You've had a terribly trying experience tonight. Take all the time you need to tell us what you want us to know. We'll all be as patient as saints."

Deborah gave her head a crooked shake. "There's no need for further patience on your part, not from any of you," she said, looking from Molly to each of her sisters. She took Molly's hand and held it firmly. "Please, brace yourselves for inconceivable news."

She squeezed Molly's hand. It looked like her sisters were gripping each others' hands more firmly too.

"The veiled woman wanted to possess our things because they held great significance to her."

The women remained silent.

"Our hankies, rings...she had a special reason for stealing everything she took from us. You see...she wanted a connection to us...but she didn't want to come to us directly."

Deborah thanked God for helping her to find a way to ease into the shocking news she was about to share.

"The veiled woman...the lady who took our things...she's...she's Margaretha Willet..."

Stone cold silence filled the room for what seemed like several minutes, though Deborah was certain it couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds.

"No! It isn't possible!" Susan said.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Molly exclaimed. "If it's true, it's a miracle straight from God himself!"

Deborah saw tears fall from Bonnie's eyes, and Becky took her into her arms.

"It's true," Deborah said.

"But, how do you know if you didn't see her face?" Becky asked.

Deborah squeezed her eyes shut. "I know, Becky. I know well enough," she said, opening her eyes, "to prove it to all of you, and that is exactly what I intend to do. Once you hear everything I have to say, it'll be up to you to decide what you want to do, whether or not you want to see her.

"As for me," Deborah said resolutely, "I have no intention of having anything to do with her."

Chapter Fifteen

Thoughts of her mother and Steven had constantly bombarded Deborah's conscious, semiconscious and unconscious mind throughout the night. The little sleep she'd had was fitful at best.

She rose late, nearly eight thirty it was, and thanked God it was Sunday. This week, Sunday was the one day she did not have to report to her job.

She slipped into the kitchen and forced herself to eat a slice of bread and butter with the half cup of coffee she managed to drink. Though the smell of freshly brewed coffee usually invigorated her, this morning the odor made her sick. She wanted nothing to do with food or drink, yet she possessed enough common sense, despite her foggy thoughts, to know she needed nourishment if she was going to be able to face the trying day which lay ahead of her.

The instant she'd finished her meager breakfast in the sunny, bright white, empty kitchen, she went into the yard. Fresh air and the smell of newly blossoming roses filled her senses.

She walked to the rose garden and sat on one of the two black iron benches there. She fingered the lace trim on her short-sleeved tan shirtwaist, the one she always wore with her brown and tan calico skirt.

Though thoughts of Margaretha and her sisters should have taken command of her musings, they didn't. Instead she found herself gazing at the lilac bushes across the yard, on the other side of the property, thinking of Steven.

She touched her lips and remembered his sensual kisses. She ran her hand along her side over her belly and up her ribs. He'd touch her in all these places, caressed her seductively, hungrily, intimately.

She closed her eyes and remembered the thrilling sensations his attentive fondling had aroused inside her. He'd petted and kissed her into a state of wanton, needful desire so powerful she thought she'd lost herself completely to him.

How could such a lack of control overpower her as it had? Not one soul who breathed was more self-disciplined than she.

Yet, in Steven's hands, she'd been helpless to resist the innate, all-consuming, stimulation his ministrations produced in her.

Her heart had silently begged him to continue touching her in new places, physically and spiritually, and he, expertly reading her thoughts, obliged her in every way. He kissed, caressed and fondled until Deborah became a mass of convulsing flesh filled with only one thought--she needed Steven more than she'd ever needed anything in her life.

Air, sunshine, rain, warm fireplaces, hot bowls of soup, majestic mountains, green valleys, crisp autumn mornings, Christmas snows, Easter flowers--she neither needed nor wanted any of these things if she no longer had Steven's tender caress, his sweet kiss, his strong, supportive hands and loving soul.

He'd captured her heart spiritually just as skillfully as he'd manipulated her body physically.

She opened her eyes and gazed at the beautiful red and yellow roses beside her. She inhaled their intoxicating scent, hoping it would chase away her inappropriate thoughts about Steven.

Somehow, she had to make her heart realize what the most logical part of her mind already understood: she would never have Steven. She'd never allow any man into her life. She had no room for anyone else. Her duties to her sisters prohibited her from adding any more responsibilities, and, with love--old love and new--always came responsibilities.

The fragrance of roses filled her next breath. Two more sweet breaths and Deborah at last found the strength to put thoughts of Steven out of her mind. It was time to focus on her sisters.

Their reactions to learning about Margaretha, once they were convinced the veiled woman was she, had ranged from anger to elation.

"Deborah?"

Startled by the sound of her name, she shifted her gaze from the roses to the person who'd called to her.

She stood as soon as she set eyes on Steven. He, as usual, was wearing a dark suit and starched white shirt, looking as handsome and irresistible as ever.

"What are you doing here?" She'd finally been able to put him out of her mind, and now--

He gave her a half grin. "I could say I am here on business. After all, you have applied to the bank for a loan so you could open your dressmaking shop, but that would be a lie. The paperwork is still waiting to be processed."

She'd almost forgotten about her business aspirations due to the goings on of the last twenty-four hours.

He reached toward her and touched her cheek. "My reason for being here is highly personal."

"Is it?" she said, her voice quivering.

His gentle fingers caressed her cheek. "You have no idea how difficult it was for me to leave you last night. More than anything in the world I wanted to stand by you, to offer you support while you told your sisters about their mother."

She looked away. She was afraid if she continued to gaze into his eyes he'd touch her again, deep inside, overwhelm her with his tenderness and make her weak of heart once more.

"It's probably best if you go home, Steven. As you might guess, I'm going to be very busy today. I'll be calling the girls together to discuss Margaretha. We blood sisters need to determine how we're going to handle the situation, and our other sisters deserve to know Mother's alive. Some of them had developed a close relationship with her on our journey, and they may want to pay their respects to her."

He placed his hand on her shoulder, and Deborah pulled away, focusing once again on the lovely flowers nearby.

"I understand you've got some gut-wrenching decisions to make, my sweet." He touched her shoulder again, wrapped his hand around it and pressured her to turn toward him. "Please, let me help. Let me talk to the girls, or let me stand beside you mute as a stone column while you tend to your difficult discussions. Let me be your crutch or your voice. Please, let me help in whatever way I can."

His kindness was her undoing. Tears began to well in her eyes.

She looked down, her gaze falling to his cane. Immediately she realized he must be in a great deal of pain. The streetcars didn't run on Sunday. He must have walked all the way from his home just to be with her.

"Won't you sit down?" she asked, waving her hand toward the bench.

"Thank you," he said.

He stepped in front of the bench and waited to sit until she did.

"Would you like to tell me how your sisters reacted last evening after you told them about your mother?" he said when he'd made himself comfortable next to her.

She sighed soulfully. "Susan was angry, very angry. She wanted to march straight to Mother's home and verbally assault her. She believes it was vicious of her to steal our things." _And she wanted to get to the bottom of the situation regarding Mr. Wilson_ , Deborah recalled in silence.

A hint of a grin tugged at Steven's lips. "Susan is a high-spirited woman."

"She certainly can be," Deborah agreed.

"High spiritedness seems to run in some members of the family."

She looked away. She didn't like what he'd said, but there was no point in contesting a statement as true as the one he'd uttered.

"Bonnie," she continued, "expressed nothing but joy over the news. Nothing else mattered to her but being able to see and hold our mother again."

"Ah, Bonnie, she's as sweet and forgiving as the Lord Himself, isn't she?"

Deborah gave him a perturbed look. "Sometimes she's too kind for her own good." She hardened her jaw. "If Mother hurts her, I'll...I'll..."

"As gentle as Bonnie is, Deborah, I have no doubt she can manage her relationship with your mother quite well on her own, no matter what might happen between them."

Though she had strong doubts his statement was accurate, she nodded anyway. "I certainly hope Mother doesn't take advantage of Bonnie's goodness."

"How did Becky react? Knowing her as I do, I tend to think she may have reacted like you and Susan with great anger towards your mother because she took your things and because she waited so long to return to all of you."

Deborah brushed her fingers over her cheek. "Becky, to my surprise, showed little emotion when she heard the news. She spent most of her time being concerned about Bonnie's sensitive state over this turn of events."

"I've gathered from my conversations with Becky that she's been Bonnie's champion throughout their girlhood in everything from dealing with bullies at school to standing strong against daily disappointments."

Deborah smiled fondly as she thought of the many years Becky had tended to Bonnie's needs. "Becky has always taken care of her twin, but don't conclude from this intelligence that Bonnie is weak. She's just as strong as the rest of us, but she is far more gifted when it comes to empathizing with others."

"I see." He gave her a serious look. "And how, may I ask, did you, Miss Deborah," he said, taking her hand, "manage to communicate the news you were compelled to impart to your family?"

"I...ah...I managed just fine...eventually," she said, standing and taking two steps away from him.

"I'm sure you did." Though her back was to him she sensed he was rising from the bench.

