Books by Davalynn Spencer

THE FRONT RANGE BRIDES SERIES

_An Improper Proposal_ \- Book 1

THE CAÑON CITY CHRONICLES SERIES

_Loving the Horseman_ \- Book 1

_Straight to My Heart_ \- Book 2

_Romancing the Widow_ \- Book 3

**Novella Collections**

"The Wrangler's Woman" - _The Cowboy's Bride_ collection

"The Columbine Bride" - _The 12 Brides of Summer_ collection

"The Snowbound Bride" - _The 12 Brides of Christmas_ collection

The Cañon City Chronicles are back.

With fresh edits and new covers, this three-book series tells the story of the fictional Hutton family set against the historical backdrop of Cañon City in what is now the state of Colorado. _Loving the Horseman_ is close to my heart as Book 1 in the series, for it is here that I first met Annie and Caleb in their search for something better. I'm thrilled to release it again, retitled since its first appearance in 2014.

_Loving the Horseman_ © 2017 by Davalynn Spencer

Wilson Creek Publishing

Second edition, revised from previously published, _The Cowboy Takes a Wife_ © 2014 by Davalynn Spencer

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

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

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

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com
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Dedicated to the indomitable spirit of those who through trial have burnished their faith to shine brighter than the purest gold.

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"For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you an expected end."

_-- Jeremiah 29:11_

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

_Straight to My Heart_

# CHAPTER ONE

Omaha, Nebraska

Summer, 1860

Annie Whitaker wrapped her fingers around the arms of the front porch rocking chair rather than her sister's throat.

Of course Edna thought heading for the Rocky Mountains was a bad idea. Everything was a bad idea unless she'd thought of it first.

Perspiration gathered at the nape of Annie's neck. She uncurled her fingers, relaxed her jaw, and in her sweetest voice, shifted the conversation to Edna's favorite topic. "Do you have your eye on any particular fella who's been calling lately?"

Edna stirred the heavy air with her silk fan and lowered her gaze. The porch swing creaked as she toed it back and forth. "Perhaps."

Annie rolled her eyes, grateful that Edna couldn't see out the side of her head like a mule. The comparison brought a smile to Annie's lips and she rubbed her cheek to hide it.

No doubt Jonathan Mitchell topped Edna's list. He was financially successful, well bred, and handsome in a soft sort of way. Annie fully expected Daddy to turn the mercantile over to Mr. Mitchell when he left next month.

No--when _they_ left next month.

She planned to be on that stagecoach with her father come hel-- She pinched off the forbidden word and glanced at Edna, who always managed to read Annie's improper thoughts.

Why shouldn't she say that word? It was in the Bible. And it certainly applied to Omaha at the moment, hot and heavy as an unbroken fever.

Heat waves rolled over their Aunt Harriet's vast lawn and rippled the distant trees into a surreal horizon. Annie unfastened the top button on her thin blouse. She detested summer--particularly July--almost as much as she disliked Edna's propensity for being coy.

"Annabelle May." Edna glared. "Don't be indecent."

"Don't be absurd." Annie released the second button out of spite. "It's unbearably hot and there's no one to see besides you and Aunt Harriet. And she's half blind." So much for her sweet voice.

"Well, I _never_." Edna's eyelashes whipped up the humidity even more than her fan.

Annie pushed out of the rocker and leaned over the porch railing. Even the copper day lilies bordering the front of the house struggled to hold their heads up.

Edna's brow glistened with perspiration. "A little warmth does not give a lady license for indecency."

Tired of the heat as well as Edna's attitude, Annie spun toward her sister.

"Daddy wants to go to Cañon City and I'm going with him. You can stay here in Omaha with all your beaus and Aunt Harriet if you like, but I'm not letting our father go alone." She reset a loose pin in her unruly hair, then fisted her hands on her hips. "It will be an adventure. 'Pikes Peak or Bust,' they say. All those gold seekers need to get their supplies from someone. Why not Daddy?"

"Humph." At fourteen, Edna had begun her wrist-flicking. Now, four years later, she had perfected it to a fine art, and the hand-painted silk fan folded in one swift movement. "That's all you think about--adventure. You and Father both."

She palmed damp ringlets off her pale forehead and flicked the fan open for a fresh attack. "I can't believe he's willing to pull up and take off for those ragged mountains at his age. He should stay here and increase his holdings. The general store is doing quite well. Why start over someplace else and risk losing everything."

Edna fluttered furiously and aimed a guilt-laden glare. "Including his life and yours."

Annie folded her arms. Edna's threat echoed their aunt's petulant scolding. Aunt Harriet was bound by tradition and the social constraints of widowhood, and she fairly dripped resentment over her brother's freedom to do as he pleased.

Well, that was Aunt Harriet's choice, not Annie's. She preferred to experience all she could, even if it meant risking her life in the Rocky Mountains. Zebulon Pike, John C. Fremont, and others had conquered those peaks. Why not Daniel Whitaker and his younger daughter?

"Cañon City isn't even established. It's an upstart supply town, Annie, on Kansas Territory's farthest edge."

Annie rested against the railing and focused on the window's beveled edge behind the swing. "I know what and where it is."

"What it _is_ is __ uncivilized." Edna slowed her silken assault, tempered her tone. "You know what that means. They have no law yet, and probably even less order with all those gold-hungry miners and speculators and wild, drunken cowboys."

"And bank clerks and preachers and store keepers." Annie pressed her open neckline flat against her collar bone. "Be reasonable."

An unreasonable request when it came to her big sister.

Predictably, Edna stiffened and assumed a superior posture. "And Indians. You know __ wild savages live there, as well as all along the way. Don't forget what the Utes did at Fort Pueblo just six years ago. And on Christmas, no less."

Annie gritted her teeth, barring hateful words that fought for release. She and her sister had waged this verbal war more times than she cared to count. She refused to chew that piece of meat again.

A rare breeze suddenly swept the wide front porch, and Annie imagined mountain air whispering along high canyons. She braced her hands against the railing, closed her eyes, and recalled what she'd read about the Arkansas River falling from the Rockies cold and full-bellied with snowmelt. A marvelously deep gorge squeezed the river into raging white water and shot it onto the high plains through a wedge-shaped valley. And guarding the mountain gateway, that brand new town, Cañon City.

Oh, to be involved with something new and unpredictable. To see that canyon, and hear the water's roar--

Edna's lofty _tsk_ interrupted the daydream. "I know the stories too."

Annie's eyes flew open to her sister's shaking head and mirthless lips. Edna read her mind as easily as a dime novel.

"Do you know that at last count, Cañon City had only 720 residents?" Edna said.

Annie raised her chin. "Daddy and I have discussed it."

The fan snapped shut. "Do you know that out of that number, _six hundred_ are men?" Edna shuddered.

"They're men, Edna. Not animals."

"Don't be so sure, dear sister. With numbers like that, I dare say those _men_ are hardpressed to maintain their humanity."

"This is 1860, not the Dark Ages." Annie stepped away from the railing, tempted to undo a third button just to see how fast Edna could flail her fan. "We are going, and we are leaving in three weeks with or without your approval--or Aunt Harriet's."

She marched into the house and down the hall to the kitchen, where she retrieved the lemonade pitcher from the ice box. No doubt she'd not have such a modern luxury in Cañon City. She poured a glass, let it chill with the cold drink, and then held it against her forehead and neck.

The shocking relief conjured images of clear mountain snowmelt. Goose bumps rippled down her spine. The Arkansas must be delightfully cold, nothing like the Big Muddy slogging along dark and murky on its unhurried journey to the Mississippi.

At nearly a mile high, Cañon City was close to Denver City's famous claim. That in itself had to present a cooler climate. Much more pleasant, even in the summer. Edna didn't know _that._

Guilt knifed between Annie's thoughts, and she regretted her snippy attitude. But Edna infuriated her so. How had they both come from the same parents?

A familiar ache squeezed Annie's heart. That was one thing Edna did know that Annie did not--their mother's comforting arms.

She doused the pain with a sweetly sour gulp that quite reflected the two Whitaker sisters. Annie thumbed the corners of her mouth, certain that she was not considered the "sweet" one of the mix. She and Edna were no more alike than the dresses they wore.

Edna was polished satin. Annie, plain calico.

Was that the real reason behind her determination to go west with Daddy?

She slumped into a kitchen chair and traced the delicate needlework on the tablecloth. Several eligible young men called on fair-haired Edna. But no one called for the wild-maned Annie.

She pushed a loose strand from her forehead as tears stung her eyes, bunching up for an ambush. Swallowing the dregs of jealousy, she whispered, "Forgive me, Lord. Help me love my sister. Even if I don't like her very much sometimes."

The screen door slapped against its frame, and Edna's full skirts rustled toward the kitchen. Annie rushed to the icebox and filled a second glass with lemonade for her sister, hoping the gesture would ease the tension between them.

It was the least she could do.

# CHAPTER TWO

Cañon City, Colorado

Autumn, 1860

The late October sun bled pink and gold, impaled on a rugged ridgeline. Caleb Hutton stopped at the lip of a bowl-like depression, leaned on his saddle horn, and studied the jagged silhouette. He could just make out a shadowy monolith jutting from the mountain and at its base a narrow green vein that pulsed across the valley floor. To the right, a dozen buildings stood below a craggy granite spine. The faint sounds of hammers, people, and livestock drifted across the valley.

Cañon City.

The fledgling town huddled north of the tree-lined Arkansas River where canvas tents, lean-to's, and camp fires sprouted. Approaching from due east, Hutton crossed the valley and rode into town past a livery, corral, and framed-in shops. A white clapboard building stood across from the livery--a schoolhouse or church.

He stopped at the largest structure, the Fremont Hotel, then dismounted and looped both horses' reins around the hitching rail. Rooster tongued his bit and Sally heaved a sigh. Caleb patted the gelding's neck, slapped dust from his hat, and stepped through the hotel door in need of a room and a bath.

He found neither.

Rumors had been right. The burgeoning mine-supply town was full to bursting. Every chair in the hotel's crowded parlor held a man, and laughter and cigar smoke drifted from the open doorway to the adjoining saloon. Caleb's empty stomach rumbled, and he returned to his horses.

Besides the substantial brick-faced hotel, saloon, and a few other establishments, buildings in varying degrees of completion lined the short, broad street. Fading daylight drew carpenters and masons from their work and into their wagons, but others lingered along the boardwalk. Mostly miners holed up for the winter, Caleb supposed, from the looks of their grimy dungarees and whiskers.

At least he'd beat the snow.

Rooster's head drooped over the rail, eyes closed. Caleb rubbed beneath the red forelock.

"Tired as I am, are you, boy?" He gathered the reins, swung up, and pulled Sally along, turning back the way he had come. The river should be running low and smooth with summer long past, and the cottonwood grove he'd seen on his approach would be hotel enough.

He'd keep the horses with him rather than board them at the livery and sleep somewhere else alone. After three months under the stars with the animals' heavy presence nearby, he doubted he could sleep without them anyway.

Come dark, he'd brave the cold water for a bath.

Near the street's end, a woman swept the boards in front of a narrow storefront. Above her hung a painted wooden sign: _Whitaker's Mercantile._ As he rode nearer, she stooped to reclaim something, and a chunk of chestnut fell over her shoulder. She leaned her broom against the building and twisted the strands into a knot. He didn't realize he was staring until her eyes flashed his way, challenging his steady observation.

As he came even with the store, he touched the brim of his hat. "Evening, ma'am."

She dropped her hands as if caught stealing but held his gaze, nodding briefly before she turned away.

Caleb swallowed a knot in his throat. He reined Rooster toward the river, down the gentle slope to a cottonwood grove, and set his mind on making camp. No point digging up what he'd spent the last three months riding away from.

The horses drank their fill, and he hobbled and tethered them close by. Didn't need some hard case sneaking off with them while he slept.

The breeze danced downstream and shivered through the trees. Caleb's campfire was not the only glow along the river, and he was grateful for its warmth. As he cut open his last can of beans, he counted a half dozen flickering lights scattered up and down the banks.

Beneath his saddle lay his father's old friend, a Dragoon Colt. Good for snakes, his pa had always said. On the backside of Kansas Territory--as anywhere--some of those snakes had two legs and would likely kill to get what they wanted. He would not fall victim.

He sank onto his bedroll, eased back against his saddle, and waited for the stars to show--again. He could nearly chart them from watching them wink into view each night, as constant and familiar as his horses.

Restfulness settled over him for the first time since he'd left St. Joseph. The muscles in his neck and legs relaxed, and tension seeped from his spine as the river chattered like a secret companion just a few feet away.

Three months riding alone had given him plenty of time to think about his life, where he'd been, and where he was going. One more day and he'd be at the Lazy R, where cattle outnumbered people fifty to one.

Suited him just fine.

He pulled off his hat and linked his fingers behind his head.

He knew his way around horses better than most, thanks to his pa, rest his soul. Cows weren't that much different.

At least they wouldn't be sitting in pews waiting for him to say something inspiring.

He snorted at the image, but guilt twisted his gut. He'd tried his hand at people and failed. God must have made a mistake.

Or Caleb had misheard.

A twig snapped, and he slid a hand beneath his saddle. The hammer's click cut through the silence and drew a quick confession.

"Don't shoot, mister. Don't shoot."

Caleb aimed for the voice, considering the scant years that rang out in its tremor.

"Show yourself," he ordered.

Another snap and a boy stepped from between the horses, arms raised stick straight as if he were being hung by his thumbs.

"I ain't stealin' nothin', mister. I swear."

Caleb sat up. "Right there's two things you shouldn't be doing."

Firelight licked the boy's skinny neck, and his Adam's apple bobbed. "Yessir. What's that, sir?"

Caleb eased the hammer back and lowered his gun. "Stealing and swearing. Both will get you into trouble."

He waved the boy over and kept the revolver in his lap. "How old are you, and what are you doing out here by yourself at night? Don't you know you could have been shot?"

"Twelve, huntin' a bush, and yessir."

Caleb held back a chuckle at the nervous answer. "You can put your hands down now."

The youngster dropped his arms fast. Like the woman at the mercantile.

"What's your name?"

"My Christian name is Benjamin, sir, but my folks call me Springer."

"Well, Springer, where _are_ your folks?"

The boy pointed upstream. "See that light there in the trees? That there's our camp."

"Aren't you a little far from home for this time of night?"

"Yessir, but like I said, I was huntin' a bush."

A woman's voice called through the dark, quietly at first, then with greater urgency.

"You'd better answer," Caleb said.

"Comin', Ma!"

The boy's voice cracked and Caleb dropped his head and smiled. He poked the fire with a broken branch and sparks licked the sky. "So, Springer, before you head back, I have two questions for you. First, tell me why they call you Springer."

The boy grinned and stuck his thumbs in his suspenders. "That's 'cause I can jump higher 'n anybody."

Life should be so simple.

"Fair enough. Next question. Why were you sneaking up on my horses?"

Springer hung his head, and his hands dropped to his sides. "I just wanted to pet 'em. We had to get rid of our horses, and I miss 'em somethin' fierce."

"Benjamin Springer Smith! I'm gonna tan your hide if you don't get your tail over here right now!"

Caleb laughed. "Off with you, Benjamin Springer Smith, or you won't have a hide left to tan the next time."

"Yessir. Thank you, sir."

The boy crashed through the cottonwoods like a razorback on the run. A high-pitched yelp signaled that his arrival wasn't as quick as his ma expected.

Caleb chuckled, stashed the revolver, and poked the fire again. Embers scattered like Missouri fireflies, and the wood snapped and cracked in surrender to the flames.

The sound punctured his chest, reopened a wound. He shoved the heel of his hand against his breastbone, winded by the unexpected pain.

Once he'd surrendered to a searing flame. Twice, really. Answered a call that proved fruitless and offered his soul to a woman who proved faithless. Both failings twisted into a noose, and he wanted nothing but to rid himself of it.

Inexperience had cost him his life's endeavors--his small pastorate and the affection of the woman he loved. Too young to earn many converts, he thought he'd at least turned Miss Mollie Sullivan's.

He'd turned her, all right. All the way into the arms of the wealthiest man in his congregation. Who also happened to sit on the elders' board.

He grunted and stabbed at the fire again, refusing to let it burn out. He dug for the brightest ember and held the stick against it until the probing wood flamed into a torch.

A similar torch had gutted him, left him ruined for both the ministry and matrimony. He refused to stand in the pulpit, avoiding Miss Sullivan's eyes while he preached God's love and forgiveness. Nor could he call a meeting of the board and explain his sudden departure.

He simply traded his frock coat and collar for a duster and broad brim and tacked a note to the chapel door.

Not exactly Luther's _Ninety-Five Theses_.

A sneer lifted his lip.

He had wanted to smash the elder's smirking, self-righteous face. But then he'd be no better than the thieving scoundrel himself. And what would that tell his parishioners? Turn the first cheek so the parson could punch the second?

He shoved the charred branch into the dirt, stretched out on his bedroll, and folded his arms across his chest. For three months he'd argued with himself about returning to St. Joe and owning up. But he'd already said his piece in the note on the door. Told those gentlefolk they needed a more experienced preacher. Left them the name of his seminary professor.

And if he went back and knocked out one of his congregants with anything other than preacherly conviction, he'd have to apologize all over again. Better leave well enough alone.

He rubbed his chin, scratched at the stubble.

Tomorrow he'd start forgetting. Forget Mollie, the ministry, and everything familiar, including the three people he'd met since riding into Cañon City--an apologetic hotel clerk who didn't have a room for him, a beautiful woman with a broom, and a youngster camping on the river with his family. Two of the three he wouldn't mind seeing again, but that likely wouldn't happen.

Setting his boots aside, he slipped from his clothes and into the shallow water, lowering himself with a harsh gasp as the current wrapped around him. Cold but cleaner, he quickly dressed, stirred the fire, and crawled into his bedroll.

The familiar mix of wood smoke, leather, and dried horse sweat swirled above him, and he stared at the only thing there was to see. A starry band swept across the sky, sparkling a thousand times brighter than it did in St. Joseph. A glittering contrast against the black vault.

Like the shimmer he'd seen in the broom lady's lovely eyes.

Tomorrow. He'd forget all of them tomorrow when he started his new life.

# CHAPTER THREE

Annie heard the plop before the smell penetrated the rough wall. Her nose wrinkled and she buried her face in her pillow. Never in all her seventeen years had she dreamed she'd wake up in a barn.

A horse whinnied and pawed, impatient for breakfast. Annie's stomach returned the complaint, but the stench of the fresh deposit warred with her hunger pangs. She pulled the quilt over her head and burrowed into the blankets on her straw-filled pallet.

The Overland Stage had safely carried her and her father across the wide prairie last month, and they'd shared primitive accommodations along the way. But the Planter's House in Denver City and their week-long stay there had led her to believe the rugged Rockies weren't so rugged after all.

Hah. That was Denver, this was not.

What would her sister say if she could see Annie curled up in the Cañon City Livery? A vision of Edna's tightly seamed lips and disapproving fan roused Annie's ire, and the imagined words shot heat through her veins.

_I told you so._

Annie tossed the quilts back and reached for the clothing she'd draped over the foot of her pallet. After pulling her arms inside her cotton gown, she traded out the stockings and drawers she'd slept in but kept her chemise. She tugged on a flannel petticoat, topped it with two skirts, then exchanged her gown for a long-sleeved shirt and buttoned on her high-top shoes. She loosened the long braid that hung down her back, and with dexterity born of practice, brushed through the thick strands and deftly twisted them into a knot and pinned it in place. Not that she counted on it to stay. By noon it would be hugging the base of her neck.

She smoothed her quilt top, tucked in the edges all around, and prayed that no mice worried their way into her bed looking for warmth.

A shiver scurried along her spine.

What were their chances of surviving the winter? How would she and her father not freeze to death?

Needing relief, she had no time for fearful thoughts and pulled her heavy cloak about her shoulders for a trip to the necessary.

Since she was always up before her father, she quietly stepped around the curtain they'd hung to separate their pallets and stopped short. He sat at the pallet's edge, galluses drooping off his hunched shoulders, head in his hands.

"Daddy?" she whispered. "Are you all right?"

He raised his head, and worry rimmed his moist eyes. " _We_ are not all right, Annie." He spread his hands, palms up. "Look where we are. We sleep in a _barn._ I've brought my beautiful young daughter all the way to the Rocky Mountains to live in a barn."

His head sank to his hands again.

His words burned into the doubts she'd so carefully tucked away, and unladylike thoughts of their new landlord--one Jedediah Cooper--sparked her resolve. "Oh, Daddy, we're going to be fine." She knelt beside him and clasped his arm.

He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. "We should have stayed in Omaha. My sister and yours were right."

Annie's hackles rose at the idea of Edna being right-- _again_. "No, they were not. They simply don't have the adventurous streak that you and I have." She forced her lips into a smile and smoothed his uncombed hair off his forehead. "We'll talk to Mr. Cooper again about giving us the back room in the store. It's just whiskey he's got in there, and he can move it to his saloon. I'll even help."

Her father's eyes latched onto hers and his bushy brows lurched together. "You will not. You don't go near that place of his." He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket and shook his head. "If we sold the mare, we'd have money against a loan and could build a small cabin. And we'd save on her feed too. She eats as much as the other three horses combined."

Annie stood and brushed off her skirt. It wasn't completely true. Her beloved mare, Nell, didn't eat quite that much. Maybe just as much as two of their other horses, but that wasn't the point.

She buttoned her heart against her father's remark and her cloak against the cold. "I'm going out back and then to the mercantile. You banked the fire last night, so it won't take me long to get the place warmed up." She bent to kiss his snowy head. "That potbellied stove is a blessing. I'll have coffee going in no time."

Her father slapped his hands on his knees and threw back his shoulders. "You've got spunk, Annie girl. Just like your mama."

His words picked at an old scab. The one that always opened anew when he mentioned the mother she had never known.

"I'll feed Nell too, Daddy."

He huffed, wagged his head, and grunted as he pushed to his feet.

Annie opened the stall door and gathered her skirts against her as she pulled it closed. The mare whinnied and hung her massive head over the railing across the alleyway.

"Hungry again, are you, Nell?" Annie scooped an armload of loose hay from a pile and tossed it over the gate. She brushed off her skirt again and picked stubborn pieces from her cloak.

"Take it slow, girl." Reaching over the gate, she stroked the thick yellow neck and hushed her voice to a whisper. "Daddy's going to sell you like the others if you don't quit eating so much."

Nell's ears flicked forward and back as if taking due note.

They'd needed all four draft horses to haul their supplies south from Denver City because Daddy refused to drive mules or pay someone else to do so. But after renting and stocking the mercantile, he'd sold off the other three horses, their harnesses, and the heavy freight wagon. Everything excess had to go, he'd said. She'd fought dearly to keep the big yellow mare.

She checked over her shoulder for unlikely onlookers, then rubbed her backside, remembering how it ached during the jolting ride to Cañon City. Much worse than during the dust-choked miles on the Overland Stage from Leavenworth, though mercifully shorter.

She hurried to the necessary behind the livery, then to the boardwalk, where few people appeared so early--merchants or carpenters or stone masons preparing for the day. At the mercantile door she slid the key in the lock and entered beneath the brass bell's cheerful welcome. The scent of coffee beans, tobacco, and oiled leather soothed her nerves and she drew in a slow, deep breath. Their modest store held everything a person could want--a person with a soul brave enough to head west, that is.

Fine flour and sugar, pearly oats and smooth dried beans, barrels of sour pickles and pale crackers. Bright dress cloth and drab canvas, blue-speckled dishware and cast-iron skillets. Black leather boots and shoes and a few saddles. Strong soaps, wooden toys, a precious sampling of books, and notions like needles and threads and buttons and pins--better than a drummer's wagon.

Peeling off her cloak, she surveyed the cramped, full-to-the-brim space. Aunt Harriet would tell her she had best watch her step, for "pride goeth before destruction." Annie sniffed at the imagined scolding. Of course she was proud. She was useful here, working beside her father, as if what she did mattered. They met people's needs, and that was important. Much more important than sitting on Aunt Harriet's front porch waiting for one of Edna's many beaus to give her a second glance.