She turned around and looked up at him. "I'd better go inside. It's late, and I'm sure the girls will want to discuss urgent matters before we leave for church. The Catholic Masses are at nine-thirty and eleven, and our Protestant services begin at ten-thirty and eleven o'clock so all of us who have not already gone to an early service will need to leave for our various Sunday morning prayer services soon."

He reached toward her and took her hand into both of his. "I'll see you soon, Deborah, later today or most certainly by tomorrow." He tugged her hand so she'd step closer to him. "Send word to me at any time of the day or night if I can be of any help," he said, lifting one of his hands to her cheek.

She stared up at him and ordered her heart to react neither physically nor emotionally to his sweetness.

Her body was just beginning to do as she'd commanded when he bent toward her and tantalized her with the touch of his lips on hers.

He pulled back far too soon, leaving her sensitized body wanting more than he'd given her.

"God bless you, my sweet. I'll pray for you. I hope you make only good decisions for your sisters and, most of all, for you." He let go of her hand and turned to go before she could react to his words or his actions.

She touched her fingers to her lips and whispered, "Goodbye, Steven."

Deborah watched him amble unsteadily over the sod and onto the walkway along Lincoln Avenue.

When he was near the junction of White Street and Lincoln, she went into the house. It was time for the ladies to assemble and discuss the situation regarding Margaretha.

When Deborah reached the hallway outside the parlor she heard Becky and Molly conversing inside. She couldn't help but overhear what they were saying. She quickly realized this was not a discussion she should intrude upon.

Becky was wearing her dark blue skirt and short jacket with her white shirtwaist. Her hair was up and arranged in a way that would perfectly accommodate the matching bonnet she'd wear to church in a little while.

Molly wore her best black dress. Her lovely auburn hair was also worn up.

"I understand what you're saying, Molly," Becky said gently. "I agree with you, but I refuse to visit her. Deborah made it clear that Mother could have returned to us years ago, but she refused to do so."

"Darlin' I have no doubt your mother had good reasons for keeping her distance. Perhaps she didn't have the opportunity to explain all of them to Deborah last night." Molly went to Becky and put her arm around her shoulders. "We've got to realize Deborah had to have been in a state of shock when she discovered who'd been stealing your things. Chances are, even if Margaretha explained why she hadn't returned earlier, Deborah may not have heard or understood everything your mother was trying to say. Emotions had to be running high."

"Of course, emotions ran high. A loved one's return from the dead is _not_ something that happens on a regular basis."

Molly drew back her arm and took hold of Becky's chin with her fingers. This comforting gesture was one she'd used often with her girls.

"Becky, darlin', I'm afraid the only reason you're not willing to give your mother a chance is out of deference to Deborah. I'm thinkin' you might be afraid you'll be disloyal if you follow your sisters to see your mother."

_Follow them?_ Deborah thought. _Had Bonnie and Susan already gone to see Margaretha?_

"I could hardly get your sisters to eat breakfast before they rushed to your mother's side."

They had gone to her!

Deborah placed a hand over her stomach when it began to churn. Susan and Bonnie were likely with Margaretha right now--and she wasn't there to protect them.

Why oh why had she told them their mother was alive and where she was living?

"Darlin'," Molly said, still touching Becky's chin, "what is it that _you_ want? Don't give a thought to what Susan or Bonnie or Deborah wants. Tell me what you want."

Becky stepped back and looked away.

"Sweetheart," Molly said in that terribly endearing voice she liked to use when she offered any of them comfort, "your mother's alive. She's right here in Hope, merely a few blocks from where we're standing right now. Search your heart and soul and find the answer. Do you want to see your mother or don't you?"

Becky slowly returned her gaze to Molly. "Yes, I want to see her--but I won't! I have no intention of being disloyal to Deborah. I love her far too much."

Tears seeped from Deborah's eyes upon hearing Becky's proclamation.

She needed to go to her immediately. It was incumbent upon her to tell Becky she must follow her heart. If she wanted to see their mother she should do so, no matter how Deborah felt.

But, before Deborah could take one step toward Becky, her sister Amy McKittrick, dressed in her pink and red broadcloth dress, came into the parlor through the entrance by the front hall. Amy, having consented less than two weeks before the flood to be Frederick's wife once she'd turned sixteen, was very special to the Willet sisters. Had Frederick not died, she'd have been their sweet sister-in-law.

"Did I hear the two of you correctly?" Amy said boldly. "Did you say Mama Margaretha Willet isn't dead? She's here in Hope?" Even before Amy had agreed to marry Deborah's brother she'd started calling her future mother-in-law Mama Margaretha.

Becky turned to look at her. "We learned last night that Mother is alive, and she's recently come to Hope."

Amy's jaw dropped. "But that's impossible...unless--" She stared hard at Becky. "Are you sure?"

She nodded mutely and gently bit her lip.

"Have you seen her yet?" Amy asked.

Becky shook her head. "Not yet."

Amy walked straight to her. "You've learned your mother is alive and in Hope yet you stand here in the parlor instead of rushing to her side?" Her voice was powerful, rich with indignation, a full one hundred and eighty degrees from her usual quiet, introspective articulation. "Why, less than a second would pass before I'd hasten to the side of my mother or my brothers if I'd learned any of them had survived the flood!"

Amy had lost every member of her family in the flood, and none of the bodies were recovered, not her mother Minnie's, not those of her brothers Willie and Sam, not even that of the man who was to be her stepfather, Howard Wilson. In addition, her loss of Frederick was nearly as devastating as was the loss of her family. The only comfort she'd had was the fact that Frederick's body had been recovered. Having been able to bury him, she was at least able to experience the finality affected by the formal laying to rest of a loved one.

Amy slapped Becky's arm, a most uncharacteristic move on her part. "If you don't leave immediately to be with your mother, you're no sister of mine! Why, I'd have nothing to do with any girl who wouldn't run to the side of a recovered loved one without the least hesitation. Would I be lucky enough to have _any_ member of my family back I'd spend every minute of every day rejoicing because they were with me again."

"But, Amy, you don't understand. Deborah told us--"

Amy cut off Becky's words with a tap to her lips. "No. I don't care what Deborah said or Susan said, or the man in the moon said. Only one thing in the world matters besides our love for God our Father, His Son and the Holy Ghost. That is our love for our family, a love which we demonstrate by our actions."

She swished her hand into the air with a flourish. "God has blessed you with a gift which I have begged from Him every day for more than seven years. I've beseeched Him unceasingly that at least one of my family members might have survived the flood and would be returned to me. For His own good reasons He's not granted my request, but He's blessed you with the return of your mother. And I'll not stand by on the day of the Lord and let you blaspheme Him by refusing his gift. If I have to take you by the hand and drag you whatever distance you need to travel, you are going to see your mother. It's God's will, and I won't let you sin against Him."

Soft-spoken Amy had fully demonstrated the depth of her passion for the first time since Deborah had met her when the wagon train assembled seven and a half years before.

"Amy's made some good arguments, Becky," Molly said, "but it's no one's decision but yours as to how you want to respond to the news of your mother's return." She touched Becky's chin once more. "What is it you want to do, darlin'?"

Becky took two steps back, away from Amy and Molly.

"Neither of you can influence me. Though I want more than anything to rush to my mother's side, I'll not set one foot in the direction of her home without Deborah's blessing. It is she who has been mother to Bonnie and Susan and me these last seven years, she and you, Molly. If Margaretha chose to neglect us, Deborah did not, and I'll never abandon her, not for anyone."

Chapter Sixteen

The previous night after she'd told her sisters their mother was alive and living in Hope, Deborah had decided she'd never again cross the threshold of Margaretha's hovel.

She'd figured she'd be able to convince Sheriff Feist or one of his deputies to retrieve the rest of the stolen goods.

But when she overheard Becky confessing her strong desire to see her mother and denying herself the pleasure due to her loyalty to Deborah...

And when she overheard Amy cry out in anguish because it was not she who was given the opportunity to see a loved one she'd believed was dead...

And when she thought of Molly's breaking heart...her prayers for the return of her precious Annie had gone unanswered for more than half a decade...

Deborah had shuddered at her cold heartedness as she'd stood outside the Longfellow parlor eavesdropping on Becky, Amy and Molly.

When had she become so bitter and hard? How long ago had a block of iron replaced her heart?

The wretched person she'd become turned her stomach sour.

Only one thing could soften a hardened soul or melt a frozen heart. The warmth of love. For from love, true love, the kind that requires compassion and action, comes redemption.

As Deborah ascended the porch steps to her mother's home, her arm linked with Becky's, she hoped it wasn't too late for her soul to be cleansed of its years of resentment and suspicions. The ghastly, scathing suspicions she'd clung to about her mother's relationship with Howard Wilson--could she be forgiven for thinking the worst?

Her teenage imagination regarding what could well have been an innocent embrace had blown up into horrible accusations she, as a full-grown woman, knew were unfair.

Could God forgive her for accusing her mother of unspeakable behavior?

Could her mother forgive her?

Susan greeted them as soon as they entered the parlor through the front door.