To pick her up as second best.

Disappointment clawed at Annie's ribcage, finding her wanting in comparison to her sister. Her unruly hair never stayed put like Edna's flaxen tresses, and her thin chest only half filled Edna's ruffled bodices. But Daddy had called her beautiful this morning. She smiled at his tenderness, though she knew she would never be as fetching as her sister.

So be it.

Her jaw tightened with determination. It was better this way, that she didn't turn the head of every man who saw her. Her father needed help, and she refused to sit by and wait for some man __ to come along and make her life better when she could do that herself.

She marched to the stove that anchored the long narrow room, bunched her skirt to protect her hand, and opened the door. With a poker she scraped at the ash pile and uncovered a glowing red eye. Perfect. She added a few chunks from the nearby coal bucket and adjusted the damper.

"Lord, you promised you'd meet our __ needs." She rubbed her hands together and held them open above the squat stove, careful not to let her skirts touch its iron belly. "And you know Daddy and I need a warmer place to stay until we can afford to build a house."

Guilt pointed a grimy finger. Some folks had it worse. How many were camped by the river in canvas tents, cooking over open fires? And hadn't one man died when his gun slipped to a rock and discharged, killing him instantly?

Frustrated that she couldn't build a house with her own two hands, she squirmed inwardly at the doubt behind her pleading prayer.

She left the warm spot and ground fresh coffee, then filled a blue enamel pot with water and set it on the stove. Satisfied with the fire, she closed the damper and arranged several chairs around a braided rug before the stove.

At least she and Daddy could get warm and be out of the crisp fall air. The acknowledgement settled like a thick quilt against her soul, reminding her that small blessings were still blessings.

"Thank you, Lord," she whispered, chastened.

Since her father had agreed to handle the mail for Cañon City, at least a couple hundred people trailed through the mercantile each week. Not everyone had family to write to them, and a few, she'd learned, chose not to have folks know where they were.

Housing a post office, such as it was, her father's store had become a gathering place for several of the town's more respectable residents, as well as a few who weren't--like Jedediah Cooper, their landlord who owned nearly the entire block and acted like he owned his renters too.

She shuddered at the memory of his whiskey-colored gaze.

With everything in order, she hung her wrap on the back wall that separated the mercantile from the small storeroom. Pulling an apron over her head, she dislodged her hair in the process and peeked around the empty door frame.

Anger threatened to get the better of her. That old miser Cooper should have rented them the whole building. What were eight more feet, give or take?

She tied the apron strings and quickly repinned her rebellious strands. Combs. She'd order more combs and hairpins the next chance she got. Other women must have the same problem, and combs might sell along with the gloves and hats they kept on hand.

The bell chirped.

"Smells good in here, Annie."

Relief rushed in with the return of her father's usual cheerfulness. She offered another prayer of thanks and set about greasing a cast-iron skillet. "Coffee's almost ready. Come have a seat and I'll make some pan biscuits."

He pegged his coat and donned an apron. "If the freighters stop in today, I'll mention the mare again. Then you could have a cabin with a real cookstove. Maybe an iron bed too."

Annie swallowed against the dread of losing Nell as she floured the sideboard and rolled out the dough.

The bell rang again, and Duke Deacon and his son, Joseph, stomped in. Annie's heart plopped like a doughy wad. Of course the day's first customers had to be freighters.

By the time she had the biscuits on the stove, the men had taken chairs and coffee. Annie set to making a fresh pot, praying the freighters wouldn't want her Nell.

"Gonna be a long, hard winter, Whitaker," the elder driver said. Blue eyes shone like lights from his weathered face, and his black hair lay slick and flat against his skull. "If there's somethin' you'll be needin' 'fore spring, better order it. I'll be freightin' 'tween storms, so won't be near as regular as it is now. Fact, this is my last trip to Denver City for a spell. When I get back, I'll be stayin' put for a couple weeks."

Her father leaned against a cracker barrel, nursing his own tin cup. "Tell me how you figure on a hard winter."

"Skunk cabbage," Joseph piped, a shorter, smoother version of his coal-haired father. "Higher 'n it's been in a long time, ain't that so, Pa."

Duke nodded and sipped. "That's right. Surprised to see it too. Don't usually get that much snow down here 'long the Arkansas. Not like falls up on the Platte."

Annie caught her father's laughing eyes above his coffee cup. He put no stock in such folklore about cabbage and snowfall and hard winters, and he was more inclined to refer to the almanac he kept under the front counter. Not that he'd say so to his new customers.

The Deacons left with a dozen biscuits in their bellies and an order for ladies' combs and hairpins. All the cabbage talk must have driven Nell from her father's mind, and Annie sighed with relief when the freighters climbed onto their wagon without having bought her beautiful mare.

Strange, the things she'd thanked the Lord for lately.

Perspiring in the cramped space, now that the stove was hot, she rolled her sleeves and wiped her neck with her apron hem. No time to cool herself with a brief walk outdoors. More customers were sure to come.

She plopped a fresh batch of dough onto the floured side-board sending up a dusty cloud. Rolled and cut and amply greased, a second batch browned on the pot-belly within minutes.

"Believe I'll buy this tin o' molasses to go with those fine biscuits you've got there." Her father stood behind the front counter dusting the tin top with his shirt sleeve. Then he penciled the item on a notepad where he listed their personal purchases.

Annie shook her head. They might freeze to death in the livery, but at least they'd not starve their first winter.

Hefting the black skillet with a towel, she carried it to the sideboard, where she split two biscuits each on two tin plates and drizzled dark molasses over both servings. After adding a fork to each plate, she joined her father already seated and waiting.

Settled and warm with food on her lap and her dear father close by, Annie's brimmed with gratitude as he prayed.

"Thank you, Lord, for feeding us and keeping us safe. And open Cooper's heart, Lord. Before it snows, if possible. Amen."

Refusing to let their stingy landlord's image lay claim to her thoughts, Annie forked off a bite and savored the sweet molasses-covered mouthful. She dabbed at her lips with her apron and eyed her father, who heartily attacked his breakfast.

"You don't believe that nonsense about skunk cabbage do you, Daddy?"

He cut into the second biscuit and sopped it in the pooling molasses. "Nope." Closing his eyes, he chewed slowly and nodded. "Delicious, Annie. Absolutely the best biscuits this side of the Rocky Mountains."

Annie swallowed another bite. "You can't say that anymore."

"And why not?"

"Because now we are _in_ the Rocky Mountains."

# CHAPTER FOUR

_Mollie Sullivan twittered at Caleb's sermon. She chirped again and ducked her pretty blond head as a red-winged blackbird took flight from her Sunday bonnet._

Caleb's eyes flew open, his chest heaving. Palming his face, he took in the pale sky and birdsong. The horses were still tethered, lipping leaves from the cottonwoods and swishing their tails. Rooster looked his way and swiveled an ear.

Caleb sat up, threw back his blanket and canvas, and pulled on his boots. Someone was frying salt pork. Probably Springer Smith's ma, considering the direction from which the savory smell came.

He reached into his saddle bag for his last bit of jerked beef and a biscuit he'd been saving, and laid them on his bedroll. Then he found his razor and soap, turned toward the east, and stopped at the spectacle.

Low clouds slid along the fiery horizon, black and backlit with red and gold and splayed out like the hand of God. Unbidden came the phrase, _Your mercies are new every morning._

Would he never stop hearing them--words he'd known as a child, handled as a man, turned his back on as a failure?

One more day.

He walked to the water's edge and squatted near an eddy. The first cold dash brought Mollie to mind again. Her image had appeared first thing every morning since leaving St. Joseph, and he dreamed of her almost every night. But this time her features weren't as clear. They were blurred, somehow, by a sorrel-haired woman with a broom.

He huffed. Many a woman he'd seen in towns he'd ridden through, but none had outshone Mollie in his mind's eye. Not when he laid down to sleep or when he rose in the morning. Not until now.

Dousing the vision with another cold splash, he smoothed his hand over his cheeks and checked his fingers for blood. He shook out his razor, folded the wrapper around the shrinking soap bar, and returned them both to the saddle bag, where his hand brushed worn leather.

The familiar rub sent fire up his arm. He pulled out the book, wondering why he'd bothered to bring it, then shoved it back. Old habits were harder to break than an uncut yearling. But he didn't need to open those pages. The words rolled through his mind like living coals.

Two bites finished the hard tack and another the dried beef. He saddled Rooster, tied his bedroll across Sally, and led the horses out of the trees. Laughter drew his gaze upstream, where Springer splashed in the shallows with a small girl. A bit cold to be getting wet so early. Probably fetching water for their mother.

Cottonwood leaves fluttered like paper coins, and the treetops flashed gold as the sun found them. A warning hung in the autumn chill.

Caleb rode toward town and turned onto the main street. Two freighters climbed to their wagon box, and the larger of the men gathered the reins and called to the mules. The wagon creaked in complaint as it rolled away from the mercantile.

Had they slept by the river or under their wagon at the livery yard? Or did they have homes, loving wives, and warm stoves?

Envy jabbed a finger in his gut. _Wrath killeth the foolish man, and envy slayeth the silly one._

He shook his head to silence the voice, and considered the number of fires at the river, the clusters of tents and canvas lean-tos. Stark witness to the town's greatest need.

Smoke curled a welcome from the stove pipe atop the mercantile. Good a place as any to get directions to the Lazy R. He stopped, flipped his horses' reins around the hitching rail and stepped inside.

The aroma of hot biscuits and fresh coffee nearly bowled him over. The broom lady and an older man sat close to a potbellied stove, plates balanced on their laps. Each looked up at Caleb's entrance, and the man nodded and waved him back.

"Coffee's ready. Annie just made a fresh pot."

_Annie._

She watched him without expression, her upswept hair a coppery crown above deep clear eyes.

Caleb removed his hat and kicked one boot against the other to knock the dust from his feet. "Thank you, sir. Coffee sounds good right about now."

The woman watched as he covered the short distance and took the empty chair across from the stove.

"Mornin', ma'am."

Her face came alive and a slight smile tilted her mouth. "Now I remember. You rode by last evening, didn't you?"

"Yes, ma'am." He nodded a thank-you to the man, who handed him a cup.

"I didn't recognize you at first." She quickly scanned his attire and glanced away.

Caleb rubbed his jawline. "I shaved this morning, ma'am. I imagine that made a difference."

She smiled fully then, and it warmed him as much as the hot tin threatening to blister his hands.

"I imagine you'd like some biscuits."

She stood as she spoke and, without waiting for his answer, moved to the back of the room, where she placed two golden mounds on a plate. Turning, she raised a tin. "Molasses?"

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

She fetched a fork and presented it to him with the plate and a friendly glance. "I hope you enjoy them."

As a former man of many words come Sunday morning, he found himself nearly mute in her presence. "Thank you, ma'am." _Clever_.

"Name's Daniel Whitaker." The older man extended his hand. "Annie here is my daughter."

Caleb switched the fork to his left hand and returned the greeting. "Caleb Hutton, sir. Nice to meet you." He looked at Annie. "And you, ma'am."

Mahogany eyes flashed his way, then hid beneath dark lashes.

"Where might you be headed so late in the year, Mr. Hutton?" Whitaker sopped a biscuit and filled his mouth.

Caleb quickly swallowed a warm, sweet mouthful. "The Lazy R. In fact, that's why I stopped in, to see if you could tell me how to get there."

"You thinking about signing on?"

"Yes, sir. I hear they're looking for hands."

Whitaker gave Caleb a smooth once-over but kept his appraisal to himself.

Annie leaned in with the coffeepot and refilled the cup he'd set at his feet. Her hair smelled like a summer day, a gentle contrast to the faint coal taste in the room.

"The Lazy R is upstream about eight miles west, but you can't follow the river," Whitaker said. "Once you get to the hot springs at the end of town, take the trail around to the right and on up a long pull. The Lazy R starts at the top. If you keep going, you'll end up in the South Park country, and above that, the gold fields, but that would take a day or so."

Clawing the earth for yellow ore didn't appeal to Caleb, though he knew the lure of easy money had drawn men by the thousands to these mountains. The only gold he'd ever had his eye on fell in ringlets around Mollie Sullivan's face. And he'd gone bust with her as quick as any miner in a cleaned-out claim.

"I'll find it."

Eager to be on his way, he daubed the last of the molasses with a piece of biscuit and stood to take his cup and plate to the back.

Annie reached for his plate. "I'll take those, Mr. Hutton."

"Thank you again." He swallowed hard, looking for the right words. "I imagine you're as good with those dishes as you are with the broom."

A dark look sliced him in half. Her chin jutted higher, and she whirled around and strode to the cupboard at the back.

Feeling the fool, he glanced at the store owner, who wore a peculiar grin.

Caleb cleared his throat. "I meant--"

"No mind, son. We know what you meant." Whitaker pushed out of his chair and walked behind the counter, where he wrote something on a piece of paper.

Caleb plunked his hat on, regretting his woeful attempt at small talk, and dug in his waistcoat for a coin.

"No charge, Mr. Hutton." Whitaker raised an open hand as if forestalling an argument.

At that, Annie spun again, hands fisted at her narrow waist. Fire sparked in her eyes.

Whitaker coughed and wiped a hand across his mouth, extending the other to Caleb.

"Good luck, son. I hope you find what you're looking for."

Caleb nodded and left the store with more questions than answers. Why had Whitaker made such a remark when Caleb had clearly stated his destination? And why had Annie taken such offense at a compliment, ill-put at best?

And why did he want to see more in her eyes than fire at his foolishness?

~

"Daddy." Annie's left foot punctuated her frustration with a sound stomp. "We'll go broke with you giving away breakfast to every saddle tramp that wanders in here."

Her father picked up a feather duster and turned to the shelves behind the counter.

"And how many saddle tramps have we had this week, Miss Annie?"

Even in profile his grin was obvious, and his use of the old childhood endearment only added to her ire. "Quite a few, I'd say."

"And how many did I charge for their food and supplies?" He feathered the top of a liniment tin.

She folded her arms, completely aware of where this was going.

"Well?" Her father glanced her way, a glint in his eye.

"All of them." Her left foot ached for another stomp, but that childish response had prompted him to call her by her childish name. She leaned to the left and imagined pushing her shoe through the plank flooring. "Except him."

"You mean Hutton."

"Hutton. Humph."

Her father tucked the feather duster beneath the counter and rested his hands on his ample middle. "Isn't that what Edna usually says?"

Humiliation flooded her cheeks. Daddy was right. But still. "Didn't you hear what he said to me? That I must be as good at washing dishes as I am at pushing a broom?"

Her father's expression softened, but his eyes twinkled like a Christmas saint. "I think he was trying to pay you a compliment. Just take it at that and nothing more."

_Some compliment_. The man might have said almost anything else and done no harm. He could have mentioned the coffee, or her fresh biscuits, or ... or ...

_Men_.

She tugged her apron strings lose and cinched them tighter into a knotted bow. If she had Edna's emerald eyes and yellow hair, that drifter would have found plenty to say. But she kept that indictment to herself, recalling how sad her father had looked this morning hunched over on his pallet.

The memory doused her fury, and she slipped behind the counter and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Never you mind, Daddy. We'll get enough customers to make up for that cowboy."

She hoped. Sometimes her father's generosity outweighed his common sense.

She returned to the back and set a pan of water on the stove for washing their dishes.

That drifter's insult would not have stung so if it had come from a common-looking man. One that didn't carry himself with bridled confidence. One without two dark pools for eyes and the breath of untamed country about him.

She scraped a soap curl into the water and added the plates, forks, and cups. By the time she had the counter cleaned, steam rose from the dishpan. Was it her imagination, or did water boil quicker in Cañon City than in Omaha?

Certainly her emotions seemed to. Just the thought of Hutton's expression as he'd downed her biscuits made her pulse kick up.

How could Daddy be so generous where customers were concerned and so stingy toward Nell?

Flustered, she moved the pan to the back counter, nearly scrubbed the white specs from the blue enamelware, and soaked her apron in the process.

Nell was too big to be a pet, but she was the next best thing. Annie loved the horse's warm breath on her face, the large, kind eyes, and the velvety nose that sniffled her hand for dried apples.

Guilt wiggled under Annie's collar at the purloined apple rings she sneaked into her skirt pockets each evening to treat the ever-hungry mare. Daddy wasn't the only one who gave away food. But if he kept squandering their profits on cowhands like Caleb Hutton, they'd have barely enough to live on and would need to sell the mare for sure. She rubbed angry tears away with the back of her hand at the very thought.

The bell clinked, and she turned to see Martha Bobbins flutter through the door with her customary smile.

"Oh, Daniel dear. I'm so glad to see you're here this morning."

"Daniel dear" shot a nervous glance toward Annie and tugged at his apron straps.

Annie hid her giggle over the dishpan. Martha Bobbins certainly lived up to her name. The woman bobbed in at least once every day to buttonhole Annie's father with a "dire necessity." As the only seamstress in town, she made everything from dresses to dungarees, and she depended upon Whitaker's Mercantile to supply her needs. She even had a foot-treadle sewing machine. Not many people knew about it, but Annie had seen it when she'd delivered several lengths of denim to Martha's tidy cabin.

But the plump little widow came in mostly to see Annie's father, and it didn't bother Annie one bit. Martha's material needs couldn't begin to outweigh her father's need of attention from a woman his own age--someone other than his monopolizing sister, Harriet. Which was the best reason Annie could think of for moving to Cañon City, a town much too uncivilized for the likes of her aunt.

Her conscience twinged.

Yes, Martha Bobbins was more than welcome.

Annie dried her hands on her apron, adjusted the pins slipping from her hair, then joined her father and Martha at the front. Already he blushed as Martha fluttered over the fabric he'd spread across the counter.

This time she fingered a creamy silk.

"I think this will be perfect for the bride, Daniel." Martha snared him with a knowing glance.

He flushed crimson.

"That _is_ lovely, isn't it," Annie said, rescuing him from a painful position. She stepped close to his side and patted his back. "We were right to bring it, weren't we, Daddy?"

He cleared his throat and pulled at his mustache. "Thanks to your good judgment, Annie."

She unfolded the fabric, extending a long, smooth swath. "And whose dress are you making, Martha, if I may pry?"

Martha twittered and waved Annie's self-judgment aside. "Hannah Baker. She and the Reverend Robert Hartman are getting married after Christmas. Don't you think that is the most romantic thing you ever heard?"

Daniel slipped away, and Martha's smile weakened.

Annie reached across the silk to touch her arm. "I couldn't agree more."

Disappointment edged the little woman's eyes, and she sighed heavily.

Annie leaned over the counter and whispered, "Give him time. You're making headway."

The comment colored Martha's cheeks with a youthful blush, and a whispery giggle escaped from behind one hand. "You really think so?"

Annie couldn't resist a conspiratorial wink, then returned to safer territory. "So why are Hannah and Pastor Hartman waiting until after Christmas?"

"His brother--also a preacher, you know, from up in Denver with a fancy brick church _and_ a steeple--said he couldn't get down to do the ceremony until after all the holiday fuss. Hopefully he won't get snowed in. You know how we always get a heavy storm before the new year."

Annie nodded as she unfolded several more lengths of the luxurious fabric, though really she didn't __ know. This would be her first winter in Cañon City.

She flicked a glance at the seamstress and considered the possibility of Pastor Hartman's brother performing a simple ceremony for another couple during the same visit.

Inwardly shocked at her presumption, she checked again to see if Martha could read her mind as easily as Edna did. Apparently, Daddy couldn't. Would he figure it out? Of course, if he did, Annie faced a solitary future.

Not a completely foreign thought, given her appearance, her often prickly disposition, and the fact that she had yet to meet a man in Cañon City even close to what she considered eligible, in spite of their numbers.

Caleb Hutton's handsome face worked into her memory with shocking clarity. She shivered.

"Are you all right dear? You haven't caught a chill from sleeping in that drafty old barn, have you?"

Of course the small and sprightly source of local gossip knew about their living arrangements. There was nothing in town that Martha did not __ know.

"For the time being, we are perfectly fine." Annie lowered her voice. "But I'm hoping to speak to Mr. Cooper later today and convince him to rent us the entire store, not just the front. We could turn the back into a sleeping room of sorts."

Martha tsked and shook her head. "What a leech he is. Pardon me, dear, but it's the gospel truth. He shouldn't ask one penny more than you already pay, the old coot. I've a mind to charge him double for the next apron he orders from me, just to show him."

Annie laughed and folded the fabric into a smooth square. Then she wrapped it in brown paper and tied it with twine.

Martha dug into her reticule for a silver coin and handed it to Annie. "If I had an extra room in my cabin, I'd have you and your father stay there." She stole a quick peek toward the back and pushed an imaginary stray lock beneath her ruffled cap.

"And you're a sweetheart for even thinking of us." Annie made change and wrote out a receipt. "Thank you ever so much, but don't you worry. I'm sure I can talk Mr. Cooper into being a bit more generous before the snows come."

Oh, if merely saying the words out loud would make them true. But she knew better. Cleverness was required when it came to Mr. Cooper. She just didn't know quite how to go about it yet.

# CHAPTER FIVE

Caleb followed the river upstream to where it cut through a granite canyon and round a jutting red rock sentinel west of town. Two log cabins squatted in a cottonwood grove. He guessed the mineral springs were at hand, for the Utes he'd heard of camped several hundred paces away against a sheer rock wall. Their fires sent smoke spiraling above a stony ridge.

Surely the river was a certain path to the high country grassland, but Daniel Whitaker had said the banks choked off a few miles in. Caleb didn't have daylight to waste on a hunch, so he turned back and headed north along a narrow valley. It climbed beneath a saw-toothed rim--evidence enough for how these mountains came by their name.

The yellow ridge scraped sky on Caleb's right, and orange sandstone abutments jutted from the hillside like upraised floorboards. To his left, Fremont Peak's lesser points pushed skyward, a prehistoric beast straining against its rocky confines. Strange country, this land that drew cattlemen and gold seekers alike.

Ahead, the trail curved deeper into the mountains toward his longed-for escape. He hoped to make the Lazy R by early afternoon.

Rooster's head bobbed to a steady gait, and the rocking rhythm set Caleb's thoughts to churning. Annie Whitaker's sweet biscuits sure beat the hard tack he'd choked down earlier that morning. Why hadn't he mentioned that __ instead of how handy she was with a broom?

He touched his boot heels to Rooster's side. The horse quickened its pace but not enough to outdistance thoughts of molasses-colored eyes that warmed Caleb's insides.

A woman like that would make a man's life brighter in this bleak country. Be it laughter or anger, light danced in those eyes. And in her hair. He grabbed a handful of Rooster's mane and pulled his fingers through. Nearly the same color but coarser. Annie's hair must be soft as a baby's whisper.

He jerked his hand back. He must be crazy. After his remark that morning, Annie Whitaker wouldn't give him another biscuit if her life depended on it, much less the opportunity to touch her hair.

Caleb angled his horses west as they climbed between scrubby peaks. Bent and twisted juniper soon gave way to scattered pinion and cedars that stretched against a cloudless blue. Air as fresh and fine as he'd ever breathed filled his lungs with promise. He could start over here. Find his footing again.

By midday, the trail broke into a wide plateau dotted with grazing cattle. Several hundred head, he figured. In the distance, low buildings hugged the base of a steep rise--the Lazy R ranch house and barns.

Caleb touched his heels to Rooster's side, and the gelding eased into a gentle lope. Cool water, a pile of hay, and a new life lay just across the grassland.

He slowed to a trot as he approached a gate with a high crossbeam bearing a leaning "R." As he pulled up, he studied the carver's handiwork, supported by two massive timbers, then rode beneath and took the next quarter mile at a walk. Every clop of Rooster's and Sally's hooves counted out the days that Caleb had spent in the saddle. Anticipation rose in his chest, the payoff for his long trip close at hand.

The main barn shaded two cowboys and a horse. One man stooped beneath the saddled mount's back leg, the sounds of his rasp scraping through the thin air as he smoothed the hoof. A vaquero held the reins, his leggings trimmed with a line of silver conchos.

The shoer dropped the foot, and both men eyed Caleb and his horses as they stopped at the corral.

Caleb nodded. "Afternoon."

He stepped off Rooster, flipped the reins over the top rail, and offered his hand. "Caleb Hutton. I hear you're looking for ranch hands."

The farrier shook Caleb's hand but cut a glance at the vaquero.

"Where'd you hear that?"

"St. Joseph, Missouri. In the paper there. I saw an ad for the Lazy R."

The man's eyes flicked over Caleb's garb like Daniel Whitaker's had, but this time judgment followed.

"We got all we need. You're too late."

Caleb's heart stumbled. "I'm good with horses. Doctor livestock too."

The vaquero's shaded eyes cut away to the near hills.

The shoer spit a black stream to the side and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"No more bunks, son. Sorry, we're full up." He turned away, slid the rasp into a small wooden box, and unbuckled his leather apron.

Caleb couldn't make it back to Missouri before winter. He cleared his throat, pushed through the tightness.

"Are there other ranches around here in need of a hard worker?"

The vaquero swung onto the horse. Sunlight glinted off his long-roweled spur as he reined around and headed for the nearest bunch of cows. The farrier plopped a brown bowler on his head and squinted at Caleb.

"Wrong time o' year. Winter's comin' on, and most spreads are gettin' ready to hunker down. No branding, nothin' that calls for extra help till spring. Come back around then."

"But the ad--"

"There's a lot o' men lookin' for work, son. We filled up quick." A black spot flew from his mouth and darkened the dirt at his feet. "Try the saloon in town. Hotel might have somethin' for you with all the miners comin' down for winter. Or the saw mill."

Reality slapped Caleb, cold and hard. He'd been a fool. Gone off half-cocked on no more than a paper promise. He'd not bunk at the Lazy R tonight or any time soon.

He wanted to rant--holler about the miles he'd ridden, the dust he'd eaten, the new start he had to find. He wanted to preach __ about turning away the poor and the destitute. But he was no longer a preacher. He had no right.

After he stripped the reins from the fence, he climbed into the saddle. "Thanks anyway."

The first sign of emotion crossed the man's face. "Sorry, son, that's just how it is. Hope you make out." Then he grabbed his shoeing box and walked into the barn.

Caleb reined Rooster back the way they'd come. He wasn't about to ask for a place to sleep for the night or even water for his horses.

He did not beg.

At the high gate, he headed east for Cañon City and heeled Rooster into a lope. The sun pressed toward the peaks behind him, on run from the coming night. It pulled its warmth with it and threw a brassy light on the ridge ahead, where yellow flared through a dark pine blanket.

Caleb had read about the aspen that flecked the mountains--those white-barked trees that bore the gold men didn't hunt, the kind that showed itself year after year as witness to a providential hand.

He snorted. Providence. That was one thing he didn't need.

Providence had drawn him away from his father's wishes and proven livelihood. Providence had left him without a bride, a living, or a place to lay his head. And Providence had led him to the hollow hope of a fresh start.

His gut kicked against the blasphemy, and he kicked Rooster into a dead run. Maybe Providence wasn't to blame.

Maybe he had done all those things to himself.

~

Cooper hadn't been in for his mail and Annie fumed. When she didn't want to see him, he managed to slither in and curl himself around their stove, following her with his glassy eyes. But today he kept his distance.

Well, she wasn't afraid to meet him in his own territory, despite her father's warnings. She'd be in and out in of that saloon like a needle through a quilt and they'd be sleeping warmer because of it.

"Daddy, can you mind the store while I run an errand?" Annie exchanged her apron for her cloak and fastened it up to her neck. She'd not give Cooper and his kind anything to look at.

She reached the door before her father answered, and paused with her hand on the knob, looking over her shoulder for his whereabouts.

"Hurry back." The front counter muffled his reply, and he stood, red-faced from bending over.

Annie's nerves pushed her out the door before he had a chance to ask her destination.

She pulled her hood against her neck and drew deep satisfaction from her heels clacking on the boardwalk. Mr. Jedediah Cooper would agree to her terms or wish he had. How dare he force them to live in the livery stable while his whiskey cases littered the back room.

At the end of the block, she stepped into the dirt street and hurried across to the next walkway that fronted the Fremont Hotel and Saloon. People around here certainly were fond of John C. Fremont. It's a wonder they hadn't named the town after the explorer.

Approaching the saloon, she slowed her steps, well aware that unmarried women were the exception in this town and did not show their faces in drinking establishments unless they, well, weren't good churchgoing women. But she had to talk to Cooper and didn't want to wait for him to slink down to the store for his precious whiskey. She and her father needed a better roof over their heads and they needed it now.

Her left heel involuntarily stomped the boards. Oh--she had to control that childish reflex or Cooper would laugh her out of his saloon.

Stretching to her full height, she raised her chin and opened one of the saloon's double doors, catching her flushed reflection in the oval glass.

Nearly empty this early in the day, the space could easily have passed for a ball room had it not been for the tables and the long mirrored bar against the west wall. Cooper himself stood behind it, his head bent as if ciphering his accounts. The stale scent of tobacco seeped from the red-and-gold-papered walls, and the odor cloaked her like a shroud.

She pulled the door closed and cleared her throat.

Cooper looked up, his frown melting into a lascivious leer as he recognized his caller.

Annie's left hand still held the door knob and her grip tightened.

"Come in, come in, my dear child." Cooper tugged at his brocade waistcoat and made his way from behind the bar, weaving slowly through the empty tables like a python to its prey. "What brings you to the Fremont this fine day?"

Wishing she'd worn gloves, she accepted his moist hand in a brief greeting, then quickly balled her fingers beneath her wrap.

"I want to discuss renting the entire store from you, Mr. Cooper." She held his gluttonous glare, determined to keep up a bold front in his presence.

He gestured to the nearest table and pulled out a curved-back chair. "Please, be seated, Miss Whitaker. Care for a brandy?"

Her throat tightened. "No, thank you. I simply want to discuss the store. If you recall, my father and I rent the front half and more, but there remains a small space behind the dividing wall that we could use." For living quarters, but he didn't need to know that.

His eyes swept her length and back again as if tearing the cloak from her, and then settled on the hand that held the door knob as he stepped closer.

Sensing how she must appear a frightened child, she let go but stood firmly in place. "How much more do you need for the use of all the floor space?"

Cooper shifted his appraisal to the fingers of his right hand. He curled them against his palm as if examining his nails, a ridiculous gesture for a man of his size. "I'm using that space for storage right now."

"I understand, but surely you have room for your whiskey cases here in the saloon." She reviewed her rehearsed argument. "Perhaps behind the bar or in a back room where they would be much handier, don't you think?"

She scanned the room and noted two doors--one near the bar that opened into the hotel, and one at the opposite end of the back wall, closed. "I'm sure my father will be happy to help you relocate the crates."

Cooper's eyes matched his beloved amber liquor. No doubt they hid as much evil in their depths as the corked bottles behind Annie's makeshift kitchen.

"Well, it will inconvenience me, but I suppose we might work out an arrangement."

Her skin chilled at the insinuation in his shadowed gaze. If she and her father didn't need a warmer place to stay this winter, she'd slap that disgusting smirk right off his puffy face.

The door smacked her hard in the back. Both hands flew up as she fell against Cooper's chest. Fighting to regain her balance, she pulled from his clutches and whirled to see who had hit her with the door.

Two men quickly yanked off their hats as they realized what had happened.

"Excuse me, ma'am," one said in a rush. "I'm sorry. I didn't expect anyone to be standing so close to the door. Especially a lady. I should have been more careful." He bobbed his head like a worried goose and fled to the safety of the bar. His companion she recognized as Magistrate Warren, who frowned at Cooper, replaced his hat, and followed.

Cooper's eyes focused on Annie's right cheek, and she quickly reached for the hair knocked loose by the sudden jolt. She tipped her head and repinned the mass, furious that her hair betrayed her when she was bargaining with such a pagan.

He coughed, regained his composure, and waved a hand in dismissal. "It's yours. I'll send someone round to pack up the crates. No need to concern your father."

Startled by the greedy man's sudden change of tune, she also sensed the need to keep a sober face. He wasn't the type to give anything away--unlike Daddy. Unless they came to some financial agreement, Annie didn't trust him to abide by his generosity.

"No, Mr. Cooper, I insist on paying for the space."

A storm gathered in his eyes.

Realizing her blunder, she recanted. "Thank you, Mr. Cooper. We do appreciate your generosity. Would you be so kind as to take a small additional amount each month?"

Distracted, Cooper glanced at Warren and the other man waiting at the bar, then tugged at his waistcoat. He fingered a gold watch, flipped its cover open for a quick reading, and returned it to a shallow pocket.

"Whatever you say, Miss Whitaker. Write up an agreement and give it to my man when he comes for the crates."

He bowed a brief good-bye and left her standing at the open door.

Annie exited the saloon and quietly shut the door. Her heart threatened to leave her there and race ahead as she strode toward the mercantile.

She'd done it.

Or had something else changed Jedediah Cooper's mind and opened his miserly grip?

No matter. She and her father would not freeze this winter or have to slog through the mud and snow to get to the store. _Thank you, Lord_.

The bell above the door announced her return, and she hurried to the back and hung her wrap. Her father sat near the stove, coffee in hand. She hoped he'd forgive her blatant disobedience when he learned of her success with Mr. Cooper.

"What took you out in such a hurry, Annie?"

His dear, trusting face turned her way.

She snugged her apron around her waist, tied the string, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Could they afford the extra rent? And how much should they pay? Enough to keep Cooper from thinking they were robbing him, but not so much that they couldn't get by.

No more free biscuits to passing strangers.

Guilt pressed. And no more dried apples for Nell. Or not as many.

Promising herself that someday she'd have china dishes again, she filled a tin cup with coffee.

"I've made a deal, Daddy, and I need your help." She settled into the chair next to him. "And I need you to promise you won't be angry."

His brow dipped and a cloudy look banished the earlier calm. "What have you done now, Annie?"

She held the cup below her lips and blew across the hot liquid. "I found us a place to stay." His stare bore into her until it melted away all her good intentions. "Now, Daddy, you mustn't be upset. You know we can't spend the winter in the livery. We'd freeze."

"There are no rooms at the Fremont Hotel." His voice was dry and flat. "I check on a regular basis."

"You're right." A hasty sip and she jerked her head back, her lip protesting against the hot coffee.

"Where did you go?"

Lowering the cup to her lap, she straightened her back and focused on the stove. "I spoke with Mr. Cooper, and he agreed to let us rent the entire store space. Now we can live in the back like we talked about." She peeked at her father's face. "Isn't that wonderful?"

Not one to raise his voice--unlike her--Annie's father clamped his lips together. His silence had been worse than any punishment he'd doled out when she was a child, and she hated it just as much now.

They were partners. __ Equal in this endeavor. He had to stop thinking of her as a mere woman to be protected, and realize that she could help him. _Had_ helped him.

She turned in her chair to face him. "Isn't that grand?"

His eyes dulled with disappointment and sadness. "You went to the saloon, didn't you?"

She huffed out a sigh. At least the truth was out.

"Yes, I did. But before you say it's not proper for me to go there, please hear me out. It was nearly deserted so early in the day, and I asked Mr. Cooper how much he wanted for the back room and told him how much handier it would be for him to have all his whiskey close at hand instead of here, and--"

Her father reached over and squeezed her arm. "Oh, my Annie. You torment me so. It's not safe for you to be so bold."

Like a child, she squirmed beneath his rebuke.

His eyes shimmered and his voice softened. "You are so like your mother."

The old ache seeped into her chest. "Please be happy for us," she whispered.

His gray eyes swept her face and he raised one bushy brow. "How much?"

"That's the strangest thing," she said, relaxing. "We were discussing it when Magistrate Warren and another man came in. Mr. Cooper abruptly told me to name my price and give a note to the man he'd send for the whiskey crates."

No need to mention being knocked unceremoniously into the pagan's arms.

Her father rubbed his forehead and kicked at a stray coal chip on the rug. "We can give him what we pay for the livery stall. We can afford that much."

Annie's mind breezed through the figures. "We already rent the store. And you and I both know he should have included the back room to begin with. Let's give him half what we pay for the livery stall."

Her father leaned back in his chair and studied her with a calculating air.

"What?" she said.

"You are _exactly_ like your mother." This time he chuckled and stood to refill his cup. "Write the ticket and I'll push all the crates closer to the back door so they'll be handy for whoever comes to get them."

Annie rushed to throw her arms around his neck, jostling his coffee. "Thank you, Daddy. Won't it be wonderful? Almost like a real house."

He cupped one of her shoulders in his big hand and set her at arm's length. "Maybe we could fit a small cookstove in that cramped space."

She hugged him again. "I'm in no hurry." Straightening her apron, she gave him a sideways look. "Besides, I think my potbellied biscuits are quite good, if I do say so."

He laughed and set his cup on the edge of the stove.

"Potbellied, are they now?" He patted his girth with both hands. "I will be too, if I keep eating them like I did this morning."

This morning.

Annie turned away to hide her sudden blush. Others had also savored her biscuits this morning, but thoughts of one man in particular made her heart flutter like Edna's silk fan.

The dark-eyed drifter had managed to do much more than stir her anger.

# CHAPTER SIX

Caleb bypassed Main Street and pointed Rooster toward the river. If someone else hadn't beaten him to it, he'd bed down where he'd spent the previous night.

Campfires flickered in the trees along the bank, and cook smoke made his empty stomach groan. Laughter and happy voices floated downstream.

He grunted, begrudging such people their homeless pleasures. Or maybe they weren't homeless. Maybe a campsite by the river was home enough if shared with family--like Springer Smith and his folks.

_The Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head._

Like a red-hot coal, the phrase scorched Caleb's thoughts. He didn't miss the irony of having more in common with Christ now than he had all those months at the parsonage. The Women's Society hadn't let him miss many meals.

A moonless night shrouded the river, and he settled for an unfamiliar clearing when he saw that his spot had indeed been taken. He hobbled the horses, tied them together, and looped a lead rope around his saddle horn. At least he'd feel it if someone tried to steal them. Or he'd be trampled to death by his startled mounts.

The open fire warmed his face and feet and offered an odd companionship, another voice to counter that of the river, making him feel not so alone. The remains of his jerked beef teased his stomach into true hunger, and he drank several tin cups of water from the cold river. Glittering stars again filled the sky, reminding him that not many such nights remained before storms gathered against the mighty Rocky Mountains.

Where to now? His stomach knotted at the thought of tending bar. He may not be saving souls anymore--not that he'd had even a single convert--but he couldn't bring himself to encourage men along the road to perdition.

The saw mill was a possibility. The hotel? No. If opportunity didn't show its face tomorrow, he'd return to the mercantile for supplies and ride north to Denver. There'd be a better chance finding work in a more established city.

But cities didn't appeal to him.

He slid into his bedroll and, shunning prayer, rolled to his side and closed his eyes.

Maybe Cañon City had a newspaper. He wrote well enough.

The river's whispering current lulled his weary mind, and soon he saw Annie Whitaker in her long white apron, fresh biscuits in her skillet.

Maybe tomorrow she'd invite him to stay for breakfast.

He grunted. And maybe he'd walk on water. Stroll right across the swirling Arkansas without even getting his boots wet.

The next morning, his stomach twisted with a surly growl, and he sat up and rubbed his face. A jay scolded from a nearby thicket, and the river laughed over rocks and swirled through eddies, mocking his need for food and work.

He palmed his jaw. Just one day's growth, not enough for a razor unless it was Sunday. But it wasn't. And even if it was, that didn't matter anymore.

He pulled on his boots, stirred the fire to dead ash, then saddled Rooster and rode into town.

The Whitakers would be up and around by now, feeding that potbellied stove so they could feed stragglers like him. He imagined Annie rolling out dough and lining her cast-iron skillet with perfect biscuit rounds. And smiling at him like she had yesterday morning before he'd made a fool of himself.

He wondered if he'd ever find his way around words again.

Few people walked the streets, and he gave more notice to the buildings and store fronts. A bank. An assay office. A printing office. He'd check there first.

Right after he ate.

He stopped at a corner and twisted in his saddle to eye the other end of town. A few small cabins huddled this side of the white clapboard building across from the livery.

He snorted. If the clapboard was a church, there sat two callings--or so he'd thought--faced off one against each other. Turning around, he heeled Rooster's side, and let the gelding amble along until they came to the mercantile. The sun was a good half hour above the horizon, and smoke spun from the store's chimney. He stepped off and flipped the reins around the rail, hoping for the same greeting he'd received the previous day but doubting he'd get it.

His mouth watered and his pulse raced. He jingled the few remaining coins in his pocket, figured he had enough for hard tack and a can of beans. Some dried beef, maybe ground coffee.

He caught his reflection in the window. Discouragement stared back, cold and calloused. Swallowing, he opened the door.

The smell hit him full force, just as he'd hoped. Annie Whitaker stood at the back, working at a long counter. Her father sat in his chair near the stove, coffee in hand. He raised his cup in welcome.

"Come on in, son. Didn't expect to see you so soon."

Caleb cleared his throat and removed his hat.

Annie looked up with a question that soured to a frown. He'd apologize if she'd give him the chance.

He nodded at Daniel. "Don't mind if I do."

Whitaker stood, poured a second cup, and handed it to Caleb as he took a chair.

"Thank you kindly." He hung his hat on his knee and smoothed his hair back, knowing he had to look a sight after two nights by the river sleeping in his shirt.

"Thought you'd be cuttin' cows at the Lazy R by now. You change your mind?"

Caleb sucked in a breathy taste of the hot brew, trying not to burn his mouth.

"I didn't, but they did." He glanced toward Annie, who had turned her back. "Other men must have read that ad in the paper and beat me to the job."

"That right?" Whitaker raised his white brows.

"Said they were full up. No room in the bunk house, didn't need any more hands." He tried the coffee again and managed a scalding swallow.

"Hmm." Whitaker scratched his clean-shaven cheek. "So you heading back home?"

Home. If Caleb knew where that was, he'd gladly head that way. When his pa died, the bank took their small acreage, and at that time, Caleb had the church.

Now all he had was a kind look from the storekeep.

He shook his head. "If I find something here in town, I'll stay the winter, then head for Denver come spring. But if nothing turns up by tomorrow, I'll leave the day after."

"Got your sights on gold?" The older man eyed him over his tin mug.

"No, sir. I'm not of a mind to dig for shiny ore. But I'll do just about anything else if it's honest work."

A clear "Ha!" sounded from beyond the potbellied stove, and a grin spread across Whitaker's face.

Caleb glanced from father to daughter. "The foreman suggested I check at the saloon or motel, but I'm not much on pouring whiskey, and I doubt I'd make a very good chamber maid."

This time, a distinct snort rose near the sideboard. Whitaker's stomach bounced as he stifled a laugh, and Caleb couldn't keep a twitch from his lips. Caught in the swift current of gaiety, which he'd not experienced in a very long time, he leaned closer to Whitaker. "Do you need someone to help sweep the front walk?"

Any moment the skillet would fly.

Annie spun in a skirted flurry and stomped to the stove with a batch of freshly cut biscuits. She slammed it down, adjusted the damper, and skewered Caleb with a glare.

"I can handle the sweeping myself, Mr. Hutton, as you so clearly pointed out on your last visit."

Caleb saw his opportunity and stood. "About that, Miss Whitaker. Please accept my apology. It's biscuit making at which you excel. I meant no disrespect."

She balled her fingers on her hips and kept her chin in the air, but her face softened. Dashing a russet strand from her forehead, she mumbled some epithet and whirled away.

Caleb dropped into his chair, realizing it was going to take more than a compliment about biscuits to mend matters with Annie Whitaker.

"What do you _really_ do, son?" her father said with a twinkle in his eye. "What did you do back in--where are you from?"

"Missouri. St. Joseph." Caleb fought off the vision of the stone church he'd left behind. "I have a way with horses, sir." But not people. Especially not women _._

"Have you inquired at the livery? Henry might put you to work." Whitaker paused, and an idea clearly crossed his ruddy features. "You could bunk there if you don't mind a stall. I happen to know there's one available. It's only a little warmer than where the horses are, but there'd be a roof over your head come winter."

Caleb nodded and eyed the biscuits browning on the stove. "I'll look into that. Thank you."

"And when you get there, look in on the big yellow mare and tell me why she's nearly eating me out of my profits. I'm wanting to sell her"--he glanced at his daughter--"but Annie thinks she's a pet and sneaks dried apples to her every night after we close up."

Annie peeked over her shoulder, worry etching her fine brow.

Fine brow? Since when did Caleb notice a woman's brow? Or call it fine? "I'll do that, first chance I get."

Annie moved to the stove and picked up the skillet. A whiff of fresh bread floated past his nose, and Caleb nearly had to holler to cover his stomach's impatient rumbling. Then she delivered two deep plates with biscuits floating in dark molasses.

One for her father and one for him.

"Thank you, darlin'." Whitaker gave her a tender smile.

Caleb looked into eyes the same color as the sweet molasses and nodded, afraid of what might come out of his mouth if he tried to express his gratitude. "Miss Whitaker."

She met his gaze without anger, false humility, or the coy flutter at which Mollie Sullivan had so excelled. Strong and confident but kind, she returned his look, as if willing to meet him on level ground.

"It's Annie."

His heart curled up like a pup on the hearth. Maybe he'd get a fresh start after all.

~

Annie feared she'd drop the plate if Caleb Hutton didn't take it from her right that instant. His dark scrutiny unsettled her, as if he saw through her bravado, all the way to her quivering insides.

As unexpected as snow in summer, his apology had all but doused her anger. What kind of man apologized to a woman he didn't know? In front of her father, no less.

_A good man._

She stepped back, flushed with heat from the stove. Loose hair stuck to her forehead and neck, and she retreated to the counter where her own plate waited. Dare she join the men in her condition?

Turning her back, she stretched her apron hem between her hands and flapped it in front of her face. What she wouldn't give for one of Edna's painted silk fans.

She drew a deep breath, pushed her hair off her neck, and with plate in hand walked calmly to the chair farthest from Caleb Hutton.

"You've outdone yourself again, Annie girl. We should have opened a café instead of the mercantile."

Embarrassed by her father's complement in a stranger's presence, she adjusted the plate on her lap and tamped down her longing for a table. And a house.

"Thank you, Daddy, but I do believe you are prejudiced." She swirled a biscuit bite in molasses.

"He's right," Caleb said between bites. "'Course then there'd be no place to get supplies."

He smiled her way, or as close as he could come to a smile with his mouth full.

She dropped her gaze to her plate and wondered what Edna would say at this point. Oh, she knew what her sister would say. She'd bat her thick lashes, wave the remark away with a milk-white hand, and say, _Oh, you shouldn't carry on so. They're just plain ol' biscuits._

"Thank you both," Annie managed without looking up.

"If word gets out about your cooking, we may have to set a table in here."

Her father's words sparked hope, but they had no room for a table. Besides, they didn't have a real cookstove yet, and she couldn't do more than biscuits, pan gravy, eggs, or beans and coffee on the old iron hunk they did have.

"Maybe I'll paint a sign-- _Annie's Potbellied Biscuits, Five Cents._ " He swept his hand through the air as if displaying the imaginary notice for all to see.

Caleb's mouth curved up on one side. "Potbellied biscuits?"

Annie felt the flush return to her neck. "It's the stove, Mr. Hutton. The potbellied stove, and I dare say I don't think I'd care to spend the day cooking over this boot-warmer."

"Caleb, ma'am." He cast an earnest look her way. "I'd be pleased if you'd call me Caleb."

Her father suddenly stood with his plate and cup and made for the front counter. "I never did sort yesterday's mail," he scolded himself. "I must be getting old and forgetful. You two go on without me. I'll just be killin' two birds with one stone over here."

_Forgetful, my eye._ Annie speared the last biscuit piece. She'd be having a few words with her father after Caleb __ Hutton left.

Thankful she hadn't sat next to him, she slid a glance his way and noticed how seriously he consumed his food. As if his life depended on it. Instantly remorseful, she realized that he might very well depend on what she served. Where else in Cañon City would he find a meal, other than the Fremont Hotel, which always had more patrons than tables and chairs?