"Becky, Deborah," she said, hugging them and releasing them. "Mother isn't doing well. We sent for Dr. Cantwell. He arrived a few minutes ago."

"May I see her?" Becky asked.

Susan gave her head a slight shake, causing her loose auburn hair to shift on her shoulders. "Not now. The doctor has just begun his examination. Bonnie is in the kitchen making tea," she said, waving a hand to the door on the right. "Maybe you could help her."

"Of course," Becky said. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"Yes," Susan said, "there is. Amy arrived about twenty minutes ago. She went straight to Mother's room. She stayed with her a short time, and, when she left the room, she was very upset. I think she went to the back porch for some air. You might want to see if you could offer her a bit of comfort. I tried, but she said she wanted to be alone."

Becky put her fingers to her mouth. "I can understand why she'd be upset," she said, drawing her fingers away. "She told me earlier--after she gave me a good dressing down for not coming to see Mother when you and Bonnie did--that she desperately needed to see Ma. She said she just had to tell her she forgave her so she could die in peace."

"What in the world did she mean by having to forgive Mother?" Deborah asked. "What could she possibly have done to Amy that needed forgiveness?"

Becky shrugged and shook her head simultaneously. "I have no idea, but she was quite distraught. So much so she missed the early Mass she's partial to attending to come here, and you know how devoted she is to her faith."

"She certainly is," Susan said. "But then that is exactly why Amy would come here even before she'd go to Mass. What good would it do to sit in church if she neglected to offer forgiveness to someone she thought needed it?"

"Hopefully," Becky said, "she'll feel up to attending the last Mass with Molly, Flossie and Angie. She's always said, 'A Sunday without Mass is a Sunday without breath,' as far as she is concerned."

"Her faith means everything to her," Deborah said, "but I can't help wondering why Amy felt she needed to forgive Mother? What had she done? It's all quite confusing."

"What does it matter now?" Becky said. "We should be thinking of only one thing at the moment. Mother is with us. Whatever time we have with her we should use wisely. Only the present matters. The past is over and done."

"Yes," Deborah said in a long, drawn out word. But could she really forget the past?

"I'll help Bonnie with the tea," Becky said, "and I'll see to Amy's needs. Is there anything else I can do, Sue?"

"No, I don't think so."

Becky reached toward Susan and gripped her shoulder. "Please, don't make me wait one second longer than necessary to see Mother."

Susan patted the hand on her shoulder. "I won't, sweetie."

Becky stepped away from her sisters and headed toward the kitchen.

"I didn't expect to see you here," Susan said to Deborah. "You were pretty convincing last night when you said you didn't want to see Mother again."

She released a burdensome sigh. "I meant every word I said last night. But this morning...this morning I'm seeing things differently, through fresh eyes and new perspective." It didn't seem necessary to explain the fresh eyes and new perspective had come from Amy and Becky. And she didn't see the need to explain her change of heart anymore thoroughly to Susan or anyone else. The purification needed for her soul due to her dreadful indiscretions was between her and God.

"I understand completely how you feel, Deborah. You know how angry I was last night about Mother frightening us by stealing our things."

"You were practically livid, Sue. Frankly, I was shocked to hear you'd come here this morning."

Lines appeared in her forehead. "I'm not proud to admit it, but I came to confront Mother about...I can hardly say it now." She looked away. When she looked at Deborah again her eyes were sharp and burdened. "I, ah, I don't know if it occurred to you...I really hate to bring it up if you haven't yet thought of it, but...you remember you and Molly and I, when we searched for the bodies, we never found Howard Wilson's remains."

Deborah put her hand up, stopping Susan from saying anything more. "No, we didn't. Unfortunately, I, too, remembered that unpleasant fact. Worse yet, last night, after putting two and two together, I accused Mother of running off with him," she said in a low voice.

"Oh, my!" Susan whispered. She raised her eyes to the peeling, off-white ceiling and sighed. "I came here this morning to do the exact same thing," she said, her cheeks turning red. "When I saw her, though...her face is badly scarred; her eyes are filled with pain; her skin is as white as freshly fallen snow...I couldn't bring myself to say anything which might hurt her--even if my suspicions could possibly be true."

Deborah took her into her arms. "Oh, Susan, I'm so glad you didn't make the same mistake I did. I truly don't believe Mother told me any falsehoods, and I don't believe she ran off with Mr. Wilson."

Susan pulled back and looked at her. "No matter what Mother's done, even if it was as awful as our worst suspicions, we can't let any of it matter now."

Deborah wiped away a tear which had trickled from her eye. "You're absolutely right."

Susan released her and wiped away a tear of her own. "Deborah, do _you_ want to see Mother, or did you merely bring Becky to see her? She'd told Bonnie and me before we came here she wouldn't go with us without your blessing." She gave her a compassionate look. "You seem now like you're ready to visit with Mother, even though last night you were adamant about not wanting to see her."

Deborah swallowed hard. "I do want to see her. I _need_ to see her. I can't stand the thought of my last words to her being the foul accusations I made last night." Admitting her errors, owning up to her sins was not going to be easy. "However, I insist Becky see her first, and you and Bonnie too."

Susan nodded and wiped her cheek. "Alright." It was obvious she'd been doing a significant amount of crying that morning. The deep red dress with the black piping she was wearing had always enhanced her lively brown eyes and set off her luxurious auburn hair, but her eyes were too swollen and red now to let her beauty show through.

"Molly, Angie and Flossie intend to bring over something to eat after they return from the late Mass. The others will come by this evening."

Susan pulled a hanky from her pocket and wiped her nose. "I'm glad everyone's coming to see Mother. Her breathing is so raspy, I'm not sure she has many hours on earth left."

Deborah's heart began to hammer. "Is her health in that great a danger? Really, truly, Sue?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know for sure. Dr. Cantwell will be able to tell us more, once he's finished examining her." She glanced toward the bedroom door. "I'm going to the kitchen to help Bonnie," she said, looking at Deborah once more.

"Of course."

When Susan left the room, Deborah scanned the furnishings of the humble dwelling. She hadn't noticed the previous night how shabby the rug beneath her feet was. The gray and red woven wool was frayed just about everywhere.

Pealing wallpaper, a worn sofa, a shabby rug--her mother didn't deserve to live or, worse yet, die in such a dismal place.

She became even more upset as she realized the desperation her mother had been living in. She'd been physically nearly destroyed in the flood. Upon regaining enough of her health to be able to eke out a living, most of her money went to paying her medical expenses. She'd had nothing left to pay for an investigation into the fate of her family members.

Deborah closed her eyes and wished with all her heart the story her mother had told her was true. She couldn't have abandoned her family just to be with Howard Wilson as Deborah had suspected, she absolutely couldn't have!

Could have she?

She reflected again on the explanation her mother had provided. If what she'd said was true she'd endured a horrible existence since the flood.

Things had gone from bad to worse for Margaretha when she had learned she was going to die. After struggling to survive for many years, she'd been told she'd never regain her health.

Humbling herself, she'd begged for funds so she could attempt to learn before she died whether or not her family had survived the flood.

Margaretha's investigation had led her to Hope, and her stealing had brought Deborah to her home.

For the first time in more than seven years, Margaretha had the opportunity to speak with her beloved eldest daughter, the girl child she had first loved. Knowing the extent of Margaretha's love for her children, she must initially have been filled with bliss when fate brought Deborah to her door.

And how had Deborah reacted to seeing her? She'd behaved in the most hateful of manners. She'd rejected her thoroughly, scorned her completely. She'd perhaps treated her worse than any stranger had.

Worst of all, she'd accused her of appalling behavior, something so heinous she couldn't believe she'd thought it of her mother much less that she'd actually accused her of it.

Deborah's thoughts began to reel, her insides swirled, and her head ached. She needed fresh air...fresh air and so much more.

Like Peter rushing from the courtyard after having three times denied his beloved friend Jesus, Deborah ran from Margaretha's house. She hastened to the large cottonwood tree in an obscure corner of the backyard and fell to her knees. Wracked with guilt, she wept bitterly.

Several times she retched due to her physical and emotional sickness.

She had no concept of the amount of time which had passed during her carrying on until Molly came to her and helped her to her feet.

"You're white as the puffy clouds overhead, darlin'," she said, taking Deborah's arm. "Come inside and take nourishment before you go to your mother. It's nearly three o'clock, and we've all been waiting a long time for you to return on your own. I finally couldn't wait any longer to rescue you."

She pulled away from Molly. "I don't need rescuing, Molly, I deserve to be struck down for what I've done. No woman ever born has behaved more miserably toward her mother than I have."

Molly took hold of her arms firmly. "Look at me, Deborah!"

Deborah did as she commanded.

Molly lifted her chin. "Have you ever considered yourself to be a perfect person, darlin'?"

She scowled and shook her head. "Certainly not!"

"You know you're not perfect, so you're going to make mistakes. Now you've got to get over your guilt this instant. If you've confessed your sins to God, and you've asked His forgiveness, you've got to believe He's relieved you of your guilt. Which isn't to say you don't need to try to make amends. We Catholics are strong believers in making amends for the wrongs we've done, and you Protestants have many of the same beliefs, now, don't you?"

Deborah nodded. "I guess so."

"Your mother isn't gone yet, but she won't be with us much longer. The doctor has done his best, and he continues to keep vigil, but he doubts she'll be able to hold death at bay much longer."

"Oh, Molly," Deborah said tearfully.

She wiped Deborah's cheeks with her fingers. "Don't fret darlin'. You'll be able to talk with your mum once you've eaten and cleaned yourself up. I'll not have you upsetting her further by going to her looking messy from your grief and wan from hunger."

Feeling Molly's warmth and hearing her sensible, straight-forward speech was exactly what Deborah needed. She pulled her into her arms and hugged her lovingly.

"Thank you, Molly. Thank you for all the times you've saved my life, most especially for this time. I don't know what I'd have done without your encouraging words."

Molly embraced her tightly and released her. "Ah, yes you do, darlin'" she said with a tender smile. "You'd have seen things clearly enough on your own, and you'd have gone to your mother to make amends. Margaretha Willet didn't raise a daughter as cold as you'd pretended to be last night, and neither did I."

Deborah hugged her once more before she went into the house to follow Molly's instructions.

It was nearly five by the time she was able to see her mother.

Chapter Seventeen

The woman lying in the narrow bed covered with a blue and red tattered quilt did not look like her mother. Her hair, a mixture of black and gray tangles, framed a face marred with heavy wrinkles and deep scars. Half of her left brow was gone, replaced by a hideous red line which extended down the side of her face all the way to her chin. The warm, brown eyes Deborah remembered were hidden behind closed lids.

Tears crept down Deborah's cheeks.

Her mother had suffered severely, experienced unimaginable horrors, endured more pain than Deborah could imagine.

And Deborah had heaped even more agony upon her the previous night with her accusations, her lack of understanding and empathy.

She went to the bedside and sat on the stool there.

She wiped her cheeks.

"Mother?"

Margaretha opened her eyes. "Which of my girls is calling me?"

The blind on the window allowed little light into the room.

"It's I, Mother, Deborah." She wiped another tear from her cheek.

"Deborah," she said, turning toward her. "Thank heaven you've come back to me. I've got something I must tell you."

She wiped away another tear. "What is it, Mother?"

Margaretha coughed and rubbed her hand over her mouth. "You were right. I should have moved heaven and earth to get back to you." She floated her hand toward her daughter.

Deborah clutched the hand her mother offered.

"Forgive me, Debbie, my most precious one."

Her heart lurched at her mother's use of the pet name.

"I'm the one who needs forgiveness, Mother. I've been selfish and cold. I had no right to resent being thrust into the responsibilities God asked me to accept. I should have spent these last seven years being grateful to be alive, being thankful I wasn't injured the way you were."

Margaretha drew in a raspy breath. "But you _were_ injured, Debbie. You were severely maimed in your heart and your soul. You lost your father, your brothers and me. I should have been with you. I should have been--" She coughed, struggled to get her breath.

"Mother!"

She waved her free hand. "It's alright," she gasped between coughs and intakes of air.

Deborah waited while her mother struggled to breathe. She squeezed her hand, hoping Margaretha could feel through her touch the love emanating from her heart.

"I'm sorry I left you," Margaretha said in her raspy voice. "I'm sorry I didn't get back to you sooner."

"Sh, Mother, don't talk. The past is over and done with. I behaved despicably last night. I should never have said the awful things I said." _Dear God_ , Deborah prayed silently, _forgive me for the appalling way I treated your daughter Margaretha._

The breath she drew in sounded as though it were being dragged over a pile of rocks. "You had every right to be upset," she said with a great deal of effort. "And, after thinking over what you had to say, I understand why you made your accusations about--" Another coughing spell ensued.

Deborah held her mother's hand while her body quavered.

Margaretha fought the coughing fit. She gasped and struggled to breathe. "You see," she continued when the spell subsided, "Howard and I, neither of us had wanted to leave our homes." Her voice sounded raspier than ever. "We'd been content to dwell where we'd lived most of our lives, despite the hardships we'd had to face. The droughts, floods and pests ravaging our crops weren't nearly as difficult to..." She coughed again. "...to endure as was the horrible existence on the trail in the rough countryside." She stopped talking and labored to breathe during the next few minutes.

Deborah sat helplessly, still holding her hand, and prayed that God might ease Margaretha through her trials toward relief from her sufferings.

"We became good friends," she said when she was able to speak again. "We commiserated and bolstered each others' spirits." She moved her head from side to side. "Frankly, without Howard's support, I believe I might have taken you children and left your father somewhere along the trail. But he encouraged..." More coughing shook her body for several long moments. "We both knew it was best for our families to do what my Frederick and his Minnie wanted--to complete our journeys, ours to Casper, theirs to the plains of Colorado."

"Did you...do you know if Mr. Wilson survived the flood, Mother?"

She shook her head. "I have no idea."

She began to cough violently again.

"I should get the doctor," Deborah said.

"No!" Margaretha managed to say between coughs.

When she calmed down and began to breathe more evenly, she spoke again. "I'm afraid I don't have much time left, and I've got to tell you something very important."

"What is it?" Deborah squeezed her hand tenderly.

Margaretha took a roughened breath. "I've seen you with your beau. He's a nice looking young man, strong despite his disability--or maybe because of it. Our trials can sometimes greatly increase our strength." Her disfigured visage moved into a warm smile. "I'm sure you've learned from your own experiences that difficulties often increase our strength."

"I, I suppose I have."

"This young man, Steven, anyone can see he's in love with you."

"Mother, you're rambling." Deborah did not want to talk about Steven, not now when her mother had so little time left to live, so few moments to say what she wanted to say. "You said you need to tell me something important. What is it?"

She coughed again. "I'm trying to tell you--" More coughing. "Debbie, make a good life with Steven. Give him children. You've made it clear you've resented being tied down with responsibilities, and, God knows, being a wife and mother is a life fraught with great burdens, but the love a woman receives from a child...why, a woman has lost one of life's greatest treasures if she's never known the look of love in the eyes of her children. That look, that love is worth any price."

Deborah glanced away, focusing on the blind-covered window.

"And when your husband loves you," Margaretha said, her gravely voice sounding warm for the first time, "there's nothing like being truly loved by a man. A woman's heart can nearly burst when he treats her tenderly, comforts her warmly."

Deborah's gaze returned to her mother.

"Her capacity to endure whatever trials come her way is increased a thousand fold if her husband lends her his loving arms, his strong shoulders and his giving hands."

It had been a lifetime since her mother had spoken to her in this manner. Dear heaven, how she'd missed the compassion and wisdom of her mother.

Another wave of coughing overtook Margaretha.

This time Deborah let go of her hand and bolted from the room. "Doctor! Please," she called when she entered the parlor. "She can't stop coughing!"

Amos Cantwell, the kindly old physician whose mustache was the same shade of white as his hair, touched Deborah's shoulder. "Stay with your sisters while I tend to your mother."

Deborah inclined her head toward him and went to be with Susan, Bonnie and Becky. They rose from the sofa when she approached.

"Is the end near now?" Bonnie asked.

Deborah shook her head. "I don't know. How can anyone know?"

"Dr. Cantwell is good, Bonnie," Susan said, putting her arm around her sister's shoulders. "He'll make sure she stays with us as long as she can."

"I'm going to be with her right now," Becky said. She went straight to Margaretha's room.

A few minutes later, Dr. Cantwell stepped out of the bedroom into the parlor. He went directly to the circle of sisters.

He tucked his small black bag under his arm and ran a hand over his brown, leathery cheek. "It won't be long now," he said gently. His slight build went limp as he gave them the news. "She's asking for Freddie and Leon. Are they here?"

Bonnie burst into tears and dropped to the sofa.

Susan immediately sat next to her and began to comfort her.

"Freddie, Frederick Junior and Leon were our brothers. They've been dead for years," Deborah said, her voice catching as she spoke.

"I suppose they were lost in the flood," he said thoughtfully. "You'd never mentioned how many family members you girls had lost. I'd only known you four had survived."

"Our brother Sebastian and our father were also taken in the flood," Deborah explained. "Until yesterday, we thought the tragedy had been responsible for taking Mother's life too."

Dr. Cantwell put his hand on her shoulder. "My dear, I don't know just how your mother found her way back to you, and I don't want you to waste time explaining things to me now. You girls need to go to Mrs. Willet and say your goodbyes."

Susan rose from the settee and helped Bonnie to her feet. "I'll take her to Mother," Susan said.

Deborah tilted her head toward her. "Yes, go ahead. I'll join you in a few minutes."

"Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Deborah? Perhaps I could send word to your beau. He should be with you at a time like this." He drew his hand away from her shoulder.

Her beau?

The charade.

The townspeople thought Steven belonged to her.

Oh, what she wouldn't give to have his arms around her right now... But she'd been taking care of herself and her sisters for years. She'd just have to keep on with her care giving.

"Thank you, Doctor, but you've done enough already." She glanced toward the kitchen. "I think Flossie and Molly are making supper. Please, go to the kitchen and get something to eat, won't you?"