She laid her fork in her plate. "There's more, Mr. Hut-- Caleb. Would you like a couple more biscuits?"

"Thank you." He gave her a sober look and a nearly clean plate. "They really are good."

At the counter, she opened two biscuits, covered them with thick syrup, and for no reason she could name, plucked an apple from a bowl full set aside for a pie. She cored and sliced it with a paring knife and fanned it out next to the biscuits. On her way past the stove, she lifted the coffeepot.

"More coffee?" She held out the plate and watched his reaction.

His eyes found hers. "You sure you can spare this apple?"

"We have plenty. Apple trees grow around here nearly as well as skunk cabbage." She filled his tin cup and, straightening, smoothed her apron with one hand. "If you have everything you need, I'll be in the back room unpacking." Not that it was any of his business.

"Unpacking stores? I can help if you need."

His sincerity gave her pause, but she turned away from his scrutiny. "No. Thank you."

She set the coffeepot on the stove and fled through the doorless opening into what was now her new home. Backing against the dividing wall, she fanned her apron in her face, feeling she'd barely escaped from--what?

She surveyed their few belongings and the scant space. They'd been so eager to leave the livery before Cooper changed his mind that they'd hauled everything to the store before Annie had time to clean the long-neglected room. Dusty cobwebs laced the ceiling corners, and even more dust covered the window sill. The entire room needed a good sweeping and washing down, but she'd not pick up the broom with Caleb Hutton around.

Booted steps headed for the back, and she stooped near a carpet bag. Tin dishes clinked together in the wash pan on the sideboard. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed her father stuffing mail in letter boxes behind the front counter. No one else had come in, so it had to be Caleb washing his plate.

She paused in her hasty riffling through the satchel's contents and imagined him scrubbing the sticky syrup. He must not be married, for surely a man with a wife simply assumed that a woman tended to the dishes. Even her father hadn't helped in the kitchen, always relying on his sister and daughters to complete such mundane chores.

First an apology. Now a helping hand. Who was this Caleb Hutton?

And why did he catch her fancy?

# CHAPTER SEVEN

Caleb paid for his breakfast and few supplies, thanked Whitaker again for the tip about the livery, and headed that way. He'd check with the blacksmith before he stopped at the printing office and the sawmill.

If given a choice, he'd take livestock over letters and lumber any day, though his life had been fairly equally divided between the first two.

The sprouting city sang with commotion, the street considerably more crowded than when he'd ridden in that morning. Hammers pounded from inside rising buildings, and freight wagons moaned beneath their burdens. Drivers whistled and cussed at their animals, and people on foot hurried along the boardwalks with apparent purpose.

And his purpose?

It wasn't washing dishes, that was for sure, but evidently some part of him thought otherwise.

He grabbed his horses and led them toward the livery. What would Annie Whitaker think when she returned from unpacking and found the plates and cups drying on the sideboard? Would she see his efforts and wonder what they meant?

He sure enough wondered. Even Mollie Sullivan hadn't had this effect on him.

At the stable, he slapped dust from his hat and turned his back to the building across the road, grabbing hold of the last bit of optimism he could muster.

An oak of a man stood before a brick furnace at the back wall, sleeves rolled above massive forearms. One hand held tongs that gripped a glowing horseshoe atop a stump-mounted anvil, while the other hand wielded a hammer. The man lightly tapped the iron, then raised the shoe to appraise its shape. Another tap, and he dunked the hot shoe in a bucket of water.

Caleb approached. "Mornin'," he offered above the hissing bucket.

The smithy retrieved the dripping shoe, held it to the anvil, and eye-balled Caleb. "Mornin'."

"Name's Caleb Hutton. Might you be Henry? Daniel Whitaker sent me round. Thought you might be needing some help."

The leather-aproned man laid the hammer across the anvil and held out a blackened hand.

"I'm Henry Schultz. You know anything 'bout livery and stock?"

"Yes, sir. Been around horses my whole life. Shod a few, birthed a few, and trained even more."

Henry didn't release Caleb's hand but turned it over. "Looks mighty soft to me. Like a preacher."

At the word, Caleb flinched, and Henry released his grip. Burning as if he'd touched the glowing iron instead of the smithy's hand, Caleb held his gaze. "It's been a while." His jaw tightened. "But I haven't forgotten. Just lost a few callouses."

Henry chuckled. "Well, if Whitaker sent you to me, I'll give you a try. I do my own shoein', but you can clean stalls and feed. Soap and mend the tack, and keep the freight drivers off my back." He jerked a thumb over his bearlike shoulders. "They park their wagons in the yard."

The offer wasn't as alluring as cowboying all day, but it was work.

"Don't pay much 'cause I don't got much."

Caleb was in no position to argue. "Whitaker mentioned a closed stall you lent out to someone else who moved on."

"That would be himself and his daughter."

Caleb hid his surprise. That explained why Annie had refused his help with what he'd thought were stores. Rooms must be harder to come by in Cañon City than he thought if Whitaker was forced to board in a barn. Why hadn't they moved into the store to begin with?

Henry turned to the anvil, raised the hammer, and pinged on the perfectly curved metal. "They just moved into the back of the mercantile. You're welcome to it, but it'll lower your pay by two bits a week."

"I'll take it."

Henry jerked his head toward the front. "First stall on the right. I'll throw in some straw for bedding, and you can put whatever you've got in there. You got a horse?"

"Two. But I can turn them out in your corral for the time being."

"That'll be fine. I'll deduct their feed from your pay, but they probably won't eat as much between the two of them as Whitaker's mare."

Caleb let himself smile. "That's what he told me. Asked if I'd take a look at her."

"Across the alley from your new room. At the end." He dropped the shoe in a wooden box. "You start today?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Settle in and start on the stalls. Stock's all been fed this morning. Give them fresh water and hay at dusk. The pump's out by the corral."

Caleb nodded, put his hat on, and left the barn with a lighter step. His eyes lit on the building across the road. For the first time, he saw the cross above the door and nearly uttered a prayer of thanks. It would have been the first in a long time.

He unsaddled the horses and rubbed them down, dumped his tack and bedroll in the box stall, then led the animals around to the pole corral. Rooster trotted through the gate and kicked his heels, then dropped to the ground and rolled. Sally did the same, grateful, Caleb assumed, to get free of their burden.

He came close to the same feeling himself.

Inside the stable, Whitaker's mare watched him over the stall door and stuck her nose in his chest when he reached her.

"Looking for those apples, aren't you, girl." He finger-combed her pale forelock and ran his hand down her thick neck. Stepping inside the stall, he spoke softly as he worked his way around her, picking up each foot to check its condition and taking a discreet look while he was down there.

Her back was smooth and strong, not swayed, but her belly protruded on each side like a barrel. Suspicion urged his hands on, his fingers palpating, feeling for tell-tale bumps.

She slapped her tail and reached back to nip his shoulder.

"It's all right, girl." He straightened. Whitaker wouldn't be too happy with Caleb's findings. The man's yellow mare had about sixty days before she foaled.

By the time he mucked out all the stalls, mended tack, and fed the horses, late afternoon had tucked down behind the western peaks and shadows filled the livery. Tired but grateful for the sense of accomplishment in his aching back, he opened the door to his new home and stopped short.

He hadn't noticed it when he'd tossed in his tack, but the smell wasn't right. Something sweet hung in the air, something that didn't belong in a horse barn. Perfumed soap or ...

He drank in the summery scent of mahogany hair. The Whitakers had lived in this stall long enough to leave their mark.

Annie's mark.

He ignored the tightening in his chest as he felt along the walls for a lantern he'd seen earlier, then pulled a match from his pocket and struck it against the lamp's base. The tiny flame threw shadows into the rafters and hayloft. Lifting the glass globe, he held the match to the wick, then pinched out the flame before dropping the match back in his pocket. A quick adjustment of the wick revealed his lodgings.

A mound of fresh straw lay against the inside wall, and he spread it out and topped it with his bedroll. He hefted his saddle to the hay rack and hung the bridle from the horn. The floor was surprisingly clean for dirt, and he smiled to himself. Annie Whitaker had taken her broom to it.

His stomach cried treason as he plopped onto his bedroll and dug through his saddle bags for a scrap of dried beef. Instead he found his Bible.

The book had once been food for his soul. As he thumbed through the pages, a thin copper casing fell to his lap. Mollie Sullivan's sweet face looked up at him, and his empty stomach plunged to his feet. He slipped the image back between the pages of Jeremiah.

The weeping prophet. An appropriate place to hide the cause of his own sorrows.

He set the Bible next to the lantern as a sudden rap on the stall door sent his hand to the Colt tucked inside his canvas.

"Hutton. You asleep?"

Caleb scrambled to his feet at Daniel Whitaker's voice and drew the door back. "Just settling in." He shoved the pistol in the back of his pants.

Annie held a cloth-covered dish, and a rich aroma curled into Caleb's face. Her father stood behind her.

"Hoped we'd find you here," Daniel said.

Caleb took the plate, and his fingers brushed Annie's warm hands. "Thank you."

A shy smile curved her lips and she smoothed her apron. "We thought you could use a good meal."

"I appreciate it." More than he could say.

Her smile deepened and she stepped back.

"Looks like you made out all right with Henry." Daniel peered over Caleb's shoulder into the stall.

"Yes, sir, thanks to your recommendation. Work and a roof over my head." He looked up into the open rafters and wondered again why the stable had once housed the Whitakers.

But it wasn't any of his business.

"Have a good night, son." Daniel motioned a farewell and turned toward the broad front doors.

Annie threw a side glance at the mare's stall, then followed her father.

_I know the thoughts that I think toward you._

The familiar words rose with a wonderful aroma, and a tightness gripped Caleb's chest as he closed the stall door. He eased onto his bed roll, leaned against the wall, and lifted the checkered cloth from the plate.

"Thank you," he said to no one in particular, laying the cloth in his lap. With relish, he grabbed the spoon buried in the thick stew. The first real meal he'd had in weeks.

~

Pleased, though not completely satisfied, Annie stood in the center of the small storeroom, with hands on her hips that evening. Since they now had extra space, she and her father had assembled the two rope beds they'd purchased in Denver and pushed one into each corner behind the dividing wall. In between, Annie had unrolled a large braided rug and topped it with a small table, lamp, and two chairs. A shelf against the back wall held a basin and pitcher and served as storage for their personal effects. And a camel-back trunk hid their extra clothes and blankets and a few items from the hope chest she'd left behind in Omaha.

Meager furnishings, indeed, but the sproutings of home.

"And you'd be thinking what, Annie?" Her father stood in the doorway to the store front, studying her thoughtful mood.

She reached to clasp his hands in hers.

"I'm thinking how much better this is than the stall at the livery." And wondering how Caleb will fare at the barn.

He looked around the room. "Almost like home, isn't it?"

"When we have a bigger table and a real cookstove, _then_ it will be closer to home. But this space is too small for all that." A deep sigh escaped her. "Someday we'll have a real house."

He stepped into the room and squeezed her shoulder, then turned to face the doorway. "We'll be needing a curtain here for privacy during the day. But with the stove out front, we should keep this open at night for warmth."

"I'll set out some canvas for Martha when she comes by tomorrow. I'm sure she can make us a curtain in no time with that fancy sewing machine of hers."

Her father coughed and rubbed a hand over his mouth. "What makes you think she'll be in tomorrow?"

"You know very well what." Annie picked up the folded quilt on her straw ticking and shook it out. "She's been in every morning since we got here--ever since she discovered what a handsome and eligible father I have."

His face suddenly reddened. "Confounded woman."

"Don't you mean confound _ing_?" Turning to hide a rising giggle, Annie retrieved two more quilts from the trunk, dropped one on her bed, and handed the other to her father. "That __ woman __ is taken with you, and I think you know it."

He huffed at her remark and sank onto his bed with a grunt.

"Don't let her get away, Daddy. She'd be good for you."

He met Annie's look with a worried frown. "Don't you go tryin' to marry me off. I don't need Martha Bobbins making my life more worrisome than it already is."

"Daddy, you've been alone for seventeen years. Don't you think it's time for a companion?"

He fretted with the quilt, and finally tossed it across the foot of his bed. "You're the one who should be looking for a beau, Annie. I've had my turn at life. And the Lord's blessed me with two beautiful daughters and a good business. I've no need for anything else."

His unselfishness touched her deeply, but she knew he enjoyed Martha's attentions.

Annie traced one of the red eight-point stars on her quilt. She expected no man to call on her here in Cañon City--even if they did outnumber women six to one. Most had gold dust in their eyes or whiskey on their breath. Jedediah Cooper's flushed face materialized in her mind, and she shuddered.

"You're cold." Her father reached for her quilt. "I'll stoke the fire and hold this in front of the stove while you get ready for bed."

She handed him the bright quilt, her favorite.

"That Caleb Hutton showed himself a gentleman today, didn't he?"

Stunned by the comment, she stared at her father. "Why do you like him so much? Because he says _sir_ and _ma'am_ every other breath?"

Flustered for some inexplicable reason, she busied her hands, drawing several pins from her hair. "We don't know anything about him other than they turned him away from the Lazy R. That might be a warning in itself."

Her father's brows raised above an elfish twinkle. "Manners never did anyone any harm. And I believe that boy is honest and good."

"Well, I think he's hiding something. There's more to him than he's telling." She pulled her loose hair over her shoulder and began braiding it. "And he's no boy. He's at least twenty-five."

Annie's left foot twitched as her father chuckled all the way to the stove, but she held it firmly to the floor and unfastened her shoes. After all their travels and finally settling where nary a grass blade grew along the dusty streets, she'd worn the soles desperately thin. She had half a mind to order a pair of men's boots--if she could find them small enough. They were made so much sturdier than the thin-soled shoes women had to choose from.

What would Caleb Hutton think of her if he saw her stomping around Cañon City in men's boots?

And why would it matter what he thought?

She chided herself as she shed her multiple skirts and petticoats and slid beneath the blankets, recalling her room upstairs in Aunt Harriet's home. How often had she complained each summer in the thick, humid air that kept even a simple breeze from whispering through the open windows.

She tugged the blankets to her chin and gritted her teeth, refusing to __ pine away for that ornate home, even if it did have a lovely fireplace in every bedroom and real bed warmers in the winter ...

Sitting up, she looked around the room, her mind assessing each object for one to serve her purpose.

"I thought you'd be tucked in up to your ears by now." Her father draped the warm quilt over her and pushed the edges under the ticking.

Annie laid back and burrowed into its comfort, the smell of warm fabric tickling her nose. "Thank you, Daddy. This is wonderful. But I just remembered the bed warmers at Aunt Harriet's. We didn't think to bring them with us or buy any in Denver."

Her father laid one arm across his stomach and propped his other elbow on it as he rubbed his chin. "I've an idea."

He retrieved his coat from the wall pegs, took the oil lamp from their small table, and strode to the back door. "Be right back."

Within minutes he returned with a brick under one arm and another in hand. He set them both on the table and bolted the door. "I saw these lying next to the building when we were moving in this morning. I'll set them on the stove and, as soon as they heat up, we'll put one at your feet and the other at mine."

His cold-nipped cheeks bloomed as he shot Annie a proud grin. "Sound good to you?"

"It sounds wonderful."

Before long, the warm quilt, a hot brick at her feet, and the long day's labor conspired against her, and she drifted from her storeroom corner into the land of hopes and dreams. But even there, cold, crisp air brushed her face and gold leaves fluttered against a bright blue backdrop.

Bundled against the autumn chill, she walked with a basket of apples on her arm, approaching a stranger who stood before a small white church. He held his hat in his hands and his dark head bent as if in prayer.

She touched the man's shoulder and he looked up. With a start, she gasped at the pain on his face and drew back from the sorrow-filled eyes of Caleb Hutton.

# CHAPTER EIGHT

By sunup Caleb had all the stock fed, watered, and blowing their warm, belly-filled breath through the livery, dulling every memory in his brain but that of horseflesh and hay.

His stomach had forgotten the previous night's hot meal, and he swung open the wide stable doors and headed for the mercantile in hopes that Annie Whitaker was making fresh biscuits.

Keeping his eyes from the church across the road, he focused on the smoky finger curling from the mercantile rooftop, beckoning him. His breath clouded before him in the cold air, and he shoved his hands in his coat pockets.

He now had a place to sleep, honest work, and good food--much for which to be thankful. So why did he still feel ... cheated?

He dusted his hat against his leg, then stepped through the mercantile door to the chime of the overhead bell. Annie stood at the back counter, and her father fed the stove. The aroma of fresh coffee vied with coal dust and the merchandise of a fully stocked store. It was a tableau he was beginning to count on more than he wanted to admit.

"Mornin', Caleb." Whitaker grabbed another tin cup.

The bell rang a second time as Caleb closed the door, and Annie looked over her shoulder. Caleb nodded a greeting, and she smiled briefly before returning to her work. The simple gesture set his ears to ringing as loud as that brass bell.

He took the cup Whitaker offered and sat, trying not to look at Annie while he was talking to her father. It was harder than he would have thought.

"I'd say it's all perfect timing." Whitaker took his seat and looked at his daughter. "We moved out of that stall yesterday morning and into the back of the store here--thanks to Annie's insistence that Jedediah Cooper rent the whole blamed place to us, not just the front." One white brow raised in a crook and the other pointed toward his nose. "Not that I approve of her methods."

Looking unusually meek under her father's stern glance, Annie brought a large cast-iron skillet to the stove. It brimmed with thick white gravy.

Caleb jumped up and reached for the skillet, sloshing coffee on his boots. "Let me help you."

"I have it." She turned the skillet from his reach. "No need to go spilling your coffee on account of this gravy. I'm just heating it up. Had to take it off to make room for the biscuits."

He watched her deftly handle the heavy skillet, centering it on the small stove top.

"Smells mighty good, ma'am." He hoped he wasn't as pushy as his charges at the livery had been. Taking a seat, he caught a quiet laugh coming from behind Whitaker's raised tin mug.

Annie straightened and planted her small hands on her hips, but this time her eyes held a friendly glint, unlike the double-edged sword he'd met yesterday morning.

"Do you like sausage gravy, Caleb?" A slight blush colored her cheeks at the use of his given name, and it made her look even prettier, if that was possible.

"I surely do. It's been a while since I had such fine cooking." Not counting last night.

The remark raised her hand to her brow. She returned to the side-board, set out three plates with biscuits and forks, then brought a ladle to the stove and stirred the gravy. "Won't be but a minute now."

After serving, she took the only seat left. Next to him.

"Daddy, don't you think a prayer is in order, seeing as how we all have a place to live and food to eat?"

Caleb choked on the bite already in his mouth.

Annie shot a worried look his way. "You all right?"

He nodded, coughed a couple of times, and jerked beneath Whitaker's vigorous back slap.

"You're not against praying are you, son?" The laughter in his voice assured Caleb that Whitaker was jesting.

"No, sir. Not at all." He pulled a bandana from his back pocket and wiped his mouth.

"Then why don't you do the honors?"

Caleb stared at the man. Did the man see _preacher_ written across Caleb's forehead?

Whitaker raised his silvery brows.

"Yes, sir." Caleb swallowed. "Be happy to."

Annie dipped her head and folded her hands. Her father closed his eyes.

Caleb feared his heart would stop any moment and the others would be praying over his dead body instead of the biscuits and gravy. It had been a while since he'd offered up a prayer like this. He sucked in a deep breath and clamped his eyes shut.

"Lord ... thank You." A familiar warmth invaded his chest as he aimed his thoughts toward gratitude. "Thank You for this fine cooking and for the Whitaker's hospitality. And thank You for giving us all a roof over our heads and"--his voice bottomed out to a near whisper--"and for sending Your son. Amen."

He opened his eyes to Annie staring at him as if he'd transformed right in front of her.

Which, in a way, he guessed he had.

"Amen to that, son," her father said. "Amen to that."

Caleb couldn't tear his eyes from Annie's, and his throat tightened at the tenderness he saw there. Something he'd never seen in Mollie Sullivan.

~

Annie scraped the last bit of gravy from her plate into a scrap tin. Her mind kept replaying Caleb Hutton's prayer, and each time it stirred something in her that she shouldn't be feeling.

Not for a man she knew nothing about.

Peeking at him sitting by the stove, she paid little attention as she washed her dish and the skillet. One thing was clear--there was more to this cowboy than he cared to let on, and she was determined to find out what it was. She dried her hands on her apron as her father hurried past without a word and out the back door.

Martha Bobbins rushed in beneath the singing bell. "Good morning to you."

Annie shook her head at the woman's perpetual good nature, stuffed a handful of dried apples in her skirt pocket for later, and greeted Martha at the front counter.

"You're here early." Annie noted how the crisp fall air had rouged Martha's cheeks, brightening her eyes to perfectly match the blue floral print she wore.

"Martha, may I introduce you to Caleb Hutton?"

He stood with his hat in one hand and an empty plate in the other. "Ma'am." He nodded.

"Caleb, this is Martha Bobbins, our dressmaker in town and a good friend."

"Nice to meet you, Caleb." Martha's attention flitted around the store for its older proprietor, and her shoulders dropped the tiniest bit when she failed to find him.

"He's out back," Annie whispered with a conspiratorial grin.

The revelation brought a glow on Martha's already ruddy face, and she began an urgent search through her reticule. "I know my list is in here somewhere."

Caleb slid his plate into the dishpan and retrieved his cup from the stove, where he stood tall and mysterious, sipping his coffee.

Annie's face warmed as she caught his eye, but she turned her thoughts to Martha's visit, pulled a bundle of heavy canvas from the shelves, and unrolled a double length across the counter.

"Oh no, child. I need lace. And buttons for Hannah's wedding dress."

"Yes, and I have some beautiful pearl buttons I'm sure you'll want. But before I fill your order, I have one of my own. I'm glad you came by."

Martha looked up, delight in her eyes.

"See the opening through the back wall, behind the stove? Daddy and I just moved in back there and we need a curtain to draw during the day. I thought that might be an easy task for you with your sewing machine. Nothing fancy, just straight seams."

Martha patted Annie's hand. "Good for you. About time that old fox showed a little generosity." She picked up the canvas, giving Annie a moment to turn away and hide the hot blood that warmed her cheeks.

Fox indeed. Wolf was more like it.

"A nice print would be more attractive, but this heavy canvas will do. I'll measure the opening and get started on it for you later today. Will that be soon enough?"

"Perfect."

Martha moved toward the doorway just as Annie's father appeared.

"Oh, Daniel, dear. I'm so glad to see you," Martha cooed. "Annie tells me you need a privacy curtain here for your new living quarters."

He coughed nervously, and Martha joined him in the back room as if she'd been invited.

Though she couldn't see him, Annie knew exactly how her father looked with his brows dipped to the bridge of his nose and his chin tucked in his chest.

"I know I have a measuring tape in here somewhere," Martha said. "Yes, here it is. Daniel, hold this end for me while I take a measurement."

Caleb's boots sounded against the wood floor and he stopped at the counter. Annie busied herself refolding the fabric, trying to ignore his strong presence. She failed miserably and looked up into dark, worried eyes.

"Is your landlord less than a generous man?"

His voice came low, for her ears only, and she sensed that Caleb's penetrating gaze would eventually pull the truth from her.

"Yes." She raised her chin, determined to hold her own against the likes of Jedediah Cooper. "But he has seen the error of his ways."

A question slid across Caleb's face, but the bell rang and a woman with two children entered. The little girl's eyes lit immediately on the licorice jar on the counter, and the boy, perhaps twelve, assumed a grown-up air until he recognized Caleb.

"Springer Smith." Caleb broke into a broad grin so unlike his earlier worried expression that it took Annie by surprise.

The boy stuck out a hand and pulled off his floppy hat with the other. "Mr. ..."

"Hutton." Caleb gripped the boy's proffered hand. "Caleb Hutton." He looked to the mother. "Mrs. Smith? Springer and I met a couple of evenings ago at the river."

Her concern vanished as she relaxed and cast a scolding eye at her son. "Yes, I do remember Ben mentioning a man camping downstream with his horses."

Caleb's demeanor warmed as he clasped the woman's hand with the slightest bow. "Good day, ma'am. I am sure you will find what you need here at the Whitaker's."

With that, he disappeared through the door, leaving Annie more puzzled than ever.

She wanted to follow the perplexing man and demand that he tell her who and what he was, but a customer awaited her. Gathering her thoughts, she turned with a smile.

"What can I get for you?"

The woman pushed her bonnet back and loosened her cloak. "Have you heard of any rooms or cabins to rent?" Her bright cheeks betrayed a brisk walk, and from the sand that stuck to the girl's buttoned shoes, Annie guessed they were living at the river like so many other folk had during the summer.

"I'm Annie Whitaker." She came from behind the counter.

"Nice to meet you. We're the Smiths. I'm Louisa, this is Emmy, and that's Ben, or Springer, as he prefers, over there eyeing your halters."

"You have a lovely family, Louisa." Annie reached for the licorice jar and lowered her voice. "May I offer a welcome-to-town gift to the children?"

Louisa's lips thinned but quickly curved at Emmy's beseeching expression. "All right, but only one between them, please."

Overhearing the offer, Springer lived up to his name and volunteered to divide the black whip in half.

Annie held the jar toward him, and when he reached for a candy she playfully pulled it back. His startled eyes fastened on hers.

"If you break it in half, then your sister gets first choice."

He reached again, snapped the candy in two, and took a knee in front of his sibling. "You get to pick."

Thrilled at getting to choose first, the child pulled the longest piece from her brother's fingers. "Thank you, Springer." She leaned in to kiss him on the cheek.

"Thank Miss Whitaker too, children," Louisa said with a laugh.

Springer grinned around the piece already in his mouth. "Thank you, ma'am."

"My pleasure." Annie bent toward Emmy. "I'm a younger sister too, so I know we sometimes get the short end of the deal."

Emmy wrinkled her fair brow. "But I took the _long_ one."

Springer laughed and returned to the saddles and horse blankets, and Emmy followed, giggling.

Annie straightened and faced Louisa. "There are so few places to live, but the Turk brothers are cutting timber in the Shadow Mountains this month and hauling logs for cabins. They made a trip last week, hoping to bring a sled full back before snowfall. If you'd like to leave them a note, I have paper and pencil here."

The woman looked longingly at the crates of potatoes and apples, then sifted a handful of dried beans through her fingers. "We're more likely to stay in our tent before we raise a cabin. I was hoping there might be an extra one with all the building I hear going on."

Annie's ached at the thought of keeping a family warm all winter in a tent.

Louisa spun slowly to survey the offerings. "Do you have stoves?"

"We have two ordered and they should be in next week. They're small, not really cookstoves. More like the potbelly we have here in the store. But they're wonderfully warm, and if you plan it right, you can cook a good meal on one."

Louisa looked Annie in the eye with a smile. "Anything is an improvement to a campfire."

Relieved to see good humor in the woman's expression, Annie agreed. "How true."

"My William is a stone mason, and he's working for the Fairfax family. With the high demand for housing, he hasn't a moment to spare for cutting and fitting stones for our own home this winter. We'll just have to make do as best we can."

Annie fiddled with the shriveled apple rings in her skirt's seam pocket and thought of the box stall. Would Caleb give it up if the family couldn't find shelter? Dare she ask him? And where would he sleep then?

By the time the Smiths left with their purchases and an order for a few specialty items, Martha and Annie's father sat together near the stove. Relaxed and laughing, her father didn't see Annie studying him from behind the counter she pretended to dust.

She'd been right about them. They needed each other.

And what did she need?

Caleb Hutton's gentle voice settled on her memory like the yellow leaves that fell along the river.

That was what she needed. The river.

Her father and Martha could mind the store and enjoy a few moments alone.

"Martha, do you mind staying for just a bit? I've an errand to run, and I hate to leave Daddy alone in case we're flooded with customers."

Her father stared, his mouth half open.

Martha rose with distinct pride at being needed. "I'd be happy to, dear." She fluttered her fingers toward Annie. "You run right along. We'll be fine."

Biting the inside of her mouth to keep a grin from breaking free, Annie stole a retreating glance at her father, who sat with one brow arched above a cutting glare. A family trait, that flying eye brow. Did she look as humorous when she did the same?

"You're not going back--"

"No, Daddy. I promise." No more visiting the Fremont Saloon. She shivered as if shaking off the notion and again saw Caleb's questioning look. Tearing a strip of brown paper from the large countertop roll, she twisted two licorice pieces inside it, then escaped out the door before her father could say anything more.

Indian summer in Omaha was hot, muggy, and hazy. In Cañon City it was warm, clear, and sharp against a brilliant sky.

Last night she'd shivered in her bed. And though it'd been chilly this morning, the sun was now brassy and warm, melting wintery thoughts and drawing birdsong from the woods. As she lifted her face to a breeze, cottonwood leaves trembled, gossiping as she passed.

Annie strolled along the river on her so-called errand. She'd had little time for a minute alone, and the late morning lull was a perfect opportunity.

A sudden whiff of beans assailed her, and Annie studied a tent cluster huddling in an open space ahead. Someone was baking their evening meal with salt pork no doubt, for the aroma nudged her stomach into a whimper even though she wasn't hungry.

Rather than intrude on the tent settlement, she turned downstream. Immediately the temperature changed, and she stopped and faced the mountains again. A draft definitely followed the river eastward, tickling her face, nipping her ears. Turning around, she continued with the breeze at her back and walked along the water's edge, mildly disappointed that it merely chattered over rocky places. Where was the roaring whitewater of the mighty Arkansas? Where was the impassable raging river that gouged the Rocky Mountains?

A quick toss of her stockings and a hitch of her skirt, and she could wade right across without getting her knees wet. She paused and rolled the temptation around on her tongue, imagining what it would taste like to tell Edna she'd done such a thing.

Childish laughter caught her ear and she looked upstream. Springer and Emmy ran through the shallows near the tents, giggling and splashing water on each other.

Annie and her sister had never played like that. Edna had always been so proper, so ladylike, that her attitude goaded Annie to be as different as possible. And look where it had gotten her.

Alone in Kansas Territory--though the townsfolk insisted on calling it Jefferson Territory. Regardless, Cañon City lay at the farthest edge, and her father was on the verge of finding companionship while she had few friends as of yet. But that was no different than before. She'd had few friends in Omaha.

Caleb's image rose in her mind, and her father's words slipped in beneath the water's happy murmur. _I believe that boy is honest and good._ What did Daddy know about Caleb? He was no boy, that was for sure. Good? Well, his prayer had sounded a chord in her spirit that both pleased and disturbed her, which made her doubt his honesty. She'd keep her own counsel on that one until she knew more about the brooding horse handler.

Last night's dream had only added to the mystery, as did his remarkable way with the Smith family today.

She stepped over smooth river rocks and up onto a small ledge that testified to higher water. Perhaps in the spring when the snowmelt ran down the mountain's face she'd hear the water's roar.

A sudden honk and a splashing lifted her gaze. Two Canada geese rose from a sandbar where others rested. She had come upon the gaggle without noticing them sunning on the midstream isle. Oh, the down ticking she could make from their soft undersides.

With a cautious glance around and a deeper scrutiny of the woods across the river, she leaned against a large boulder, stripped off her shoes and stockings, and gathered her skirts. The water's icy caress pulled the breath from her lungs, and dozens of brown, black-necked geese rose at her gasping intrusion, honking in protest.

No matter. They would return when she finished gleaning their shed feathers, and she'd ask a special blessing on their goslings when she snuggled beneath a new warm cover this winter.

After gathering a meager start for a feather ticking, she waded back through the icy river, clambered up the smooth granite boulder, and stretched her legs in the sun. A perfect place to warm her face and dry her toes.

Truly this was a land of extremes. Cold as snow one moment, warm and cozy the next. She must visit the mineral hot springs she'd heard so much about, but they were at the town's west end near a Ute encampment. Oh, Edna would faint dead away.

Annie wiggled her feet into her stockings and shoes and tied the downy feathers into her handkerchief.

As she approached Main Street, Jedediah Cooper exited the mercantile. She ducked back into the cross street and pressed against the barber shop wall, hoping he hadn't spotted her. Her hair would surely give her away. Why hadn't she worn a hat or scarf?

She shuddered. The saloon owner made her ill. He was not to be trusted, particularly by a woman alone, of that she was certain.

Peeking around the clapboard building's corner, she watched Cooper walk toward the saloon. Swagger, really, his bowler tipped to one side as if he owned all Cañon City and everyone should be grateful for it.

On her right stood the church building and directly across from it the livery. With a deep breath, she stepped from behind the building and crossed the wide street, praying Jedediah Cooper would not see her running for refuge.

# CHAPTER NINE

Henry's hammer sang on the anvil as Caleb tossed straw into the yellow mare's stall. She'd cleaned her hay rack by the time he'd returned from breakfast, and now she slipped through the fresh bedding for stray oats in the mix. He needed to tell Daniel Whitaker about the horse's condition, but he suspected the storekeep would be less than thrilled.

Caleb leaned the pitchfork against the stall, stepped inside, and kicked the straw around to spread it. "You need a few carrots from the mercantile, don't you, girl." He let her smell his hands and then rubbed them gently along her shoulders, back, and distended belly. "You going to make it to Christmas?"

As if in response to his question, a sudden kick pushed against his hand. The little hoof lay low toward the mare's hind quarters. Concern pulsed in Caleb's temple as certain as the foal resisting his hand, and he answered his own question, soothing himself as much as the mare with his low, easy comments.

"Too early to say, Mama. That baby could turn round head first in no time." With an arm over the mare's rump, he walked around her back legs and along her right side. "We'll just have to pray for the right presentation, won't we?"

He surprised himself with the suggestion, but there it was again--an old habit. This morning's prayer at breakfast had widened the hairline fissure, let something leak through. Resentment was draining away as sure as the green from the cottonwood leaves along the river.

"Forgive me, Lord," he whispered. He tipped his forehead against the mare's neck and pulled his fingers through her mane. "I'm stubborn and hard-hearted. I deserve less than a bed in a barn."

A scuffling step jerked his head up. Annie Whitaker stood watching him, her face flushed, eyes wide. As she approached, her expression softened and warmed. Her lips parted as if to speak, but instead curved slightly as she slid a hand over the stall gate and let the mare lip her open palm.

Caleb ducked beneath the horse's neck, and when Annie stepped back, he exited the stall.

"I knew she'd be missing the apples."

He stood close to her, against the closed gate, and her hair, mere inches from his face, enticed him with its sweet fragrance.

She dug in her pocket again and this time offered Caleb the wrapped licorice whips.

He grinned. "Why, thank you, ma'am."

Her brows pulled together. "I told you, it's Annie. You make me feel like an old woman every time you say _ma'am_."

His fingers brushed against her palm. "Annie." Just a passing touch, but with power to warm him all over. He popped a licorice piece into his mouth and offered one to her.

She shook her head, and he could smell the sunshine in her hair again. "Those are for you. I have my own."

"Deep pockets," he said.

Catching the jest in his voice, she laughed. "Only for apples and penny candy."

"So you're barely making it, like everyone else around here, I expect." He bit into another strip. "Except maybe the owner of the Fremont Hotel and Saloon."

She stiffened at his remark, and he faced her straight on. "What's wrong, Annie?"

The rose in her cheeks had all but faded, and she pushed at the loose hair falling so appealingly against her neck. "What do you think of Nell?"

Her sudden change in tone and subject convinced him that he was right--that there was a problem with Cooper--but her lovely eyes focused on the bulging mare.

"So her name's Nell?"

"Mm-hm." Annie nodded and rubbed the horse's head.

"You were right about her eating more than the others." He broached the delicate subject the best way he knew how.

"Do you know why?"

His hand ached to touch Annie's cheek, finger her russet hair. Instead he gripped the gate and watched the horse that stood half dozing under the loving attention. "Yes, I believe I do."

Annie raised her beautiful eyes to him, wide with the question for his answer.

He cleared his throat. One hand rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, uh ..."

His hesitation tugged her questioning look into a frown, and worry darted across her face.

"Is Nell all right?" She laid her hand atop his on the rail. "Is something the matter with her? We didn't take care of our horses in Omaha, someone else did. Have we done something wrong here?"

"No, nothing's _wrong._ " How should he put it? And how could he speak calmly with her hand on his in such an earnest, trusting gesture?

He squeezed the rail and took a deep breath. "She's eating a lot because she's not the only one getting her food." He watched to see if Annie gathered his meaning.

Her eyes flicked from his face to the mare and back again, and he saw the exact moment realization settled. With a gasp, she jerked her hand from his and covered her mouth.

"You mean ..."

He nodded. "My guess is sometime around Christmas. You didn't know?"

Light danced in her eyes and her mouth bowed into a perfect circle. "Oh--that's wonderful!" She leaned over the half door and kissed Nell on the nose. "You old darling. What a Christmas surprise you've brought us."

Relief spilled out with Caleb's pent-up breath. "At least your father will be surprised."

His comment triggered her frown. "You are right about that." She turned her back to the stall and leaned against it, folding her arms across her waist.

Caleb knew conspiracy when he saw it.

"We can't tell him." She gave him a threatening look. "Promise me you won't let him know. He'll sell her for sure, and it just wouldn't be fair, not when she's ... she's ..." A becoming flush appeared on her cheeks, and she pushed away from the stall and paced the alleyway.

"It's not going to be a secret for very much longer. If he comes down here, he's bound to figure it out."

She stopped and studied Henry at his fire in the back of the barn, then whirled on Caleb.

"Are you a veterinarian?"

Annie Whitaker didn't sashay around the point. If he wasn't careful, she'd drag every ounce of his past right up through his gullet.

"No." He reached for the pitchfork.

"Then what are you?"

Returning to the straw pile, he forked a load, stalling for time and a decent answer. He wasn't about to start lying, but he wasn't ready to admit he'd turned from his calling, either.

"I told you. I'm good with horses." He tossed the straw into the stall farthest from his inquisitor and stabbed the tines in the ground at his feet. Then he crossed his own arms and waited, daring her to press the issue further.

~

Annie narrowed her eyes. She'd heard Caleb Hutton asking forgiveness for something, so what was it? Was he hiding some terrible deed and lying to them? One thing she knew for sure--he was as stubborn as Edna ever had been. By his rigid chin and the wide stance of his feet, she guessed he had a passel of younger brothers and sisters and knew all the tricks to avoiding a direct question when he didn't want to give the answer.

His broad shoulders and steady gaze nearly weakened her determination, but she averted her eyes just in time. There were more important things to consider than his disarming looks. Like a veterinarian for Nell, or at least someone who knew what to do when the time came.

He might not be an animal doctor, but Caleb Hutton knew more than he was letting on. Much more than a livery hand, or horse handler, or whatever he chose to say about himself.

_Still water runs deep_ , Daddy had said a hundred times.

If that was true, she was squared off against a bottomless ravine.

Nell stomped, pulling Annie's attention from the infuriating man in the alleyway. How did he know so much about horses? And what was his connection to the sorrowful Caleb in her dream? Suddenly, she wasn't quite sure who she was talking to, and suspicion rose again.

Annie scoured her pockets and found two more apple rings. Nell lipped them from her palm, then nuzzled Annie's shoulder. "You poor dear. Don't you worry. We'll find someone to help you."

"I don't think she's worried."

As if in reply to Caleb's low murmur, Nell tossed her head, nudging Annie off balance. She stumbled back into a hard chest and strong hands--the second time in as many days she'd found herself thrust into a man's arms.

Only this time, she had to admit, was much more pleasant, and the realization threatened to unbalance her even more.

"Whoa, there." Laughter edged his voice as he gently braced her arms.

She gathered her footing and her pride and moved away. "Thank you, but I'm perfectly capable of standing on my own."

His expression quivered with mirth.

Her left foot itched to stomp the hard-packed dirt, but she held it firm. "I need to get back to the store. Daddy will worry if I'm gone too long."

Stepping around him, she refused to look up until she reached the livery door.

"You won't tell him?" she asked over her shoulder.

"No, I won't tell him." His mouth knit up in a ridiculous lopsided grin. "But Nell will, eventually."

Annie huffed and jerked her head around, dislodging her hair. A thick strand fell over her shoulder and she hurried through the wide doorway, refusing to stoop for the traitorous pins.

Once she made it past the corral, she glanced back to see Caleb bent over, picking up something from the dirt. He caught her eyes before she looked away and escaped to the boardwalk.

By the time she reached the mercantile, Annie had fretted up enough steam to wilt an entire garden of Aunt Harriet's daylilies. The door slammed harder than she intended, and her father and Martha's shocked expressions warned her to calm her billowing emotions.

Caleb Hutton's stubbornness was stouter than her father's coffee. She paused, looked out through the door glass, and drew in a slow deep breath. Nell's secret must not be found out. Not yet.

"I must be going, Daniel." Endearment flavored Martha's tone. "Thank you for the coffee and company. You've done my heart a world of good."

Annie forced herself to walk calmly toward the back. Her father offered Martha his hand and smiled as the little woman stood and faced him.

"You are a dear." She gathered the folded canvas and her reticule, and addressed Annie.

"I didn't get my lace and buttons, but I'll be back tomorrow with your curtain."

Guilt wedged under Annie's festering irritation, and she burned with chagrin. "I apologize. I shouldn't have been gone so long."

Martha fluttered her fingers over her shoulder on her way to the door. "I shall return, dear." She paused and sent a secret look to Annie's father. "For more of that coffee, Daniel. I may even find some cinnamon rolls while I'm rummaging around in my kitchen."

The bell sang much more sweetly upon Martha's departure than it had at Annie's arrival. She regarded her father's changed countenance. What had transpired while she was gone? He was as peaceful as she was agitated.

"Daddy?"

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking onto his toes, deep in thought.

"Daddy?" She moved closer and touched his arm.

"Annie girl, you may have been right after all."

Fear skipped from her stomach into her throat. She wasn't ready for her father to make any sudden changes--in spite of what she'd said earlier. Wasn't it enough that they'd uprooted and moved to Cañon City?

"Daddy, what happened here?"

His eyes twinkled with a secret, and Annie's pulse quickened. One secret between them was enough, especially when it was _her_ secret.

She planted her hands on her hips and assumed her most commanding posture. "Daddy, what's going on between you and Martha?"

Exactly like Caleb had earlier, her father turned his back on her. He reached into the coal bucket, opened the stove door, and planted two small pieces inside. It wasn't even cold in the store.

After closing the door and adjusting the damper, he addressed her with controlled grace. "I enjoy her company, that's all."

He walked purposefully to the front counter. "She's a fine woman, that Martha. A fine woman."

Yesterday, Martha Bobbins had been a "confounded woman." Today she was "fine."

That left Annie as the confounded one--confounded over her father as well as the feelings growing within her for one mysterious horseman.

# CHAPTER TEN

Caleb shoved the pitchfork beneath a soiled straw pile and tossed it onto the wheelbarrow. A pungent scent rose from the heap.

November nights had been considerably colder, but by sunup each day he worked up a sweat cleaning stalls and tossing hay from the loft. And if Henry had the fire stoked and blowing, it felt like near summer in the livery by noon.

The last time he'd been to the river, he'd found ice forming along the banks and Springer Smith treading dangerously close to it. He hoped the family had better shelter by now, something more than a camp fire and a tent. Wintering along the Arkansas would be unbearable.

Cañon City needed a boardinghouse, someplace where families or single men could afford to stay.

Like himself.

He moved to the next stall, raked out what needed to be raked, and added it to the wheelbarrow. _Thank you, Lord, for warmth and work and good food each morning at Whitaker's Mercantile._

Annie's image came to mind, as it did so often now. It seemed everything __ brought her to mind. Just the thought of her drew him like a bear to a bee hive--a dangerous delight. No matter what he did, he envisioned Annie Whitaker with her flaming hair and luminous eyes and persistent questions about his past.

The woman pressed in where she had no right to go.

He dug into the pile of fresh straw in the alleyway and sent a heaving pitch against the far wall and all over one of Deacon's draft horses. Caleb shook his head and jabbed the fork in the dirt, then climbed in to brush off the big gray.

So why didn't he simply tell Annie the truth?

Because it was none of her business.

The gray stood calmly as Caleb dusted its broad back and pulled straw pieces from its mane. The irony of his work set his teeth on edge. Sunday or not, the animals required care and their needs came before his.

He stepped through the gate and looked to Henry's furnace staring from the end of alleyway, cold and empty. The anvil lay dutifully quiet on this day of rest for everyone except the former preacher.

The last two weeks Caleb had slipped into church after the singing and stood near the door, ready to bolt if confronted. Pastor Hartman was near his own age, and his straightforward sermons rang a familiar note. Almost a comfort.

Both Sundays Caleb had left during the closing prayer and managed to avoid Hartman, the Whitakers, and Martha Bobbins who clung to Daniel's arm like a foxtail to a dog. But today he planned to stay and face the fire.

The fire of repentance or the fire that burned for Annie Whitaker, he wasn't sure which.

He hung the pitchfork on the wall and hauled in water from the hand pump. His new basin and pitcher rested on an upturned crate in his stall, and he washed his hands and face. He changed into his clean pants and shirt, thankful that he'd stopped by the barber's the day before for a haircut.

If he wasn't careful, gratitude might become a habit.

He reached for his Bible and found the passage he'd read last night by lamplight. _Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence?_

An honest question that Caleb hadn't been willing to answer.

But he couldn't hide from God forever. Not even in Cañon City at the edge of nowhere. It'd be a long winter if he kept running from the church folk in town, especially since he wanted to get a lot closer to one in particular.

Clattering hooves, creaking buggy wheels, and the curious snorts of his stablemates told him people were gathering across the road. His gut twisted, anticipating Annie Whitaker fresh as a spring flower in her Sunday dress and bonnet.

He buttoned his waistcoat, dusted off his hat, and walked the line for one last check. Nell dozed with a back leg cocked forward, her distended belly looking painfully tight. There could be two inside--double the problem if Annie was right and her father wanted nothing to do with another horse to feed.

Satisfied that no one had kicked over a water bucket, he slid the front door back and left it open a few inches. He brushed off his shirt sleeves and wished he had a nicer overcoat than his slicker. The chill nipped clean through his thin shirt, but he couldn't wear his work coat to the meeting house. They'd run him off for sure.

A woman's clear laughter sang from the boardwalk. _Annie?_

He hurried out to spot the source of the melodic sound, something deep within him insisting it must be her.

She walked beside her father, her head tilted back in an unguarded moment. Daniel wore a grin beneath his white mustache and Martha Bobbins on his arm.

The threesome stepped into the street and Annie hitched up her deep green skirt as they crossed, revealing high buttoned shoes and a glimpse of dark stockings.

Warmth flashed in Caleb's chest and his need for a coat vanished.

"Mornin'." Henry Schultz's hearty welcome caught Caleb staring.

"Henry." Caleb pulled on his hat brim. "Mrs. Schultz, ma'am."

He fell in with the couple as they made their way up the steps, then waited behind them when they stopped before the pastor.

Hartman stood at the door greeting each congregant individually, and he offered his hand to both Henry and his wife.

"Good to see you this morning. Bertha, don't you look lovely." An honest smile accompanied his words, and he shared one with Caleb as well. "You're early." Laughter sparked in the parson's gray eyes.

Caleb pulled off his hat and took the pastor's hand. "Thought I'd sit in on the whole service this morning."

Hartman slapped Caleb's arm. "I'm glad to hear I haven't driven you off."

Henry offered seating at their usual bench, but Caleb begged off on pretense of keeping an eye on the stable and stopped at the back row. He wasn't quite ready to be so close to the pulpit.

And the view was better from back here.

Henry leaned toward Caleb and lowered his voice. "I do believe you're keeping an eye on more than the livery."

Bertha pulled on Henry's arm and Caleb pulled on his collar, surprised that the chapel's woodstove put out so much heat.

~

Annie had seen Caleb exit the livery. She'd wanted to cross to him right then and there and tell him that she knew there was something he wasn't saying, and it had nothing to do with their secret about Nell.

But ladies did not run after men in public--or anywhere, for that matter.

She clutched her Bible and continued toward the church, failing miserably at ignoring how handsome Caleb looked this morning. With his long confident stride, clean white shirt, and low, tilted hat, he seemed so unlike the stubborn man who had refused to answer her questions.