He set his small bag on the chest ahead of the settee. "Thank you. I could use a cup of coffee and a slice of bread." He patted her shoulder. "Go, be with her now, Miss Deborah," he said. "I'll speak with you again later."

Dr. Cantwell went to the kitchen, and Deborah made her way to Margaretha's bedroom.

Upon entering the sullen chamber, she heard a pair of words, uttered twice in succession by a voice so raspy the phrases were barely audible.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Deborah went immediately to her mother's bedside and took her place in line next to her sisters.

Becky stood at the head of the bed. Bonnie stood next to her. Susan was at Bonnie's side, grasping her shoulders in an embrace.

"I love you," Margaretha gasped.

Bonnie fell to her knees and took hold of Margaretha's hand. "Mother!" She began to kiss her hand.

Margaretha struggled to breathe.

Bonnie reached into her pocket and pulled something from it. "Mother, please, take this," she said, placing the cherished cameo in her hand. "It's yours. Father gave it to you on your wedding day. You've got to have it. Perhaps it will give you enough strength to remain with us a while longer."

Becky turned away. She went to the shaded window and leaned against the molding, weeping the way she had when they'd buried their father and brothers.

Susan stood rock solid next to Deborah, stroking Bonnie's hair while Bonnie held her mother's hand, the one clutching the locket.

"Deborah!" Margaretha called out. "Debbie, forgive me!"

Deborah's chest tightened and tears hemorrhaged from her eyes. "Oh, Mother, don't leave me again. I can't bear it," she called out, falling to her knees beside Margaretha's bed. She buried her face in the tattered quilt and wept.

"Leon," Margaretha whispered. "Freddie...Sebastian...little Leon..."

Deborah wiped away her tears and looked at her mother

Margaretha raised her empty hand above her head. "Sweet, little Leon, take my hand."

Deborah stared at her mother in awe.

"Look at her face!" Susan said.

"It's glowing like the moon," Bonnie whispered.

"Have you got my hand, Sonny?"

Margaretha had called Leon Sonny ever since his second birthday. Even though he was twelve when the flood took his life, she'd still at that time thought of him as her baby.

Becky left the window and joined her sisters. "She's talking out of her head," she said, wiping her cheeks with her hands.

"No, she isn't," Bonnie said softly. "She sees him. She truly sees him! Look at her lovely face. He's here with us in this room. He's come to take her with him, and seeing him has given her the look of an angel."

Deborah didn't believe what Bonnie had said--not for one moment--but she wasn't about to dash away any thoughts which gave her sister comfort while her sufferings were so great.

"Yes, Leon," Margaretha said, her words barely audible.

No...Deborah didn't believe Leon was with them. She was certain her mother was merely talking out of her head. A lack of sufficient oxygen was likely to cause a woman to see people who weren't there, and her mother was having a terrible time getting enough air.

Still...the glow on her mother's face...the peace she saw in her eyes...

Despite the disfigurement, Margaretha Willet, breathing her last wisps of air, was almost as beautiful as she'd been before the flood.

"Now?" Margaretha gasped. "Okay. One sarsaparilla and one peppermint stick, but don't tell you sisters."

"She sounds just like she used to," Susan whispered wistfully. "The hoarseness in her voice is almost gone. Isn't that strange?"

"It's terribly odd indeed." Deborah could hardly believe what she was seeing and hearing. She wondered, _is this what happens to everyone when they die from a terrible illness_?

Though she'd seen many deceased individuals, she'd never actually been with someone when she was about to die.

Bonnie touched her mother's face. "She's breathing better now. Maybe the Lord isn't ready to take her after all."

Deborah had noticed, too, that Margaretha's breathing seemed less labored. She rose to her feet, stepped next to Becky and linked arms with her.

Susan, who'd remained standing, continued to stroke Bonnie's hair as she knelt next to the bed, caressing Margaretha's cheek, cooing sweet words.

Several minutes of relative silence prevailed in the room. The eyes of all daughters were focused on their mother, watching, waiting for the inevitable end--or hoping for a reprieve from death.

"Look," Becky whispered into Deborah's ear, "her chest no longer rises and falls."

Deborah watched her mother closely. She saw no movement in her whatsoever.

She looked at Becky. "She's gone, isn't she?" she said softly.

Becky nodded.

Having been a frequent volunteer at the hospital, Becky had been with many folks when they'd died.

"You'd better get Dr. Cantwell," Deborah told Becky.

"Right away," she replied.

"Sue," Deborah said, "help Bonnie to her feet."

Bonnie stood with Susan's help.

Deborah went to Margaretha and put her ear to her mother's mouth and her fingers to her wrist. Then she turned to her sisters.

"She's gone," she said. "She's really, truly gone."

Chapter Eighteen

Steven had done what he could over the last four days to help the Willet girls and their adopted family members get through their sorrow over the loss of Margaretha.

He'd tried several times to offer Deborah an extra measure of comfort, but she'd gently rejected his consolation.

How many times had she told him she didn't want him in her life?

Surely his head had to be as thick as ice in a Minneapolis January because he never once let her rebuffs sink in deep enough to make him accept the fact that Deborah did not want a serious relationship with him.

Once or twice he'd wished it had been Becky who'd stolen his heart. She, like Deborah, was a wonderful woman. She was bright, a hard worker and supremely kind. She'd been more than helpful to Steven when it came to doing the exercises necessary to restore the use of his legs.

He did love Becky, but he was not _in love_ with her. She was his friend--no, she was much more than a friend. She was like a sister.

Perhaps, he thought on a sigh, he should be grateful for the friendship he had with at least one Willet woman, and leave his connection to the Willets at that.

Steven was walking better now. He still needed to use his cane, but he was certain he'd be able to relinquish it before winter set in. He hoped to be fit enough physically to be able to return to work for the railroad by spring. He liked working at the bank, but he preferred the mix of physical and mental work required by his former and, hopefully, future, railroad job.

As he strolled toward the park a few blocks from the Longfellow home, Steven tried to form his thoughts into words, words he'd use when speaking to Deborah.

Susan had told him after everyone left the post funeral gathering at the house that Deborah had slipped away earlier with the intention of going to the park. She'd said she needed some time alone to think.

Steven hated to interrupt her solitude, but he didn't want to put off this conversation any longer. He felt it would be better for both of them if he'd speak his mind and make it clear that he was finally going to do exactly what Deborah had asked him to do all along.

He was going to leave her alone.

* * *

Deborah sat on a bench in the park staring at a garden full of bright yellow marigolds. The heads of the flowers were huge, easily four inches across. They reminded her of mums, except for the smell. While mums have a sweet, pleasing fragrance, the scent of marigolds could sometimes be quite repugnant.

They surely were pretty, though.

And they'd been her mother's favorite garden flower.

Back in Illinois, Mother had always rimmed the vegetable garden with rows of marigolds, orange and yellow ones, the kind with smaller heads.

Deborah sighed as she thought of her mother again. She thanked God once more for having had the opportunity to speak with her before she died, to set a few things straight, to make peace with her after all these years.

Margaretha's return to her family and Deborah's conversations with her had given the young woman a great deal to think about.

While, throughout the last few days, she'd cooked, made funeral arrangements, held vigil with her mother's body, greeted friends and consoled her sisters, she'd tried to make sense of her life. She'd endeavored to take stock of whom she'd become and whether or not she was content to be the person she was.

To her dismay, she'd had to admit she'd grown far too serious. She'd lost her youthful exuberance on the day of the flood, and she wondered if it would be possible to get it back someday.

Granted, she was no longer fifteen, the age she'd been the day of the flood, but, having celebrated her twenty-third birthday this past June twenty-fifth, she was hardly an old woman.

She wanted to be happy again, feel alive and unencumbered again, and she wanted to feel that way without neglecting her responsibilities to any of the members of her family.

"I wish...I wish...," she said, closing her eyes.

"What do you wish, Miss Deborah?"

She recognized Steven's voice immediately. She opened her eyes and looked up at him.

"Mr. Paxton, what are you doing here?"

Steven set his wooden cane in front of him and placed both of his hands on it.

My, but he was handsome in his starched white shirt, dark suit and hat.

"I'm looking for you."

"Oh?" she said, lifting a brow. "Is something wrong at home?" He'd been at the house with the other guests before she slipped away to come to the park.

"No, everything's fine. Molly has insisted your Willet sisters go to their rooms and rest while your adopted sisters clean up after the guests, most of whom have left."

"I see." She hesitated a moment before she rose from the bench. "I suppose I should go back to the house and help with the washing up. It wouldn't be right for me to neglect my duties."

Steven touched her, and a thousand sparks skittered along her arm from the tender wrist his warm fingers now caressed straight to her heart.

"If you go home, Molly will send you to your room to rest," he said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She gave him a half smile. "You're probably right. She's been fussing over Becky, Susan, Bonnie and me ever since Mother's death."

"She loves all of you very much," he said gently.

Deborah nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she does."

Steven pulled back his hand. "Could we sit together for a little while, Deborah? I believe we need to talk over a few things."

She bit her lip. A good long discussion was definitely in order for the two of them, but she wasn't sure she was ready to have it just now.

"Could we talk later, maybe in a day or two?"

To her surprise, he shook his head. "No, we'll talk now. I believe it'll be best for both of us if we set things straight between us immediately."

He was right, of course, but that fact didn't make her feel anymore ready to say what she knew she needed to tell him. She was afraid of how he'd react, particularly because of the poor way she'd treated him in the past.

"If you insist, we'll speak now," she said, giving in to his request.

He tipped his head toward her. "I do."

He stepped next to the bench and waited for her to sit down. Once she was seated he took his place beside her.

He set his cane aside, laid his arm along the back of the bench and turned toward her. "For six weeks or so I've been pursuing you rather aggressively," he said.

Deborah's cheeks began to burn. Her heart picked up its pace as she anticipated his next remarks.

"Yes, you have," she said, gazing up at him through her lashes.

"I...I think you are well aware of how I feel." The fingers of the hand he'd laid on the back of the bench touched the fabric of her black shirtwaist.

She looked at the marigolds and dipped her head. "I am."

"And I...I am painfully...aware of...how you..." He fingered her fabric again. "For weeks you've been indicating to me that you have no interest in..."

He bolted to his feet quite unexpectedly.

"Steven?" It wasn't like him to speak in such a hesitating, uncertain manner. Up until now, he'd always spoken boldly and commandingly. "Is something wrong?"

He rubbed his hands together. "I've got something I need to say to you, and now I'm not sure how to say it. Or if I can say it."

"You've never been at a loss for words before," she said, half teasing him, half trying to soothe him so he felt more comfortable speaking with her.

"No," he said, "I'm not often tongue tied." He wrung his hands. "But this isn't easy for me to say. You see--"

"Wait!" she said, putting her hand up. It suddenly dawned on her that perhaps he'd come to speak to her on a business matter instead of a personal one. Maybe he had bad news about the loan she'd requested from the bank. This was a Thursday, after all, and most folks in town were conducting business in the usual way. If he had news he knew would disappoint her, he'd likely be acting in a hesitating manner just as he was doing.

She stood up and took his hand. "I think it's terrible that Mr. Wells sent you to me on a day like this to tell me I didn't get the loan. It isn't your fault you have to do a distasteful deed on a day which is particularly difficult for me."

"I beg your pardon?" He seemed shocked by her declaration.

"You are here to tell me the bank rejected my application for a loan, aren't you?" she asked. "Today of all days is a terrible one for delivering such news to me," she continued without giving him time to reply, "but I'm prepared to hear it, if you're prepared to say it, Steven. Please don't let the fact that our relationship has been...how shall I say it--volatile--these last few weeks...I hope you can speak your mind, despite the ups and downs we've known."

"You think I'm here to speak to you about business?" He gave her a strange look. "Business!" He shook her hand from his and took two steps away. He fisted his hands and turned back to her. "I am not here to speak about business."

"You mean you don't yet know whether or not the bank has approved the loan for my dress shop?"

"No...I mean yes...Your loan has been approved. Mr. Wells plans to tell you himself tomorrow. He wanted to wait until after the funeral. But that isn't--"

"My loan's been approved?" She drew him into her arms. "That's wonderful! I can hardly believe something this good can happen on a day which has otherwise been frightfully sad."

He accepted her embrace and held her close for several minutes. "Deborah," he whispered into her ear.

She pulled back and smiled up at him. "The bank will be repaid in full, probably within the year. I have a knack with finances and investments."

"Yes, I know," he said, inclining his head toward her. "I've seen the paperwork you've submitted with your loan application."

She stepped back, out of his arms. "This will be a new beginning. I can feel it."

Steven looked at her, really looked at her. Her beautiful, deep green eyes were glowing; her face was alight with a smile. Even with the dismal shade of black covering her from throat to shoes, she, for the first time since he'd seen her, looked utterly happy.

He wanted her to be happy, but not because of some business pursuit.

He'd wanted to make her as happy as she was at the moment by giving her the gift of his love.

"Owning a dress shop will be a dream come true for you, won't it?"

"Yes," she said excitedly. "I believe we've discussed that a time or two, haven't we?"

"We have indeed."

She clasped her hands in front of her. "Oh, how things are changing for me. I've been encumbered rather thoroughly these last weeks because of the thefts, and Mother, and...and because of you."

Encumbered? She'd been burdened because of him?

"The last thing I ever wanted to be was a burden to you, Deborah," he said morosely.

"Oh, my, I'm afraid I sounded rather rude, didn't I?" She waved her hands in front of her as though she were trying to erase the words she'd said. "I didn't mean _you_ were a burden. I meant your expectations from me had been-- Well not a burden, but worrisome to me. You see--"

He put up a hand and stopped her words. "Wait, please. Don't say anything more."

She pulled back slightly.

It was time to simply state what he'd come to say.

"Deborah, I'm sorry I've been as aggressive as I've been with you. You've made it perfectly clear you are not interested in me, and I've been a boor to continue to try to corner you into giving in to me."

"What?" she said in a long, drawn out word.

"I realize I can't make you love me just because I love you. I understand you don't want me in your life, so I'm going to get out of it."

"You are?"

"Yes." He hadn't expected it to hurt as much as it did to say the words out loud.

"But why? Why now, after all this time, are you finally giving up on me?"

His brows drew together. "I beg your pardon?"

"Don't you want to fight for me? Am I not worth the struggle? Why do you want to give up now when you've finally won me over?"

His knees, strong as they were becoming, seemed suddenly weak, and he feared he'd fall, thanks to Miss Deborah's shocking questions.

"I'm sorry, did you say I've won you over?"

"Yes," she said, looking up at him through her long lashes. "You've been wonderful since Mother died. We girls could never have made it through all the things we've had to deal with these last few days without you. _I_ could never have made it without you."

"But I didn't do anything special. I only did what any friend would do." He really had no idea what he might have said or done that was so important it could sway Deborah toward a willingness to give him her heart.

A tender look filled her eyes and a smile kissed her lips. "Mother, just before she died, told me how important it is to be truly loved by a man. She equated a man's love to the way he treats his woman with tenderness, offering her comfort in times of sorrow. She said a loving man lends his arms, shoulders and hands to his woman when she needs his strength." She reached out and touched his cheek. "You, Steven, have offered to me all of these things in the last few days when I needed them most. In fact, you've given of yourself unselfishly for weeks, and I callously threw all of your kindnesses away."

He took the hand she'd pressed to his cheek and kissed its fingers. "Deborah..."

Was she now truly giving him a chance to be her beau? Did she want a future with him as much as he wanted one with her?

"Are you...saying...you don't want me to stop my pursuit of you?" he asked tentatively.

"Steven," she said, taking his hands into hers, "if you'd like to call on me, if you'd like to make our charade a reality, I would be happy and proud to acknowledge you as my beau."

"Deborah," he said, eyeing her with great enthusiasm, "Oh, Deborah!" He withdrew his hands from hers and took her into his arms. He wanted to pick her up and whirl her around, but he was afraid his not-quite-healthy knees would cause him to lose his footing and take Deborah and himself down to the ground.

"I promise," he said into her ear, "I'll take good care of you. I'll do everything I can to make you happy."

She pulled back and looked into his eyes. "Don't make any promises just yet. If all goes well, a time will come for that eventually." A radiant smile appeared on her face. "I'm sure that time will come, and, then, we'll both make eternal promises, won't we?"

"Yes," he said, pressing his cheek to hers, "Oh, yes, yes, my darling."

She drew back and looked at him, lifting her chin a notch. "I've just got one more thing to ask you, now that we're officially sweethearts."

She was his sweetheart--at last, he'd won her over! "Whatever you want, my dear, you shall have it."

She wrinkled her perfect nose and winked an eye. "Could you get me a better rate of interest on my bank loan?"

A chuckle bubbled inside him. He scooped her into his arms and plopped onto the bench. As he held her on his lap, he took hold of her jaw. "I'm sure I can get Mr. Wells to decrease _his_ interest _for_ you, but I, my lovely, sweet, precious Deborah, assure you _my_ interest _in_ you will only increase, rising higher and higher each day of our lives." He kissed her sweetly on the lips. "So, what do you think of that?"

She pushed his hat from his head and tangled her fingers in his hair. "I think I won't mind in the least if your interest becomes absolutely usurious!"

Molly's Epilogue

Shortly after Margaretha's death Steven Paxton became Deborah's constant companion. I think Margaretha would have approved of Steven, and I, though I was only a guardian and, at best, a substitute mother to Deborah, most certainly did approve of her seeing him. He was good to her, took care of her and tended to her needs as well as any man had for any woman.

I noticed shortly after her mother's funeral that Deborah seemed to be losing her worrisome, morose disposition. For the first time since the flood, she appeared to be happy again, the way she'd been during our journey on the train. Whether it was Steven's attention that had filled her with bliss or the anticipation of finally being able to open her dress shop, I never knew. Perhaps, it was a wee bit of both. Frankly, I didn't care why she was happy; I was simply pleased to see her filled with joy after its long sabbatical from her life.