She paused at the steps to let her father and Martha go ahead. Once inside, she angled away from the door, and fussed with her reticule as she listened for a certain deep voice.

The warm timbre sent shivers up her back as Caleb spoke to Pastor Hartman. She stepped in behind a young couple heading down the aisle and took the empty spot on the bench next to her father.

During the sermon, it took all her concentration to focus on the message. Not that she dared look Caleb's way, but her mind wandered. She kept stumbling over who and what he could be, and the possibilities scattered themselves throughout Reverend Hartman's sermon on the parable of the sower.

A hired gun? He wore no holster.

A grieving widower? He wore no ring.

A swindler, a bank robber, a gambler?

She snickered, and her father cocked an eyebrow her way.

Quickly she seamed her lips and rubbed her cheek, a trick she'd often used when hiding a joke from Edna. But it wasn't enough to keep her mind from Caleb. He piqued her curiosity with his mysterious avoidance of anything to do with his past.

The man had all but finished off an entire apple pie on his last visit to the store. He ate more than she and her father put together. Perhaps he was a farmer, missing his fields and family back home. Had he come for a share of fertile land in the Arkansas River Valley and been robbed? Was he a miner who'd had his claim jumped? No, his clothing and mannerisms said otherwise.

Everyone stood, and Annie jerked to her feet, a flush rising to her face. The closing song drew her attention to the blessed tie that binds, but during the prayer she finally gave in and peeked over her shoulder. She couldn't make out Caleb through all the bowed heads. Either his was also bowed or he'd slipped out already. The binding tie pulled to a disappointed knot.

Annie drifted out the chapel door, a single drop in the human stream, her ears dull to the chatting voices until Martha Bobbins broke through.

"You must come for dinner, dear." The woman took hold of Annie's elbow. "I've made a chicken pie and a lovely rice pudding for desert."

Annie looked to her father, whose eyes fairly brimmed with longing for both, she guessed.

Laughing, she linked her arm with the little woman. "Of course we'll come. Can we bring anything from the mercantile? Tea or coffee?"

"No, I have everything. But we'll need to hurry. I left the pie on the back of the stove to keep warm."

Hannah Baker, Cañon City's bride-to-be, caught Martha's eye as they descended the front steps.

So much for hurrying.

Wanting her heart's soil to be fertile and not futile, Annie resisted the tug of envy. Fair Hannah could not be more than sixteen, yet here she was, engaged to be married to Pastor Hartman. An Abraham and Sarah romance, no doubt. Or was romance even involved?

Annie watched the animated girl describe to Martha the precise placement of seed pearls that she wanted on her gown. Her flushed cheeks and the urgency in her voice betrayed a deep and earnest passion.

Envy took a step closer, but Annie backed away.

While Hannah bombarded Martha, Annie's father ambled over to visit with Henry and Mrs. Schultz. Annie's breath froze in her chest.

What if Henry mentioned Nell's condition?

She couldn't bear to sell the mare now, not like this. Not with winter coming on and long dark nights ahead. _O Lord, please_.

"He won't say anything."

She whirled to face the man who had read her thoughts and answered her unspoken prayer.

Reaching for her breath, she fingered her ruffled collar.

"Are you sure?" she whispered, clutching her Bible to her chest.

One side of his mouth twitched as if he fought a smile.

"He might not even know." Caleb dipped his head, holding her with his eyes. "He doesn't pay the horses much mind. Seems to trust my care of them."

Annie ordered her pulse to stop pounding. Was it fear of discovery or the intimacy of Caleb's rich voice that left her light-headed? Such a voice should not be wasted on livestock.

"Oh, I pray so."

A muscle flexed in his jaw, and his eyes swept her face. She dipped her head and touched the small hat clinging desperately to her hair. Where was the anger that she'd last felt in his presence?

He held out his opened hand, revealing two hairpins. "Looking for these?"

Meeting his gaze, she found nothing but gentleness there. No mockery, no criticism. She reached for the pins and as her fingers brushed his palm he clasped her hand in his.

"Truce?"

His query drew the breath from her. Or was it the touch of his strong hand?

She nodded, helpless to do more, and he released her fingers as quickly as he had closed upon them.

"Come along, dear," Martha piped. "And you too, young man. There's chicken pie a plenty to go round. You know what they say: the more the merrier."

Annie's Sunday suit squeezed tightly as she fought for a steadying breath. Now she must face much more than a truce with Caleb Hutton. And not just casual biscuits around a potbellied stove, but an intimate meal with Martha and her father.

~

Caleb offered his arm. For three beats of his heart, he watched indecision cloud Annie's eyes. When she finally rested her fingers in the crook of his elbow, his pulse nearly broke and ran. With one hand, she again lifted her skirt as they crossed the dusty street, and he fought the urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her across.

They walked behind Daniel and Martha, and once on the boardwalk, Annie withdrew her hand and stopped at the mercantile.

"I'm going to drop off my Bible, Daddy. I'll only be a moment."

Martha kept her place on Daniel's arm, and while they waited, the couple peppered their quiet words with youthful laughter. Caleb moved away to study the new stoves displayed in the window, envisioning a small pot belly in the box stall's outside corner.

True to her word, Annie returned before he could plan an argument for Henry about the stove, and the foursome continued along the boardwalk toward the west end. He offered his arm and Annie accepted.

As they passed the Fremont Saloon, she tensed, raised her chin, and stared straight ahead. The others walked by the ornate doors with no indication of concern. What had Jedediah Cooper done to make Annie react so strongly to even the man's establishment?

At the next corner they strolled north, and Martha led them to a rock-lined path and a small cabin with a stone chimney. White lace curtains peeked through the front window, clinging to their place against the rough logs and chink that framed them.

"Come in, come in." Martha held the door wide with a smile to match.

The aroma of baked chicken and pie crust set Caleb's mouth to watering. The amply set table in the center of the room vied with church dinners he'd long forgotten.

An unusual contraption hugged one wall, draped in long silky folds with silver pins along an unsewn edge. Must be Martha's latest project.

A large braided rug covered the tiny cabin's floor, but by Caleb's living standards, the homey room was a palace.

He hung his hat on a peg by the door and noted that Martha had set the table for three in expectation of the Whitakers. She whisked an additional plate and utensils from a shelf, quickly balanced the small round table for four, and insisted everyone be seated.

Following Daniel's prayer, Martha served each guest from the Dutch oven dominating the table's center.

"Thank you, ma'am," Caleb said. "I'm hungry as a horse."

A frown notched Annie's brow.

"Speaking of horses, Caleb,"--Daniel leaned over his dish and breathed deeply--"have you noticed anything unusual about our mare that would keep someone from buying her?"

Annie sucked in her breath and choked on the morsel in her mouth.

Caleb flinched at the barbed looked she threw him over her napkin. So much for their truce. Her heart would break if her father sold Nell, especially with the foal on the way. And she would blame him.

He rested his hand at the table's edge. "Why sell her, sir?"

Daniel harrumphed around a mouthful, then swallowed. "Well, I imagine by this point, you've seen how much she eats."

Caleb glanced from Daniel to Annie's warning glare and back.

"I expect it'd be hard to sell her now, so close to the snow coming. You might get a better price if you wait until spring."

Daniel chewed on Martha's chicken and Caleb's reply, his white brows pulling together. "Duke Deacon said he'd think on buying her."

Annie's head snapped toward her father. "We can't sell her." Apparently startled by her own abruptness, she dabbed her mouth with her napkin and softened her tone. "Did the freighters really say they wanted her?"

Daniel's tender glance at his daughter eased the creases at his eyes. He shook his head. "I know you love her, though why, I'll never understand. But she's too expensive a pet, Annie girl. And she's built for pulling a load."

Martha eyed her guests and diverted the approaching storm. "Wasn't that a most uplifting sermon this morning?" She winked at Caleb. "What do you think, Daniel?"

The man's countenance softened further as his eyes met Martha's. "Indeed it was. Love your neighbor as yourself."

"That wasn't it at all." Annie balled her napkin. "It was the parable of the sower."

Daniel laughed and his belly bumped the table's edge. "So it was, Annie. So it was."

Martha flushed pink and worried a chicken piece on her plate. Things had definitely changed between Annie's father and the seamstress, and Caleb wondered if Martha would be changing her name as easily as she'd changed the topic of discussion.

His gaze shifted to Annie, who stared at a spot on the white tablecloth above her plate. Her fitted green jacket set off her hair in flaming contrast, and two tortoiseshell combs held it off her face, exposing the tender skin at her temples. Maybe the pins he'd returned to her weren't as important as he'd thought.

"There's plenty more." Martha lifted Daniel's empty plate, heaped on creamy chicken and vegetables, then reached for Annie's.

"No, thank you," she said, returning from her reverie. "It was wonderful. Really quite good, but I cannot eat another bite." She pressed one hand against her narrow waist and tucked her napkin beneath her plate. "It's so nice outdoors, I think I'll walk through the garden while you and Daddy finish."

Martha waved a hand. "Oh, it's hardly a garden. Just a few rose bushes that attract more deer than honeybees."

Annie scooted her chair back and took her plate to the sideboard.

Daniel missed the brooding in his daughter's eyes. Caleb did not. He was the reason for their somber expression.

"Believe I'll do the same." He sensed a rare opportunity to talk to Annie alone. "Again, thank you, ma'am. This was a fine feast."

Martha tilted her head modestly, but her fingers had already found their way to Daniel's free hand lying conveniently near her on the table.

Caleb set his plate atop Annie's in the dishpan and quickly followed her outside, eager to apologize to her once again.

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

Annie looked up from a fading rose at the cabin's corner to see Caleb making his way toward her, a sober look on his face.

"I'm sorry."

She shook her head and turned back to the rose, plucking at the dying petals. "It's not your fault." Her finger snagged on a thorn and she jerked her hand back. A red bead formed on her fingertip. Squeezing it, she commanded the tears that pricked her eyes to hold their place.

Caleb reached for her hand, unpocketed a blue bandana, and held it against the wound.

Feeling foolish for such a careless act, she tried to pull away but he held her fast--firmly yet gently. His eyes roamed her brow, her cheeks, her lips, as if charting every inch of her face. A flutter caught in her throat and she feared that she echoed the rose's once deep pink.

"I could have said _bear._ "

Curious, she tipped her head.

"I could have said I was hungry as a bear _._ "

Laughter eased the tightness in her shoulders, and she relaxed her hand in his. He continued to hold it after the bleeding had stopped.

"It's not your fault. Daddy has wanted to be rid of Nell ever since I talked him out of selling her in the first place. But I don't want to let her go. I love her soft breath on my face, the way she nuzzles me for the apples ..."

Catching herself, she withdrew her hand and looked away. What was it about Caleb Hutton that made her want to trust him with such personal details? Feeling exposed, she regretted leaving her hat indoors and nervously fingered the new combs in her hair.

"We left everything familiar back home, and when we bought the horses in Denver, it was as if our traveling family expanded. I had more to care for than just myself and my father."

Her mouth was running away with her but she couldn't stop herself.

She clasped her hands at her waist. "How could I have known that she was ..."

Embarrassment warmed her face and rushed into her hairline.

"I'll talk to those freighters the next time they come to the wagon yard. Spring is the time for buying a horse. They're not looking to make as many trips out until then anyway."

She peeked at his face, looking for the truth to support his words and found it lying quietly in his dark eyes.

He stuffed the bandana back in his pocket and, offering his arm, gestured toward the narrow lane that bordered other cabins. "Care to walk?"

Hooking her fingers in his elbow she allowed him to lead her away from the roses.

They strolled up the lane, where transplanted cottonwoods marshalled the path, their falling leaves laying an amber carpet. Wood smoke painted the breeze, and Caleb cleared his throat and threw her a sidelong glance. "Which is worse?" he asked. "Telling your father about the coming foal before it arrives or waiting until it gets here?"

A heavy sigh slipped out. "I've asked myself the same thing a hundred times. I'm just afraid."

He stopped abruptly, surprise and doubt mingling in his scrutiny. "I find that hard to believe, oh you of the broom and the biscuits."

His boldness startled a laugh where once it would have elicited a scowl. "You are taking a fearsome chance with that remark, Mr. Hutton. A fearsome chance."

Placing his free hand atop hers, he resumed their stroll. "I can't imagine you afraid of anything on this earth, Annie Whitaker. I've seen a fire in your eyes that I'm certain lies deeply banked within your spirit."

_Poetry?_ Annie doubted her sister's beaus spun words as charming as this horseman at her side.

Though he wasn't a beau. At least not hers.

Befuddled, she studied the ground ahead. Her right hand burned hotter than her left, covered as it was by his calloused fingers. Strength flowed from him--steadily, faithfully, as if he drew upon some hidden source. His prayer so long ago at the mercantile suggested an intimate knowledge of God. Did he share her faith?

Each time they were together, something new came to her attention--his humility, candor, humor. What _was_ he? Saddle tramps didn't talk like that--or pray like that. This man had a way with more than just horses. So what was he hiding?

"Have you been upstream?"

Caught in her puzzlement, she took a moment to reorient. "Upstream?" She cocked her head to look up at him. "As in upriver?"

Amusement pulled his mouth on one side. "Yes, upriver. Have you ridden up the river, into the canyon above town?"

"Not yet." Disappointment pinched. The very thing she'd dreamed of in Nebraska still hadn't occurred. As far as she knew, the Arkansas River didn't roar any more than the lazy Mississippi, at least not near town.

"I plan to take some time off tomorrow--if we don't get any new freighters--and ride up past the Ute encampment. Take a look at the canyon the town is named for."

Envy danced across her mind. "Daddy says the canyon narrows down to the width of the river. At least that's what someone told him." Again, someone else--a man-- doing what _she_ wanted to do.

Her responsibilities at the mercantile had given her little free time before dark, and only a fool ventured out at night. But even during the day, who would go with her into the canyon? Daddy would never let her ride unattended, but neither would he take time off from the store to ogle the scenery.

Caleb cast a questioning look her way. Evidently her hidden frustration was not so hidden.

A pump handle squeaked behind one of the cabins, mocking a whine that she struggled to reach her throat. "When you get back, you'll have to tell me all about it."

"I'd be happy to." He brushed her with a lingering glance. "If it's not too treacherous, I'll take you up for a look. That is, if your father doesn't mind."

His comment warred against her earlier resolve. She'd not come to Cañon City to have her head turned by a wandering cowboy with no home or livelihood. But she _had_ come to hear the mighty river roar.

Lifting her chin to a dignified angle, she skimmed every eager note from her voice and aimed for detached and demure. "How delightful, but I'd have to wait until after Nell ..."

Annie allowed her remark to fade into the breeze and pinned her eyes on the razorback ridge stretching against the sky to their left.

Caleb stopped and faced her. "You could ride Sally."

"Excuse me?" She eased her hand from his arm and hid it safely in the folds of her skirt.

"My other horse." Amusement lit his eyes. "She's a gentle old girl and would serve you well."

"Oh." Uncertain how she felt about him practically laughing at her and fighting her instinctive reaction to accept his offer, she turned back the way they had come.

In one long stride, he fell in beside her. "I've had Sally since I was a boy. My pa gave her to me, and she's been a faithful mount. Never bucked or bit, and fared better on the trip here than I had hoped."

Unpredictable didn't begin to describe Caleb Hutton. Now the tight-lipped loaner was spilling history with a schoolteacher's flair.

She stopped and faced him, determined that he would not be the only one full of surprises. "Thank you for your kind offer to ride Sally on a river excursion. I think it is a splendid idea."

~

That night Caleb lay with his hands linked beneath his head, his lamp trimmed low, the light thinning into darkness where overhead framework faded into the haymow. The barn cat begged outside the stall door.

He mulled over the pastor's morning message, picking through the seeds he'd sown in the last five years. Not much had sprung from his meager plantings, and yet the quiet walk with Annie had set his dreams to spinning. But what did he have to offer a beautiful woman with mahogany eyes? A box stall in a livery stable?

Again he saw the warm parsonage he'd left in Missouri. And Mollie Sullivan--far from warm as he compared her now to Annie. He'd had a calling and a home when he lost Mollie to someone of greater means. He was a fool to think Annie would give him a second thought when he had nothing.

A scratching sound lifted his attention to the rafters, where a black-and-white feline walked the crossbeam like a high-wire performer. Without a sound, it leaped to the railing along the wall and dropped to the floor.

He chuckled as it neared his bedroll.

"Won't the horses let you sleep with them?"

The cat purred against him and pressed its head into his rough blanket, adding warmth from its small body. He missed the heavy quilts back in the parsonage, the colorful spreads pieced together by the Women's Society. He'd never properly thanked them for their labors--another shortsighted sin.

He'd thought only of himself in St. Joseph. Of marrying the prettiest girl in the congregation, of listing converts beneath his name, of counting the people who sat in the walnut pews of his sanctuary.

_His_ sanctuary. Not the Lord's.

He grimaced at his arrogance.

When had he fallen from serving God to serving himself?

The cat curled into a ball at his side and wrapped its tail around its face. He stroked its smooth back, ran his fingers through the soft hair.

"Tell me what to do," he murmured. "Not just for a warm hearth and a woman's love, but for You. I'll stay in this barn if it's what You want. Just show me what to do, how to get back to the place I should be."

He trimmed the lamp on the crate until the wick smoked out, then rolled to his side. His eyes closed and soon he drifted across a ripening wheat field with golden heads bent beneath a scuttling breeze. He saw himself running through the field--running toward an aging man who stood open-armed, tears streaming down his face and into his beard.

Caleb fell at the man's feet but was lifted upright and embraced. Enfolded, Caleb let go of his remorse and resentment. Exchanged them for peace. And found the deep restful sleep of one who is forgiven.

~

By the time Caleb broke ice on the water trough, fed the horses, and made his way to the mercantile the next morning, a crowd had already gathered around the potbellied stove. He removed his hat and stepped into the boisterous group helping themselves to fresh cinnamon rolls and arguing the merits of the recently elected president. Had he been in the states and not on the frontier, Caleb would have cast his vote as a citizen ought.

"Lincoln won by a landslide," boasted Jeb Hancock, a tall freighter from Illinois. His chest swelled more than the last time he'd been in the livery, and if Caleb had been a betting man, he would bet his week's wages it had everything to do with the election.

"Yesiree, got us a good 'un this time," Hancock boasted.

A stumpy miner jostled to the front and grabbed two rolls. His crumpled hat and ragged canvas coat bore witness to a played-out claim.

"It's the end, I tell ya, the end." He shoved one roll in his mouth and the other in his pocket and headed for the door.

"Good riddance," Hancock called over those who crowded the stove. "Naysayer." He swiped his buckskin sleeve across his mouth and downed his coffee dregs.

Annie stood at the back counter watching the commotion with concern. When Caleb caught her eyes, she brightened and seemed to relax. Or was his imagination showing him what he wanted to see?

It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

Caleb edged his way closer to the old stove. "Mornin'."

"Good morning." She retrieved a covered plate from the sideboard and handed it to him. "You almost didn't make it in time. Martha brought only two pans of cinnamon rolls."

Her welcome soothed like a beloved hymn. "You saved this for me?"

She took his hat and hung it on the peg holding her cloak. "I think half the town followed their noses in here this morning."

A sliver of hope wedged into Caleb's chest as he pulled the checkered napkin from the plate. The spicy aroma set his mouth to watering, and he accepted the fork she offered.

"I kindly thank you, Annie."

Blushing, she busied herself smoothing the creases from her apron. "You'll have to stand, I'm afraid, but it shouldn't be long. Milner, the editor, will no doubt be leaving soon since the newspaper comes out today. As will Karl and Kristof Turk, Hobson the barber, and Mr. Smith, who, I understand, has finally hired the Turk brothers to raise a cabin for his family."

Caleb remained at the group's edge, inhaling Martha Bobbins's handiwork and Whitaker's coffee. The men talked politics and claim jumpers, comparing both to an upcoming turkey hunt competition sponsored by Jedediah Cooper. The saloon owner snagged a roll, waved it above his head, and vowed a twenty-dollar gold piece to the man who shot the biggest wild bird.

"More than a hundred men have already laid out the two-dollar entry fee," Cooper boasted. "But any of you could be the winner. Don't be left out."

"Not in here." Daniel Whitaker raised his voice above the cheers. "You'll not be doing your business in the mercantile. Take it elsewhere."

Caleb caught Annie's pained expression and glanced at Cooper. Something had happened, something unpleasant. The room's temperature spiked.

God help Jedediah Cooper if he'd been inappropriate with her.

"Caleb?"

Her tone pulled him from morbid thoughts. She was staring at the fork gripped in his hand like a weapon.

He relaxed his fingers a bit and cut another bite from the frosted, cinnamon-laced coil as big as a horse's hoof. Turning the other cheek was a worthy rule to follow, but not where a woman was concerned. If Cooper offended Annie, Caleb would not be turning a cheek or an eye away from him, regardless of how ingenious the man appeared to be.

"Is something the matter?" She touched his arm as lightly as her voice touched his ear.

The gesture fired through his body like heat roaring from Henry's forge. Sweat beaded at his hairline.

Martha's bubbling laughter drew Annie's attention, and Caleb silently thanked the woman for her timely rescue. He moved back, as far as possible from the stove, afraid that he'd already filled the cramped room with stable perfume.

Chairs scooted across the floor, some snagging on the braided rug. Tin plates clattered into a dishpan on the stove, and Daniel Whitaker met his customers at the front counter where he accepted their coins and thanks and wished them a good day. Martha busied herself with the dishes, and Annie ground coffee beans and filled the pot with fresh water.

Caleb pulled a low-back captain's chair away from the stove. His vengeful thoughts about Jedediah Cooper surprised him, but he stopped short of repentance. No man dared lay an unwanted hand on Annie Whitaker, and he didn't mind being the one to ensure that.

He didn't mind at all.

Because he was losing his good sense to the spirited young woman, even though he'd sworn never to let such a thing happen again.

The brass bell sang out as the last customer left, and Daniel returned to the stove, where he chucked in a black lump from the coal bucket and adjusted the damper. He sat with a hefty sigh, rubbed his hands across his aproned girth, and shook his head.

"Martha, you'll make a fat man of me yet."

Martha laughed and splashed at the sideboard, dunking plates in the rinsing pan and handing them to Annie who dried them and stacked them on a shelf.

"Oh, Daniel, you are good for my heart."

Caleb glanced up from his disappearing breakfast and caught a boyish grin on the older man's face. He winked at Caleb and smoothed his mustache.

Three bites finished Caleb's cinnamon roll, and his plate had barely emptied when Annie's hand entered his view, open and waiting.

His first thought was to take it and kiss her fingers, but with her father watching and his lips sticky from the frosting, he settled for a smile.

Her eyes lingered. Oh, Lord, how could he bear to see her every day, knowing he had nothing to give her but a broken heart and broken vows?

The bold truth sobered the warmth right out of him. He wrapped both hands around his cup, planted his elbows on his knees, and stared at the braided rug beneath his feet. His eyes followed a red strand that wove through the pattern and circled halfway around the rug before giving way to a dark brown. Maybe he needed to give way himself, leave now rather than wait until spring. Denver was a three-day journey, and he'd saved enough to stake himself for a few weeks.

"You joining the hunt?"

The question brought Caleb back to the moment, and he caught Whitaker watching him over a tin mug.

"No, sir. I don't own a rifle."

Whitaker's mustache twitched and his eyes narrowed. "A cowboy like you with no gun?"

Too late Caleb recognized his blunder. The man had more on his mind than a turkey shoot.

"I have a side arm, for snakes and such. But I've never been a hunter."

Whitaker leaned on his knees, as much as his belly allowed, and threw a cautious glance toward the women. Then he lowered his voice and looked Caleb dead in the eye.

"What _do_ you do? And don't tell me you're good with horses. You're hiding something, son, and if you're taking an interest in my Annie--which I can see that you are--you'd best be telling me now rather than later."

# CHAPTER TWELVE

Whitaker's stare burned like hot iron.

Caleb cleared his throat. He hadn't hidden his affection for Annie any better than he'd hidden himself from the Lord.

He could simply leave. Like he'd left his church in St. Joseph. Or he could take his chances and come clean. Annie and her father deserved that much and more, after all they'd done for him.

"I was a preacher."

The confession set Whitaker back in his chair, but he never took his eyes off Caleb. One white brow cocked like a pistol hammer. "That explains it."

Exposed, Caleb started to rise.

Whitaker stopped him with a quick hand. "You've got a way with words as well as horses. I heard it when you prayed over breakfast that day, and I hear it when you talk to Annie." He looked up as the women went into the back room, then he refilled his coffee cup and offered more to Caleb. "What happened?"

Caleb breathed easier with Annie and Martha out of earshot. He thought of the old man in his dream who looked nothing like Daniel Whitaker, but maybe there was a connection. Maybe confession was a stop on the journey home.

"I pastored a small church back in St. Joseph, on the edge of town. About forty people." He pulled the hot coffee through his lips, uneasy at talking about himself. "I wasn't any good. No converts. Just the same people every Sunday, living the same lives." He cut a look toward Whitaker. "Except one."

_Might as well spill it all._

"She wasn't living the life I thought she was. Then she accepted a wealthy banker's proposal--a man who also happened to be on the deacon board."

Whitaker reached for the coal bucket and added another piece to the stove. "Over yours, I take it."

Caleb cringed, feeling the fool again.

"So you left."

Whitaker's look was more compassionate than judgmental, but Caleb didn't want the man's pity. He wanted the man's daughter, and that was becoming more unlikely by the minute.

"I figured those people needed a real __ pastor. Someone older with more experience. I sent word to the seminary, and I'm sure they've replaced me by now."

Whitaker leaned back in his chair, balancing his cup against one leg. "So who called you to preach?"

There it was--the question Caleb had dodged for half a year until recently. The question for which he knew the answer but not the reason it hadn't worked out.

He met Whitaker's eyes and caught Annie's fire in them.

"God called me."

"And do you suppose God changes His mind about that sort of thing?"

Seminary lectures scrolled through Caleb's memory, but Whitaker's question made them personal. "No, sir."

"You're familiar with the eighth chapter of Romans, the twenty-eighth verse?"

He was. It lay like a banked ember awaiting rediscovery. "We know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose."

_The called._

The words scorched Caleb's soul.

"You can't outrun God, son. I'm no preacher, but I for sure know that much."

Annie came in from the back room, and the flame in Caleb's chest burned deeper. Her eyes lit on his with a smile. What would she think if she knew the truth?

He shoved his hat on. It wouldn't be long until she did.

He needed distance. Perspective. Air.

He set his cup to the dishpan. "Thank you, ladies." He turned to Whitaker. "And you, sir." Then he left the store before he crumbled to ash in front of them.

Cold air slapped his face and bit through his shirt as he made his way back to the livery. He shoved through the door and the temperature rose noticeably. Fire blazed in Henry's brick furnace against the hiss and tap of the blacksmith's work. Everywhere--extremes.

Caleb grabbed the pitchfork as he walked up the alleyway. "Mornin'."

Henry's hammer paused in its dance against the anvil and he looked at Caleb. "And a good one it is."

For some.

"After I finish the stalls, I'll be heading out for a while. Be in this evening."

Henry took a step back and craned his neck toward the spare harnesses and tack hanging against the last stall.

"Everything is mended and soaped," Caleb said. "Finished Saturday night. The Turk brothers and Hancock are already gone."

Henry took to his work. No frown, no affirmation. "Fine by me."

Caleb reached for the wheelbarrow and pushed it into the alleyway. He could never tell what Henry was thinking unless the man came right out and said it plain.

Caleb should take lessons.

Nell whiffled a low greeting as he opened her stall door. "Missing Annie, are you?" The bulging mare tossed her head as if she understood and rumbled deep in her chest.

He knew the feeling.

By noon the stalls were cleaned with fresh bedding laid for all fifteen horses and mules inside. He saddled Rooster and hand-fed Sally a fistful of oats. "Maybe next time, ol' girl." He rubbed the bay mare's shoulder, truly hoping for a next time. "If the way is easy and Annie doesn't change her mind, we just might be taking another ride before the big snows fly."

Or he might be riding on out of town alone, snow or not. He hoped to have some direction after his trek today.

He buttoned his waistcoat and turned up his duster collar against the cold, then mounted the gelding and rode through town half expecting Annie to be sweeping the boardwalk in front of the mercantile. As he passed by, he saw her busy inside with a customer. Just as well.

The river ran low and easy enough to cross, but he kept to the north side and Rooster took quick to the trail. Slate blue clouds hunched over the distant ridges, threatening a storm. A soaking might be part and parcel of his day. He needed a good drenching, something to wash away his indecision and wring out the uncertainty in his soul.

He skirted the brick-colored granite guarding the canyon across from the Indian encampment. Mountain Utes, he'd been told, wintering near hot springs that seeped close by and living off deer that fed along the river.

Beyond the red monolith, the canyon tightened to a narrow green valley that hugged the river with cottonwood clusters, bushy grass, and spiny fingerlike cacti. A wide creek spilled from cedar-scattered hills on the south side and joined the river in liquid laughter.

_A merry heart doeth good like a medicine._ He'd give all his earnings for merriment or at least the understanding of what was weighing him down.

The dream had unsettled him and it hung with him still, especially after today's inquisition by Daniel Whitaker. He didn't begrudge the man's watchful eye for his daughter, but he'd cut near to the quick.

It didn't take a seer to know the dream dealt with a kind of homecoming. Trouble was, Caleb didn't know where home was because he didn't have one. Hadn't had one since he left his parents' place for school and the ministry.

The farther he rode, the more carefully Rooster chose his footing on the roughening trail. An occasional piñon pushed up through the rocky soil, holding its own in the rugged landscape.

The hills pulled themselves into straight-walled battlements, red rock layers jutting out like planks at a saw mill. Scrub oak and juniper jammed rocky crevices.

An unforgiving land, it seemed.

Perfect for an unforgiving heart.

Was that it? Had he not forgiven Mollie and the deacon? Himself? God?

The canyon suddenly narrowed. Granite walls rose hundreds of feet in shades of pink and gray and ochre, and beside him the river raised its voice, complaining loudly where boulders blocked its path.

Just like him.

His complaints were silent, but they were complaints nonetheless, shouting in his soul, drowning out his meager gratitude.

He startled at a sudden movement and yanked Rooster to a stop. Had the four deer not been leaping up the barren rock face, he would not have seen them--three does and a young buck. Stunned, he watched them climb the tawny granite on unseen footholds, loosening bits of gravel and bounding up to the treeless rim rock and out of sight.

Effortlessly.

_He maketh my feet like hinds' feet, and setteth me upon my high places._

Those live coals kept falling into his mind, like a glowing, burning rockslide. Everywhere he looked, he saw Scripture played out before him. Had the Lord hobbled him in one spot so all Caleb could see was what He wanted him to see?

The realization struck him like a blow. He'd always believed those lofty places to be forested hilltops, lush with knee-high grass and gentle streams. He looked up again at the forbidding rock wall, almost doubting he'd seen the deer scale its face and leap to the top.

Almost.

" _He_ makes my feet like hinds' feet." Rooster swiveled his ears at Caleb's voice, pulled at the reins, and reached for a grassy cluster struggling through the smooth river rocks.

"It's _Your_ work, isn't it?"

Caleb laughed at the sudden clarity. It was all God's work--the spiritual condition of his former parishioners, his calling, his climb through imposing circumstances. All he had to do was surrender. Come home.

His eyes stung and the rushing river blurred before him as he pulled Rooster around and headed back downstream.

The sunlight thinned, and he looked behind him to a roiling gray cloud clambering over the canyon walls. A feathery flake settled on his hand, another on his leg. A sudden gust funneled through the canyon and tugged at his hat. He screwed it down tighter and touched his heels to Rooster's side, urging him along the rocky path.

By the time he made the cottonwood clearing, the cloud had dropped and dusted the trees and grass in a sugar-fine powder. Only on the river did the snow melt and mix with the silver water.

At the edge of town, Caleb quickened Rooster to a lope on the empty street. He dismounted at the stable, led Rooster inside, and stripped the saddle. Then he ran the gelding into the corral where Sally sheltered beneath the livery's long eaves. Rooster joined his trail partner and together they stood slack-eared, rumps against the building, watching the snow. Silence blanketed the town, the stock pens. All lay still beneath the settling white.

Grateful for his accommodations, Caleb went inside.

He'd spend the next few days listening. Not complaining. Not licking his wounds, but looking to the wounds of his Lord and listening for His voice.

~

As she did every morning, Annie rolled the pin across the floured dough, cut eight large biscuits with a baking powder can, and laid them in a greased skillet. Gathering the leftover dough to roll again, she looked for the third time over her shoulder at the front door.

Where was he?

Caleb hadn't been back for breakfast since Martha Bobbins brought cinnamon rolls, and that was days ago. Was he waiting for more of the same? Were Annie's "potbellied" biscuits no longer good enough?

Had he been toying with her when he mentioned taking her to ride up the river?

Had he left town?

Tears pooled against her lashes, and she swiped the drops away with a floured hand. She'd been too busy to visit Nell--and thus see about Caleb. It seemed there were always several customers in the store at once, laying up for the coming holidays. And by the time her father closed each evening, it was dark and cold and she couldn't bring herself to make the trip to the livery alone.

She recalled the Sunday stroll near Martha's home, that gloriously golden day that left her thinking more frequently of Caleb, reminding her that there was so very much she didn't know about him.

Edna would say Annie had lost her grip falling for a man of no means. What future could she possibly have with someone she knew so little about? But oh, the gentleness with which he'd tended her thorn-pricked finger and tucked her hand inside his arm.

A tear escaped and spotted the flour-dusted board. Again she swiped her face, irritated that a man would make her cry. Despite her resolve, she stomped her left foot hard against the floorboards. Her heart tore just as her finger had, but no one stood by to stop the bleeding.

The brass bell sang, and hope flashed only to die at a lilting voice.

"Good morning, dears." Martha pushed her bonnet back and bustled to the stove, where Annie's father prodded coal chunks with a long poker, settling them just so on last night's banked coals. She laid a hand against his bent shoulder and a kiss upon his cheek. The blood rushed to his face, and he glanced at Annie as if caught committing the unspeakable.

Annie gave her father a sly wink before turning away to stifle yet another onslaught of tears bent on escape.

She'd soon be the only unwed Whitaker in her family, other than Aunt Harriet. Edna's last letter had announced her engagement to Jonathan Mitchell, just as Annie had expected. And she'd wager her last speck of baking powder that her father and Martha would be announcing a similar pledge. Some things were simply too clear to ignore.

"Annie, your coffee smells heavenly. Might I have a cup?"

Before she could answer, her father snatched a mug from the sideboard, filled it with the hot brew, and added sugar from a covered bowl. The spoon pinged against the sides as he stirred the coffee. Obviously smitten, he tapped the spoon on the edge and handed the cup to Martha with open adoration.

Annie pounded the extra dough and squeezed it through her fists, guaranteeing it to be tough and heavy. She would not cry. Why shouldn't her father show such affection for the seamstress? Martha had brightened his life in a way that Annie and her sister had never been able to, even though he loved them dearly. And Annie had wanted this for him since the moment she'd first realized Martha had feelings for him. His happiness should be her first concern.

"Where is your young man?"

Martha's unexpected question sent a stinging dart through Annie's chest. She blinked hard, mashed the final biscuits into the skillet, and carried it to the stove. Her __ young man? Hardly. For all she knew he had settled into a fancy Denver hotel, or found work on another cattle spread between here and there.

Or been robbed and murdered.

She sucked in a breath at the wicked thought and caught Martha's questioning gaze.

"Are you all right, dear?"

"Quite." Annie s's spine stiffened. "I have no young man. But if you might be referring to Mr. Hutton, I've no idea where he is."

"Oh my." Martha's sweet face sobered. "I'm so sorry to have upset you."

"I'm not upset." The sharp edge to her voice prodded her to face Martha with a more peaceful explanation. Taking the chair next to the kindest woman she'd ever met, she folded her apron around her hands to hide her agitation.

"He hasn't been back since the day you brought your wonderful cinnamon rolls."

Martha's emotions warred visibly--pleasure over Annie's compliment and regret over news. She looked to Daniel. "Do you think he's left?"

Annie's father stroked his mustache, dipped his brows, and looked everywhere except at Annie--a sure sign that he was thinking how best to answer.

Did he know something she did not?

She sat straighter and held him with an unwavering glare.

"I imagine he's just been busy at the livery." He raised his cup to his lips and peeked at Annie above the rim as if giving her a secret message.

No one need tell her twice.

She jumped to her feet and hurried into their private quarters, where she yanked the star quilt from her bed and rolled it into a tight bundle. Then she grabbed her scarf and mittens, pulled on her woolen cloak, and paused by the stove.

"Martha, do you mind watching the biscuits for me? I have an errand that I must run immediately before business picks up and I can't get away."

Martha's eyes darted from Annie to her father and a rosy tint warmed her cheeks. "I would be happy to, dear. Take your time. Daniel and I can handle everything." She reached over and patted his arm. "Isn't that so?"

He coughed and shifted in his chair. "Of course we can." Then he followed Annie to the door.

"Be careful, Annie girl." He patted the quilt and leaned nearer. "And listen with your heart."

She had half a mind to ask him exactly what it was that he knew, but she didn't. "I will, Daddy."

Then she bolted out the door.

The boardwalk rang beneath her heels as she strode toward the livery. What if Caleb wasn't there? What if he really had left? And what would people think of her carrying a quilt to the stable?

She glanced about at the few people out so early, all men. Those who caught her eye nodded or touched their hat brims in a respectful greeting. Most were businessmen on their way to work. A few were miners down from the camps for the winter. But since when did she care what others thought?

Squeezing the bundle against her waist, she hurried on.

The boardwalk ended at the bank building, and she hiked her skirt as she stepped down to the dirt. No dust blew in the street today, just the dry cold that was so unlike Omaha's damp winters. Her breath advanced ahead in a cloudy puff.

Five horses occupied the corral at the livery, their breath rising white from soft muzzles to vanish above their ears. Her steps slowed as she approached the wide doors opened only inches. Delivering a quilt had seemed like a good idea back in the mercantile. Now she wasn't so sure. What would she say?

She stopped and tugged her scarf higher against her chin. Then gripping one door's edge, she pulled it open and slipped into the stable.

A smoky tang struck her lungs, and for a moment fear clutched her throat. But the steady ping, ping, ping of metal on metal reminded her that Henry's blacksmith shop filled the back of the stable. As her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, she saw him at the anvil with his back to her, just beyond the last stall. Her shoulders relaxed, and she faced the box stall where she and her father had once lived. The door was swung wide, and she stopped on the threshold. A black-and-white cat curled tightly on a bedroll lying atop a thick layer of straw. A Bible lay close by. In the near corner stood an upturned crate with a basin, pitcher, and oil lamp, and on one wall hung a saddle, blankets, and bridle.

It might all be Caleb's. Nothing betrayed the owner, other than the plain white pitcher and basin he had bought from the mercantile. But if he'd left, he'd leave those behind.

Hope sank. No hat or coat lay about that she recognized, but it still could all be his, sparse as it was. Her gaze lit on the Bible. Did he have one?

"Looking for someone?"

The deep voice sent her off balance and she stumbled forward into the stall. A strong hand caught her arm and steadied her, and she turned to see a bearded man with dark laughing eyes.

Gathering her wits and clinging madly to the quilt, she took a deep breath. "Caleb."

One corner of his mouth twitched. "You were looking for someone else?"

"No! I mean... No."

What would Edna do in this situation?

Annie pulled her overly warm scarf away from her throat. Never mind Edna.

"Where have you been?"

His sudden grin made her wish she'd not been so bold. He leaned against the door frame and folded his arms across his chest. A two-week growth hugged his jawline and gave him a rugged, almost dangerous look. "You were worried?"

Frustrated, she lifted her foot for a good stomp but thought better of it. Easing it back to the straw-covered floor, she thrust the rolled quilt at him.

"Here. Maybe you can use this."

He caught the bundle before it fell and his expression shifted to surprise. "Thank you."

She stepped forward as if to pass, but he remained in the doorway. "Excuse me, but I came to check on Nell." Annie held her ground, inches from him, close enough to feel his warmth.

His gaze traveled to her lips before returning to her eyes, and his breath dusted her face.

What would she do if he kissed her?

What would she do if he didn't?

"Thank you," he repeated softly. He leaned closer.

Her breath caught.

"Nell is doing just fine."

Heat flooded Annie's cheeks, and she hurried past, gratefully turning her back on Caleb as she made for the mare's stall. A soft nicker greeted her, and she regretted having no treat for the mother-to-be. She'd left the mercantile in such a hurry that she hadn't thought to bring dried apples or a few carrots.

Annie held her cheek against the mare's warm head and stroked her thick neck. "You poor dear. Just look at you."

The horse's belly hung like a bulging grain sack, distended and heavy with promise. Yet for all her size and distortion, Nell seemed calm and unconcerned.

Footsteps whispered behind Annie, and she sensed Caleb's closeness.

"I owe you an explanation." His voice was low and rough as ground coffee.

He moved closer, leaned over the stall gate and combed his fingers through Nell's mane.

Annie's pulse quickened as she remembered her father's words: _Listen with your heart._ She swallowed. Listening with your heart meant opening your heart. Was she ready to open her heart to Caleb Hutton?

Or had she already done so without realizing it?

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lilacs bloomed in winter with Annie so close that Caleb could bury his face in her hair. The desire nearly overwhelmed him, but he concentrated on what he needed to say rather than on what he yearned to do.

"I'm not who you think I am."

She looked at him, doubt and expectation dueling for dominance. "And who do I think you are, other than what you've led me to believe?"

She wasn't going to make it easy, but then she wouldn't be Annie if she did.

"I left out some things." He uttered a silent prayer for clarity. "I'm a preacher. Or at least I was."

A short intake through her nose. Her eyes rounded and she turned to the mare.

He leaned against the stall gate. Nell flicked her tail and craned her neck over the railing toward Annie's coat pocket.

"No apples today, girl." Annie's gentle tone shot hope through Caleb's chest that she'd show him as much kindness, even though he didn't deserve it. She kept her eyes on the mare as she stroked the broad head. "Why did you say you were good with horses, a ranch hand?"

A fair question. He propped his right arm across the stall door and angled himself to see her reaction. "Remember when Abraham told Pharaoh that Sarah was his sister?"

Annie's fine brow creased at the bridge of her nose.

"It was true," he continued. "Sarah _was_ Abraham's sister. But it was only half the truth."

"So you're saying that you told my father and me only half the truth."

"Yes."

"Why?"

He cleared his throat and pushed from the door, facing her squarely. No more hedging. He'd run from a broken heart and broken a vow in the process. If he wasn't man enough to tell Annie Whitaker the whole truth, face-to-face, then he wasn't man enough for anything.

"My father was a veterinarian and wanted me to follow in his profession. Taught me much of it as I was growing up." He rubbed the back of his neck, as tight as a barrel band. "But I believed, at the time, that I was called to preach the gospel. My father conceded and helped pay my way through seminary."

"So you really _do_ have a way with horses."

The scent of leather, fresh hay, and horses hung in the barn's still air, stirring images from his youth. His tension eased a bit, and he gave her a brief nod.

"My first and only church was in St. Joseph, Missouri. A small congregation. No new converts, but good people. Faithful. Except for one."

Her reaction offered no clue to her thoughts, but he pressed on.

"I offered myself to a woman who later chose a wealthy deacon instead. Rather than stay and face them from the pulpit, I convinced myself that the congregation needed an older pastor, one with more experience and wisdom."

He paused, dread curdling in his stomach. "I left. Turned my back on God and preaching and headed west to cowboy on the Lazy R."

With this final confession, the tension in his neck and shoulders escaped like air from the smithy's bellows.

Annie had removed her mittens and threaded the fringe from her loosened scarf in and out between her fingers. Her eyes met his, free of scorn or derision. "And like Jonah, you ended up where you didn't want to be."

Her comparison surprised him, but he was grateful she hadn't called him a coward and stomped out of the barn.

"Why didn't you go home to your father?"

"My parents are no longer living. The next best thing was a ranch out west."

Annie reached for the dozing mare's forelock. "Do you still plan to leave here too? Come spring, like you mentioned earlier?"

Not if she'd give him reason to stay. But he couldn't tell her that. Not now, not yet. What did he have to offer? Life as a laborer's wife?

"I'll look for another church and start over. Maybe take up a circuit and preach in the gold camps."

"Not another ranch?"

She had him there, and he was framing an answer when she spoke again.

"I saw the Bible on your bedroll. Have you made your peace with God?"

He hooked his thumbs in his waistband. "You make it sound like I'm about to bite the dust."

Her laughter warmed his insides, melted the dread that had frozen in his chest. "In a way, you already have. You've died to yourself if you're brave enough to try again."

He would not call himself brave, __ but the clear sense of her words breathed hope into him. Fanned the belief that God had indeed forgiven him and offered him a second chance.

But would she?

Annie pulled her mittens on, stepped back from the stall. "You haven't answered my question."

Confused, he waited for her to continue.

"Where have you been the last two weeks? We've missed you at breakfast." A slight blush tinted her cheeks, and she moved toward the barn doors.

"I had to 'make my peace with God,' as you put it. Clear my head, get things straight."

"And you couldn't do that at the mercantile?"

Not when he thought only of her when he was there.

Silhouetted in the open stable door, she stopped and spoke over her shoulder. "I was afraid you didn't like my potbellied biscuits anymore."

The air cleared at her teasing tone, and he shook his head and held one hand against his stomach. "I've sorely missed them. But I'll be back if you'll have me."

Her luminous eyes caught him unaware. "And why wouldn't I? You promised me a ride up the river."

As she walked out the door, he leaned against the stall and scrubbed his hands over his face and thickening beard. Back home he'd always stayed clean shaven. But here in the dry, colder climate, the beard kept him warmer.

_Warmer_. He rushed into what he'd come to think of as his room and lifted the rolled quilt. Clutching it in his arms, he buried his face in a bright red star, inhaling Annie's scent.

_Thank you, Lord._

The cat rubbed against his leg and offered its sleepy opinion.

"There's hope." He stooped to run his hand along its arched back. "Today I've been given hope."

He'd take Annie on that ride as soon as possible--if it didn't snow. Because come spring, he'd be riding out on his own. The prospect pulled his gut in the opposite direction, but he'd known for several days that he was to return to the ministry. Would Annie wait for him if he rode a mining camp circuit? Or join him if he found another church far from Cañon City?

Would her father let her?

He laid the quilt on his bedroll and walked down the alleyway to where he'd earlier left his slicker and hat on a nail. The print shop had paper. He'd write to his seminary professors, see if the gold camps or other towns farther north needed a preacher.

Maybe they'd give him another go.

~

She _knew_ it.

Only she hadn't.

Annie hugged her cloak tighter. Caleb Hutton had been hiding something all right, but she hadn't pegged him as a preacher. Her fingers tingled in her mittens--not from the cold December morning but from excitement.

Excitement? Over the fact that Caleb was a minister?

No, that wasn't it. But what?

She tucked her hands beneath her arms and slowed her pace.

He didn't strike her as a clergyman. But as she gave the idea greater consideration, what should a preacher look like, act like? Quiet, intelligent, gentle. She laughed. Her pastoral characterization fit Nell better than Reverend Hartman. He was intelligent and gentle, but she'd never classify him as quiet. The man exuded energy, joked with his small congregation, and flirted unashamedly with Hannah Baker, his bride-to-be.

Come to think of it, Annie's pastor from back home met all three qualities, but he was, well, boring _._

Caleb Hutton was anything but boring.

The mercantile door opened to welcoming warmth. Her father and Martha sat by the stove chatting while Karl Turk picked through a notions box on the counter.

Did her father even know the man was in the store?

"Can I help you, Mr. Turk?" Annie stuffed her mittens and scarf behind the counter, laid her wrap over a crate, and scowled at her father. Either he was going deaf or he was so hopelessly smitten with Martha Bobbins that he had ears for no one but the seamstress.