About two weeks after Margaretha's death, however, sorrowful news came to the Willet girls and Amy. It reached them by way of Mr. Eldridge Faustino, the lawyer who'd helped me with my adoptions and guardianships for the girls back in eighty-eight.

On a Tuesday morning in late August, 1895 Mr. Faustino met with us in his office. The day was a dreary one, rainy and unseasonably cold. The dismal weather seemed the perfect prelude to the awful tidings we were about to hear.

All four Willet sisters and Amy McKittrick were present at Mr. Faustino's request. Steven attended at the behest of Deborah and her Willet sisters. I thank God Mr. Paxton was with us as he provided a good deal of moral support for the girls upon the revelation of the disturbing news.

We seven were a tight fit in the lawyer's office even though the room was fairly large. The secretary had placed chairs in two rows ahead of Faustino's massive walnut wood desk. The children, all of them dressed in mourning clothes, sat in the chairs. Since I had come at Bonnie's request, not Faustino's, I didn't want to intrude so I stood in the back of the room looking over the sea of black grief ahead of me.

Lawyer Faustino, a mid-forties man with gray eyes and thinning gray and black hair, entered the office after the young folks were seated and took his place behind his desk. "Thank you for coming today," he said solemnly. "I don't want to take up too much of your time so I'll get right to the reason I summoned you." He picked up a paper which lay ahead of him. "Mrs. Margaretha Willet came to see me about a month ago and gave me this document. She paid my fee and directed me to assemble you in the event of her death so that I might read to you what she'd written."

Steven and all the girls joined hands as Eldridge put on his glasses. "If none of you objects, I'll get right to the document."

Everyone remained silent.

"This paper is dated July 30, 1895, and it was left with instructions that it be read two to three weeks after Mrs. Willet's death." He glanced over the top of his glasses at his listeners. He'd seemed none to eager to disclose the contents of the document.

"I, Margaretha Willet," Mr. Faustino said in his rough voice as he looked at the paper, "have no property outside of a few personal belongings to leave to my four daughters. They may dispose of this property in whatever way they choose." He paused and looked up before he glanced at the paper and continued to read.

"If Mr. Faustino is reading this letter to you Bonnie, Deborah, Susan, Becky and Amy, then I have left my mortal life. In that case, I wish to confess to my daughters and to sweet Amy McKittrick, who was to be my daughter-in-law, that I have wronged each and every one of you."

Mr. Faustino took off his glasses. "I'm sorry, ladies, but I'm duty-bound to read this to you just as Mrs. Willet instructed me. Please brace yourselves for some unsettling news."

I saw each of the children grasp hands more firmly with one another at this point.

I tried to imagine what Margaretha could possibly have written that the girls didn't already know. After all, she'd spoken with each of them since late July when she'd apparently written her document. Surely, she must have discussed with them whatever she'd disclosed to Mr. Faustino at the time she gave him her letter.

Eldridge put on his glasses again and looked at the paper. "It is I who has been stealing your things--I and those whom I've hired to help me in this endeavor. I'm not well enough to collect all that I want from you on my own so I've engaged others to help me. I wanted to be close to you, Deborah, Susan, Bonnie and Becky. I need to feel your love in the only way I can--by holding onto the possessions near and dear to your hearts.

"I apologize if my actions have caused you pain, but I did and am doing what I need to do."

When Mr. Faustino paused Susan bolted to her feet. "Why didn't you stop her? Stealing is against the law, you know!" she shouted at the lawyer.

Faustino took off his reading glasses. His jaw moved left to right. "Believe me, I lectured your mother on the morality of what she was doing, but, as she said, she wasn't in a true legal sense stealing because she was taking things which belonged to her." He stroked his jaw. "I'm sorry, ladies, for everything you've been through, but Mrs. Willet bound me by client confidentiality, and she refused to listen when I tried to discourage her from taking your things."

Susan seemed ready to launch another verbal attack when Bonnie placed her hand on her sister's arm. "Please, Sue, nothing matters now but listening to what Mother had to tell us."

Susan's shoulders slumped, and she sank back into her chair.

The room went quiet.

Faustino put on his glasses again and continued his dissertation.

"I wanted to come to each of you personally and reveal myself, but I couldn't. I had no right to ask for a show of love or compassion from any of you, not after what I'd done to all of you."

Faustino paused and gazed at his listeners over the top of his glasses.

The girls began to murmur among themselves, but I didn't hear what they were saying.

The lawyer cleared his throat and looked at his paper.

"You see, I betrayed my family." Mr. Faustino glanced at us briefly. "During the wee hours of the night," he read, "before the flood, after the McKittricks and my family had gone to sleep, Howard Wilson and I ran away from the wagon train."

A collective gasp echoed throughout the room.

"No!" Bonnie shouted. "She couldn't have!"

"Please," Eldridge said, "I know this is difficult to hear, but your mother insisted I read this to you just as she wrote it."

Susan, who was sitting next to Bonnie, let go of her hand and put her arm around Bonnie's shoulders.

"Neither Howard nor I had wanted to travel west with our families," Faustino said, "but Howard had made a commitment to Minnie McKittrick, and I, throughout our married life, had always done what Frederick wanted. Once we were on the trail, however, we found life to be even more difficult than we'd anticipated. For weeks Howard and I had found comfort in our friendship. We'd commiserated many times, but we'd remained faithful to our promises to our families. Unfortunately, we'd finally reached a point where we could no longer tolerate life on the trail. We decided to slip away, double back to Omaha and take a train home. I'd planned that, once we'd made it back home, I'd send for my children, hoping they would want to return to me rather than stay with their father.

"We'd camped by the river after leaving the wagon train, and the flood caught us off guard the next morning. The raging waters and the debris within them ravaged my flesh and severely disfigured my face. The flood did additional bodily damage to me, and it rendered many injuries unto Howard as well.

"Through a stroke of good fortune a doctor from Philadelphia who was in Omaha found us while he was taking a ride in the country. Dr. Mendel took us to Omaha for medical help, and, eventually, he took us by train to Philadelphia for further treatment. Our injuries debilitated us for a long time. If it hadn't been for the $2500 Howard had taken from the funds he and Minnie had put together, I don't know how we would have survived.

"By the time I'd healed, two years had passed, and Howard had lost interest in me. He'd moved on to another woman, taking the remainder of our money with him.

"I lived hand to mouth over the next few years until I received word I was gravely ill. At that point, I stole enough money to hire a man to investigate what had happened to my family after the flood. I wanted desperately to see all of you before I died if any of you had survived the deathly power of the waters. When I learned you girls were alive, I stole again and got myself to Nebraska to be near you.

"I suppose all of you may be better off not knowing what I've told you, but I needed to cleanse my soul with confession before I die. That is why I've written this letter.

"Deborah, Bonnie, Becky, Susan, I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I did not return to you so I could be your mother once again. And, lastly, I'm sorry I stole your things. I've kept them in the cedar chest of the house where I've been living in Hope. Mr. Faustino will direct you there and see to it you have your property back along with the few other belongings I've managed to save.

"Amy, my sweet child, I'm so sorry for taking Howard away from your mother, your brothers and you. I was horrified to learn from the detective I hired that you'd lost your brothers and mother in the flood. I've been wracked with guilt ever since I became privy to this intelligence because I believe Howard may have been able to save Sam or Willie or Minnie or perhaps he'd have been able to rescue them all if only we hadn't run off together."

The room was deadly silent when the lawyer paused.

Momentarily, he began to read again.

"Forgive me, Amy. Please, forgive me."

Thick, quiet, raw emotion filled the room. I felt as though I'd be able to actually touch it, if I'd tried to.

"This concludes the document," Mr. Faustino said, taking off his glasses and laying the letter on his desk. When he gazed at us again it looked as though his eyes were filled with empathy. "I'm terribly sorry for having to read this to you, but, ethically, I had no choice." He pushed away from his desk. "I'm going to leave the seven of you alone now," he said, standing up. "Use my office as long as you'd like." He bowed toward us and quickly left the room.

Deborah turned to Steven and buried her face in his shoulder.

Amy, who had been seated in the center of the front row, nearest the lawyer's desk, stood up and faced us.

"Almost nothing I have heard this morning is news to me," she said, "except the particulars of Mr. Wilson's and mother Margaretha's survival." She wiped her cheek with a single finger. "I didn't know mother Margaretha had also survived the flood until all of you did, but I did know about the relationship she had had with Howard Wilson." She waved her hands in front of her. "I won't get into any details, but I knew throughout a good part of our expedition that they were very close. Like so many nights throughout our journey, I saw them leave the encampment together the night before the flood. I'd figured the next morning they'd returned as they'd always done before, and I'd expected they'd been washed away and mortally wounded in the flood just as our other unfound loved ones had. For the most part, no matter how much we may pray to the contrary, we've all assumed those of our folk whom we've never found are dead."

Becky bolted to her feet. "Sweet heaven, Amy, now I know why you wanted to offer Mother your forgiveness before she died! She'd wronged your family by taking Howard Wilson from them, and you knew about this relationship all along."

"How could you forgive her for what she'd done to you, for what she'd done to all of us?" Susan said, rising to her feet. "Sweet, sweet Jesus," she said prayerfully, "if Howard had been in the wagon with your brothers where he belonged, he might have saved them!"

"He might have helped to save our brothers too!" Becky exclaimed. "He was a powerfully strong man."

When the others began to make comments similar to Becky's and Susan's, Amy put out her hands and stopped the cacophony of discontent.

"What's done is done," Amy said authoritatively. "All of us have come a very long way since the flood. If there is one thing we learned on that horrible day, it was that we have nothing but future ahead of us. The past is gone. It's better left buried. And, looking to the future, I have a request to make of all of you who are here, especially now that you know the full truth about mother Margaretha and Howard Wilson."

I stood up straighter. "What is it, child?" I asked the question as warmly and gently as I could. I had no doubt the girl was suffering greatly, having to relive something so horribly unpleasant. How my heart ached upon learning she'd carried this bitter secret with her in silence all these years.

"All we have left," Amy said, drawing out the words, "is each other and the memories of the people we've lost. Let's let our memories be of the good times we had with our family members, the love, the tenderness we knew. And let's keep alive the moral reputations our folk had earned. For, without a person's good name, what else does he or she have?"

"Are you asking us to neglect the truth?" Deborah said angrily. "Should we pretend Mother and Howard were the same moral, upstanding people we'd believed them to be even though they most certainly were not?

Amy shook her head. "You couldn't do that even if you wanted to. The truth is the truth, and nothing will change it. All I'm saying is that I believe we should keep the contents of Margaretha's letter within the confines of this room. It isn't necessary that anyone else know what she's done beyond what they already know as a result of us learning about Margaretha's existence here in Hope just before she died."

Bonnie stood and faced her sisters and Steven. "Amy's right. Listen to her. No one needs to know what we learned today."

"Let's keep your mother's good name in tact," Amy said.

The discussion continued for a significant length of time among tears, embraces and disagreements, but when it was over Amy had convinced us all to let the contents of Margaretha's letter be set aflame and extinguished from our hearts.

Margaretha was dead and gone. There was no need to sully her good name with a broadcasting of what she'd done. All of us make mistakes, Amy had adroitly reminded us.

Once we'd reached our agreement we disassembled and continued about our daily lives, each of us working through our grief as we confronted new challenges.

Deborah opened her dressmaking business within weeks of her mother's demise, and she herself became her first customer.

She and Steven had set a wedding date, and Deborah had a host of gowns to create for the occasion, including her own.

Deborah and Steven were married on September 29, 1895. They hosted one of the most beautiful weddings I had ever attended. Deborah was lovely, happier than I'd seen her in many years. Steven was dapper in his formal duds, and he proudly walked all day without the use of his cane.

After a brief honeymoon in Minneapolis, Deborah opened her dressmaking business to all of the women of Hope. The demand for her dresses was so great after the ladies of the town had seen her handiwork at her wedding that she had more business than she could handle. It became necessary for her to enlist the help of all nine of her sisters and me. Whenever we were not at work at our regular places of employment, we worked for Deborah.

Steven continued to regain strength in his legs, and he hoped to be able to work for the railroad again by the following spring.

The autumn of 1895 was a good season, the happiest we'd had in many years because we were able to welcome Steven, a beloved brother and son, into our family, and because Deborah's dream of owning her own business had finally come true.

When November arrived, however, a cloud covered the rays of our happiness.

A flu epidemic hit the _Guadalupe Orphanage_ where Amy had worked since she was sixteen years old. The departure from earth to heaven of the souls of several of her beloved charges had greatly upset Amy. Her usual sullen mood grew even darker until, one day, she came home from the orphanage more distressed than I'd seen her since the day we left the flood site without having recovered and buried her deceased relatives.

Amy, a beautiful twenty-two-year-old girl with long, dark hair, fair skin, and deep green eyes, the most somber and shy of my brood, was beside herself with grief--but, to my surprise, I soon learned her anguish had nothing to do with additional deaths of children at the orphanage.

According to the intelligence I was able to coax from her, it seemed Amy's world had been turned upside down by a pair of enigmatic men who'd recently arrived in Hope.

I discovered Flossie, my sweet brown-skinned, twenty-year-old daughter with the warm dark eyes and cute button nose, was also mixed up with the two men who seemed to be the source of Amy's heartache.

Both girls were reluctant to tell me much of anything about these two mysterious men, but I was able to decipher from several discussions with the two young women that Amy's steadfast belief in protecting the good name of one of our deceased family members had something to do with the developing intimate relationship these two daughters were having with the two suspicious men.

Amy and Flossie behaved much too evasively to suit me, but, believing it is not my place to interfere in the lives of my adult daughters, I keep my opinions to myself as much as possible, and I try to let them live their lives as they see fit.

In other words, I knew little of what was going on with Amy, Flossie and the two men who'd coaxed them to take a journey out of town with them.

All I knew for certain was that I did not like the idea of my two precious girls leaving Hope behind to travel into the wilderness during a cold November with two men who were complete strangers to all of us.

But there was nothing I could do to stop them.

The End

The _Tender Mysteries Series_ continues with Amy's story in Book Two, _Restitution_.

Currently available books in the _Tender Mysteries Series_ include:

E-Books

**Resurrected** (Book One, a **FREE** download): July, 1895: An investigation into a series of thefts leads Deborah Willet to an irresistible man and a shocking discovery about another love in her life.

**Restitution** (Book Two): November, 1895: While Amy McKittrick tries to save the good name of one falsely-accused, special man, she falls in love with another.

**Retribution** (Book Three): April, 1896: Susan Willet chooses a dangerous path when she joins forces with a handsome sheriff to find the men who kidnapped her sister Bonnie.

**Recruited** (Book Four): June, 1896: Liza Green pleads not guilty to the robbery charges filed against her, but the handsome private investigator she hires, Antonio Black, believes the passionate Miss Liza is anything but innocent.

**Ricochet** (Book Five): August, 1896: Looking for a way to regain her self respect Bonnie Willet leaves home and finds a man who provides the perfect opportunity for her to redeem her soul and discover the importance of love and forgiveness.

Paperbacks

**Resurrected, Restitution** , the Paperback Edition including Books One and Two of the _Tender Mysteries Series_.

**Retribution, Recruited** , the Paperback Edition including Books Three and Four of the _Tender Mysteries Series_.

**Ricochet** , a single novel Paperback Edition of Book Five of the _Tender Mysteries Series_.

More Fran Shaff Books

Historical Romance

Change of Heart (Free Download)

The Heart Junction Series

Set in Early Twentieth Century USA

Available in e-book and paperback as individual books or in one book containing all three novels.

Laura's Lost Love, Book One, Heart Junction Series

Stephanie's Surprise, Book Two, Heart Junction Series

Mari's Miracle, Book Three, Heart Junction Series

Heart Junction Series 100 Year Special Edition (contains all three Heart Junction novels plus bonus material)

Contemporary Romance

Montana Matched

Montana's Magic (sequel to Montana Matched)

Male Fraud

For Love of Maggie (Triple Award Winning Book)

Stolen Son

The Love Trap

Ever so Humble

Romantic Comedy Collection

Young People's Novels

A Partner's Promise

The Trading Game

Short Stories

Married While Intoxicated (Free Download)

Crossed Wires (Free Download)

About the Author

Just about all of us want to get away from the demands of everyday life from time to time. Unfortunately, most of us don't have the luxury of being able to take off to some new, exciting place whenever we feel the urge--unless we like to read.

A book can take us anywhere we'd like to go. For readers who enjoy living vicariously in pastimes or in modern times Fran Shaff provides a great escape in the more than twenty novels she's published over the years. Fran's fictional books have won awards from readers, reviewers and fellow authors, and her non-fiction has been acknowledged in this way too.

Love is the main focus of all of Fran's books, whether they're contemporary or historical, serious or humorous, written for adults or teens. Love between men and women and among friends and families is featured in her books because there is nothing most of us want more than to love and be loved. Happy endings abound, but the journey to reaching that joyful final moment is always a rocky struggle, just the way we want our fiction (even though we could do without the drama in our real lives).

Reviewers say: "Ms. Shaff is a gifted writer that always delivers in her stories." (The Romance Studio) "I have discovered a great new author in Fran Shaff. She writes with depth and understanding and digs deep into the emotional lives of her characters bringing the reader with her all the way." (A Romance Review) "Fran Shaff is a wonderful writer whose prose speak with passion from her heart." (Fallen Angel Reviews) "Ms. Shaff writes about characters that warm your heart and give you a good chuckle as well." (Coffee Time Romance)

Awards and Honors

Fran Shaff has won the following awards and honors: Write Touch Readers' Award, More than Magic Award, Herbert W. Blakely Award, Golden Rose Award, EPPIE nomination for young people's literature, two Recommended Read Awards from Fallen Angel Reviews, Top Pick Award from Romance Reader at Heart, E-book of the Month Award from MyShelf.com, and two CataRomance Reviewers' Choice Awards, one nomination.