Turk grumbled and poked through the box.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" Annie's voice raised on the last word, and she tied on an apron as she watched the lumberman's thick fingers fail to catch on any item.

"A razor," he mumbled. "But I can't find one in all these do-dads and baubles."

"Oh, the razors are over here." Turning to the shelf behind her, she threw one last glance at her father. He caught it and erupted from his chair as if burned by spilt coffee.

Red-faced, he hurried to Annie's side. "Razors, you say. I got a fine assortment in on the last shipment." He winked at Annie and pulled a long box from the shelf.

She frowned as if scolding a spoiled child, but there was no use staying mad at her jovial parent. It was impossible. Besides, her own spirits were so light she fairly skimmed across the rough floorboards.

Gathering her cloak, scarf, and mittens, she headed toward Martha who was washing her cup in the dishpan.

"You don't need to wash your dishes here."

"Oh yes, I do." Martha clicked her tongue and shook her head. "If Daniel hadn't been so caught up in our conversation, he would have known Mr. Turk was here." She dried the cup, set it aside, and pushed a few stray hairs beneath her cap. Looking at Annie like a shy school girl, she blushed. "I didn't even hear the bell myself."

Annie laughed and hugged the little woman's rounded shoulders. "Never you mind. It all worked out." She poured herself some coffee and added sugar. "I think he's quite taken with you, Martha."

The seamstress blushed even more and pulled at an invisible thread on her skirt. "Do you mind, dear?"

"Not at all." The older woman's nervousness was endearing. "I think it's wonderful. My father has been alone far too long--even with me and my sister." As she uttered the words, her soul trembled at the thought of living by herself in the storeroom, but she stuffed the worry down.

Martha held her in a knowing gaze. "Did you find your young man?"

Annie's lips pulled at the corners. "I gave him the quilt." Dare she share her secret with Martha, tell her that she was losing her heart to a wayward preacher-turned-cowboy?

"I really must be going." Martha lifted her wrap from a chair and snugged it around her shoulders.

Annie followed her to the door in time to hear Mr. Turk mention Christmas trees.

"I brought several down from my last trip to the Greenhorns. They're out behind my place by the river. If you don't mind spreadin' the word, I'm sellin' 'em for two bits a piece."

People would sell anything. Imagine, charging money for a sapling or cut tree top. Yet how splendid to have a tree for Christmas, festooned in popcorn garland and round red cranberries. Well, maybe black choke cherries here in the Rocky Mountains.

"I'll take one, Mr. Turk." Martha turned to Annie's father and softened her voice. "Could you drive my buckboard down and pick it up for me?"

"I'd love to have one for the store window too." Annie watched her father calculating the tree's cost against the opportunity to visit his sweetheart. She turned to Martha. "Will two trees fit on your wagon?"

"I believe they would." Martha dug a coin from her reticule and handed it to Karl. "Twenty-five cents, paid in advance."

He smiled and tipped his hat. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll set one out as soon as I get home."

"Well?" Annie eyed her father and caught the glint in his eye as he dug in his pocket for a coin.

"Make that two trees, Turk. I'll be by after I walk Miss Bobbins home and stop at the livery for her buckboard."

Annie almost envied her father. She hadn't ridden in a buggy or even a buckboard since their arrival in town last summer. And she had so wanted to visit the great canyon upriver with Caleb. Maybe it wasn't too late.

"I'll mind the store while you're gone, but don't dally." She gave her father a playful pat on his shoulder as he shrugged into his coat.

"I managed to get the mail out, so that's one less worry for you. I'll be back shortly."

That wasn't likely, but she'd not begrudge him a change of pace after the daylight-to-dark hours he put in.

As soon as he opened the door, Martha tucked her hand in his arm and together they headed up the boardwalk.

Annie checked the fire, added a chunk of coal, and set about clearing the window display to make room for the tree.

She removed lamps and basins and dry goods from the heavy oak table and set them on the counter. As she leaned into the table to shove it against the far wall, a shadow paused at the window and she looked up.

Jedediah Cooper hovered like a hawk ready to sweep down on its prey.

Her blood chilled.

He moved to the door before she could lock it. The bell tolled ominously, and she hurried behind the counter and reached for the broom.

"I was afraid the mercantile was closed when I saw your father stepping out with the widow Bobbins." Cooper's voice slid around the words like snake oil as he closed the door and loosened the muffler from his neck.

Annie's fingers tightened on the broom handle and she raised her chin. "How can I help you, Mr. Cooper?"

His lips curled in a sly smile, and he raked a hungry leer across her bodice. "Don't be so formal, Annie. By all means, call me Jed." With great aplomb, he pulled the gloves from his hands one finger at a time. "You may _help_ me, Annie, by considering an update of our arrangement for your occupation of the back portion of this fine establishment."

Annie's chilled blood heated to a boil. She drew a slow breath, hoping to prevent red anger from surging into her face. "We already reached an agreement, Mr. Cooper. You agreed to our offer before my father and I took over the storeroom six weeks ago."

Cooper laid his gloves on the counter and slowly made his way around the end, where he breached her sanctuary. She backed away, never taking her eyes from him, mentally measuring the distance to her escape.

"All agreements are subject to change, Annie. Didn't I mention that?"

He lunged for her. She shoved the broom in his face, but he fended it off, sending it over the counter.

Annie bolted for the door. Her fingers gripped the knob and turned. He grabbed her from behind, one arm cinching her waist, a hand over her mouth. As he whirled her around, her hand swung the door open, clanging the bell.

"Not so fast," he breathed against her neck. Stale tobacco from his coat sleeve vied with his whiskey-laced breath. Her stomach lurched.

"We're meant to be, Annie. I knew it when you fell into my arms that day at the Fremont. So soft and warm." He spread his fingers to crush her nose as well. She kicked at his legs, striking his shins with her boot heels, and dug her fingers into his smothering hand.

Was that what he intended? Cut off her air until she passed out and then--

His throaty laugh twisted through her. "And a fighter you are. That's good. I like my women feisty."

Reaching up, she groped for his face and dug her nails into his cheek. He swore and twisted away, hefting her up like a sack of flour. Past the counter, the chairs. At the stove, she flailed for the coffeepot, but knocked it to the floor.

"You must show me what you've done with the back room, Annie. Have you made it more _comfortable_?"

She clawed at his beefy fingers. _O God, help me!_ Her lungs screamed for air and her vision blurred, darkening at the edges.

_Keep fighting._

Squeezed against him, she felt the growl deep in his chest before she heard it. Before he pushed through the curtain and into the darkened storeroom.

With a final shove, she twisted until his ear brushed her face and then bit down as hard as she could.

He screamed and slugged blindly at her, hitting her in the temple. He threw her on her bed, her head at the foot, and followed her down, pinning her with his weight. Another inch, and her skull would have cracked on the brick lying beneath the bedclothes. If she could reach it, pull it from the blankets, she'd have a weapon.

As if reading her mind, he crushed both her wrists together in one meaty hand and licked his lips.

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Caleb thanked Milner, the _Cañon City Times_ editor, whom he left sifting through notes on a cluttered corner desk. He tucked a folded weekly and extra note paper into his waistcoat and exited the print shop.

Across the street in the next block, Jedediah Cooper stood on the boardwalk in front of Whitaker's Mercantile. The dandy pulled at his cuffs, looked both ways along the street, and walked into the store.

Caleb's neck prickled as if lightning were about to strike. He didn't want that man anywhere near Annie, landlord or no. Maybe he should pay a visit to the mercantile himself. Come to think of it, he hadn't told Annie about his ride up the river. And he was running short on supplies. Needed a cake of soap. Crackers, canned peaches. A needle and thread.

Rubbing his left elbow, he jabbed a finger through the thinning material. A new shirt. Might as well get one now.

He adjusted his hat and stepped off the boardwalk. A couple strolled past the Fremont Saloon and Hotel, and Caleb held them in his gaze. He'd walked behind that miniature woman and her burly escort a few weeks ago.

What were Martha Bobbins and Daniel Whitaker doing out on the town so early in the day?

The pin pricks worked from Caleb's neck up into his scalp.

Without looking, he rushed into the path of an oncoming buckboard. The horse reared, the driver pulled up and hollered.

Caleb reached for the startled animal's bridle and offered a gentle word as he rubbed the horse's neck. "Sorry about that," he told the driver.

"Watch where you're going."

Caleb stepped back as the angry farmer drove on, then ran across to the opposite boardwalk. The mercantile's door stood open.

He thought of his Colt revolver tucked beneath his bedroll as he stepped inside.

Annie's broom had fallen in front of the counter. He leaned it against the edge near a pair of men's gray gloves. No one sat at the stove, but the coffeepot lay on the floor, its contents spilled. His gut galloped into his throat.

He softened his steps and crossed the worn floorboards as if approaching a wounded animal. A scuffling behind the curtain drew a vow that if Annie was in harm, Caleb would be wounding whatever animal he found there--man or beast.

His fingers curled into fists.

Annie would not invite a man into her sleeping quarters, especially with her father gone. A flash of Mollie Sullivan on her beau's arm stabbed at Caleb's memory, and he clenched his jaw. Annie was not Mollie, but he readied himself to find either of two equally horrifying possibilities and pulled the curtain aside.

Like a giant slug, Cooper's body covered Annie. One hand held her wrists above her head, the other pressed against her mouth. Fear screamed from her rounded eyes, louder than Caleb's hammering heart.

He'd never wanted to kill another human being. Until now.

Cooper must have seen Annie's eyes lock on Caleb, for the man glanced over his shoulder. Caleb jerked him to his feet, spun him around, and smashed his fist into Jedediah Cooper's sputtering explanation. Blood spurted from the man's nose with the first hit. The second opened a dark gash above his lip.

The third dropped him to the floor, out cold.

Annie pushed up on her elbows, gasping for breath, her face ashen.

Caleb's chest heaved with murderous emotion, his fists opening and closing. He held Annie's eyes with his own until she flung herself into his arms. Pressing her to his chest, he buried his hands in the thick hair tumbling down her back. His voice climbed from a deep, dark place, nearly unrecognizable. "Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head, fighting to control her sobs.

"No," she whispered. "But if you hadn't come ..."

Bile rose in his throat.

With a steadying breath, she relaxed somewhat. "I begged God to help me." Tears welled anew and spilled into rivulets down her reddened cheeks. With a trembling hand, she swiped them away. "I never dreamed He'd send you."

A breath convulsed suddenly in her chest. "How did you know?"

Hesitant to let her go, Caleb guided her through the curtain to the chairs at the stove and settled her into the closest one. "Give me a minute."

He cut two lengths of twine at the counter, tied the curtain back with the shorter one to keep an eye on Cooper, and bound the man's wrists with the other. Then he pulled another chair close to Annie and reached for her hands.

"I was at the printing office. On my way out, I saw Cooper walk in here. Then I saw your father and Martha on the boardwalk. It didn't set right with me."

She clutched his hand like a drowning woman grasping a rope. "Daddy will never forgive himself for leaving me alone. It could spoil everything for him."

Puzzled, Caleb studied her face, looking for explanation, waiting for her to voice it.

"Daddy and Martha." Letting out a deep sigh, she pulled her hands away and twisted her hair into a knot at her neck. "I fully expect them to ..." Her gaze fell away. "They haven't yet made a declaration, but Mr. Cooper said ..."

Her voice trailed off as she held her hair with one hand, searching through the folds of her skirt with the other.

Her combs.

He stepped over Cooper's unconscious hulk and rage churned again. On Annie's bed he found the combs where they'd worked loose, and he returned them to her, pressing them into her hand.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Again."

He might as well be the one drowning, the way her eyes drew him through deep water.

"Annie, I have to ask you a question." He wrestled with his desire for vengeance, shoved his fervor down. "Has Cooper ever tried anything like this before today?"

Her face blanched. She shook her head, swallowed. "But the day I asked him about renting the storeroom, I was pushed into him."

Caleb waited for more.

"I went to the saloon to talk to him, but I went no farther than just inside the door. As I stood there, someone outside pushed it from behind. I lost my balance and fell against him."

She glanced at Cooper's still form and shuddered.

"Did he hurt you then?" Revenge skirted Caleb's thoughts, goading him to finish what he'd started with the no-good lecher.

She shook her head again. "No. But I was humiliated. The way he looked at me ..."

"He'll not try it again, I assure you."

Again he encased her hands in his. "You were going to tell me something, something he said. What was it?"

Fresh tears formed against her lashes. "Today--before you got here--he said if I told Daddy, he'd kick us out of the mercantile."

His jaw tight, Caleb drew both air and hatred in through his nose. God help him, he wanted to do a whole lot more than just hate Jedediah Cooper _._

"That won't happen. I'll be speaking with the magistrate as soon as your father returns, and I intend to tell him the whole story."

"I'm so ashamed." The chin that usually took every assault from a lofty perch drooped against her chest.

"No, Annie." Gently, he tilted her face to meet his eyes. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing at all."

He longed to tell her how he felt, but now wasn't the time. She was too vulnerable. Declaring himself, even in an honorable way, would have to wait.

Heavy footsteps fell across the threshold, and Daniel Whitaker's voice boomed into the store. "Did you see me coming with this monstrosity and leave the door open?"

Whitaker held the cut end of a large evergreen as he dragged it through the door. Both Caleb and Annie rose to help him.

One look at Annie's disheveled appearance, and Daniel dropped the tree and reached for his daughter.

"Caleb Hutton!" he thundered.

"Daddy, it's not what you think." Annie ran to her father and threw her arms around his bulk. "He came just in time."

A moan from the back room drew their attention to the man on the floor. Caleb strode to Cooper and dragged him to his feet. Blood stained the man's shirtfront and brocade vest, and he lifted his bound hands to his swelling nose.

Caleb grabbed his arm and shoved him past the stove toward the store front. "Tell Whitaker what happened, Cooper, or I will."

Red-faced and stammering, the man's eyes darted between Annie, her father, and escape. Caleb stepped around him and soundly shut the door.

~

Annie stood with her arm linked through her father's as they watched Caleb usher Jedediah Cooper, none too gently, to Magistrate Warren's office.

"Annie, girl, I never would have forgiven myself if that man had hurt you."

She hugged his arm and looked into his guilt-reddened eyes. "I shouldn't have gone to the saloon, Daddy. I should have listened to you. You were right."

He pulled her into a fatherly embrace and cupped her head in his big hand. "I've been thinking too much about myself lately, and not enough about you."

Stepping back, she gave him a scolding look. "Nonsense, Daddy. You've been happy, and that makes me happy."

He blustered and hugged her again. "I'm just glad you're all right."

Still shaken from the ordeal, she willed her nerves to calm, determined to cling to their simple holiday cheer. They had to keep moving forward.

"Have you delivered Martha's tree yet?"

He huffed. "Don't know that I'll ever view a Christmas tree the same after today."

Brushing aside her father's comment, she reached for the aromatic tree that lay across their floor. "I'm not letting that varmint spoil my Christmas."

The less-than-ladylike term rolled off her tongue with delicious precision. Bless the freighters and their colorful language. Well, some of their language. "And neither should you."

If they quaked at every horrible thing that _might_ have happened, they'd cower themselves into an early grave, and that she refused to do.

She closed her eyes and held her face near the tree's branches. "This smells so good. Help me set it in the window."

"Let's lean it against the wall. Turk showed me how to make a cross and nail it to the tree bottom so it'll stand by itself."

Her father set the tree's peaked top between two saddles hanging on the wall opposite the front counter. "I've got an old box out back that I can bust up and use. Be right back."

He stopped to pick up the coffeepot and pegged her with a warning. "You holler if anyone comes in and I'll be here faster than you can blink."

Her ragged nerves quivered at his protectiveness and she resisted the urge to follow him outside. "I'll be fine, Daddy. Besides, I can just topple this blue spruce on anyone who is less than gentlemanly."

He set the pot on the stove and headed for the back, wagging his head.

Drinking in the sweet woodsy scent, Annie's thoughts wandered to her other protector. A shiver coursed through her body as she recalled the chilling anger in Caleb's eyes when he'd found her pinned beneath Cooper.

Held in two men's arms in less than ten minutes' time, yet each with such different intent. She fingered her swollen lower lip and winced at the taste of Cooper's brutality.

Leaning again into the evergreen branches, she imagined they were Caleb's strong, protective arms. The thought fanned a fire in her belly as sure as the open flu pulled sparks from coal.

_Thank you, Lord, for sending Caleb._

The back door shut, and her father stomped his feet before coming up front.

"It's snowing."

Annie turned toward the window. Penny-size flakes fell from the gray sky and settled on the boardwalk. Dry and crisp, they held their starry shapes instead of melting like the first snows in Omaha.

"Oh, Daddy, it's beautiful."

"It's also cold." He brushed the white dust from his shoulders. "Let's get this tree set and I'll stoke the fire. It's going to be a cold one tonight."

Grateful to be in the store and not the livery, Annie prayed that Caleb would be warm and dry in the box stall. Maybe she should take him another quilt. With the down from their Christmas goose, plus what she'd gathered at the river, she could start a feather cover for him. She'd let Martha know too, and maybe barter for enough down to finish one this winter.

Such a thought for a single woman to have.

Her father laid the tree flat on the floor, held a squared wooden cross against the cut edge, and positioned a large nail in the center.

With two swift hammer hits, he drove the nail head flush to the wood, and repeated the process with a second nail.

"Imagine," she wondered aloud. "A cross and nails at Christmas holding everything together."

Box slats did not resemble Calvary's cruel tree. Then again, maybe they did--a sober foreshadowing of the Lord's calling from manger crib to cross.

Caleb's confession came to mind with a bitter-sweet recognition that he must follow God's leading--even if it took him away from Cañon City.

Away from her.

Her father raised the tree to stand straight and tall.

Annie slipped an arm around his waist. "Thank you."

"We'd better get some corn popping so you can start on a garland for the tree. That is, if you're feeling up to it, Annie." His gaze fell to her bruised mouth.

"I'm fine, Daddy. Truly."

Not as fine as she wanted to be, and her lip stung where it had cut on her teeth. She still felt Cooper's weight pressing her down, and if she could, she'd strip off the dress she wore and burn it in the stove. Burn away the memory of his sour breath, of her helplessness.

She wasn't sure which was worse, but right now, she needed to put on a good face for her father.

The bell clanged and the Smiths poured through the door, bundled and stomping and laughing. The children's eyes glittered like Christmas candles when they saw the stately spruce.

"Oh, Mama. It smells so pretty. Can we have a tree?" Emmy Smith tugged at her mother's skirt. "Can you buy one from Mr. Whicker for us?"

Louisa Smith laughed and knelt beside her daughter. "Where would we put a tree in our tiny cabin? Maybe we can just come visitin' and enjoy this one."

Emmy's lower lip quivered and her blue eyes pooled with enough tears to set Annie's father astir.

"I know just where you can get a tree for your new home." He threw an exaggerated wink at Springer, who stood behind his mother and sister, failing to hide the yearning in his own eyes.

"Just this morning I saw one that could sit on a table top. Just right for a pint like you." He patted Emmy's head.

She tucked her chin. "I ain't no pint."

"You _aren't_ a pint," Louisa corrected.

Emmy stomped her little foot. "That's what I said."

Annie stifled a laugh and moved behind the counter. Did she look like that when she stomped her foot?

Her father drew something from his pocket and slipped it to Springer with a whisper and a nod.

An oversized grin spread across the boy's face, and he tugged his hat and addressed his mother. "I'll be right back. Got an errand to run."

"Well, hurry. I want to be home in this storm, not out stuck somewhere in a snow drift."

Louisa pegged Annie's father with a merry frown that twitched her lips into a smile. "You're going to spoil us all, Mr. Whitaker."

Annie pulled a letter from the Smith's mail slot. "I have something here for you, Louisa. It's postmarked Kansas City."

"Land sakes." The woman snatched the envelope from Annie's fingers with something a kin to hunger. "It's from my sister Emma." She slid a finger beneath the flap, glanced at her audience, then tucked the letter in her cloak. "Pardon me. How rude. It can wait."

Annie knew full well what it meant to get a letter from home brimming with news of everything familiar. Suddenly she missed her sister. Even Aunt Harriet a little.

Louisa shuttled Emmy to a table to look through a button box, then returned to the counter and lowered her voice. "I'd like to see your calico, please."

Annie laid a length of sky-blue cotton on the counter. A dress for Emmy, no doubt. Aunt Harriet wouldn't be fingering calico this Christmas, nor would Edna. In fact, her sister was probably up to her ringlets in ruffles and lace, planning the perfect dress for her spring wedding.

Louisa held up one finger, silently noting how many dress lengths. With a deep sigh, Annie rolled out the fabric and cut it with shears.

"Her doll gets a new dress too," Louisa whispered. "And give me three lengths of that light wool there, please. Springer and Ben need shirts."

And there it was. Family.

Annie would gladly take calico and wool over satin and lace any day, unless it was _her_ wedding day, of course. With no warning, she saw herself in a beautiful dress with Caleb awaiting her in the church, but the startling image fled as suddenly as it had appeared. Such an event didn't even peek over the far horizon's edge.

"Looks like you'll be mighty busy." Annie dragged her morose thoughts back to the task at hand, folded the fabric, and added it to the Smith's purchases. Despite her resolve, her mind wandered to the traditional Christmas preparations for her aunt's ornate home. Glass ornaments and tinsel for the tree. Candles, star-shaped cookies ...

"Annie?"

Startled from her daydream, she focused again on her customer. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking about ... your cabin. You mentioned a cabin. So you are out of the tent in time for winter?"

Louisa sighed and her eyes gentled with adoration. "My William worked so hard to get it completed, and the Turk brothers helped, bless their souls. It's not big, but it's so much warmer with the fireplace and solid walls."

Annie stooped behind the counter and brought out a large tin. She lifted the lid for Louisa to peek inside.

"Oh," Louisa whispered. "Wrap several of those for me, please." Her blue eyes sparkled like her little girl's. "Just tuck them into the fabric bundle."

Annie giggled. "I couldn't resist these when we put in our last order. I knew the few children we have around here would be delighted."

She chose six white candy canes, wrapped them in brown paper, and laid them on top of the calico. "And if you have heavy shears, you can cut stars from empty tins and tie them to the tree. That will add a little shine to Emmy's Christmas surprise."

"That is a wonderful idea," Louisa said.

"What's a wonderful idea, Mama?" Emmy skipped to her mother's side and eyed the large container on the counter.

Annie returned it to its hiding place with a wink.

"You have too many questions for this time of year." Louisa pulled her daughter into a quick hug.

The bell over the door rang out, and Emmy's two small hands clapped her cheeks, her mouth a rosebud O _._

Springer held a perfect little sapling in his hands. __ "Just right, don't you think, Ma?"

Annie reached for a skein of red yarn, snipped off a generous length, and rolled and tucked it inside the Smith's package.

"For hanging the stars," she whispered to Louisa.

As Annie watched the family hurry through the falling snow, she couldn't help herself. She couldn't keep from wondering what it would be like to hurry home with a certain horse-handling preacher for a husband.

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Caleb shoved Cooper through the magistrate's door and waited for Frank Warren to draw his long, lean body out of the chair by the woodstove. More cabin than jail, the room housed a single stout cell in the back.

A frown creased the magistrate's brow as he gave the saloon owner a quick once-over, pausing on the man's blood-stained brocade vest.

"I found him taking liberties at Whitaker's Mercantile that were completely unacceptable." Caleb stepped back, distancing himself from the no-account before giving into the urge for further action.

"And what were you doin' at the mercantile, Cooper?" Warren folded his arms and sat on the edge of his desk.

"Can't a man make a friendly call on the local shopkeeper?"

Caleb took a step forward, and Warren stopped him with a glare.

"And that shopkeeper would be Daniel Whitaker?"

Cooper mumbled something about the Whitaker woman being excessively unfriendly.

Caleb didn't know if he could control himself.

Warren ambled across the open space and escorted the bloodied saloon owner to the back corner.

Cooper twisted in the magistrate's grip, shouting at Caleb, "I'll see you pay for this."

"Keep your threats to yourself, Cooper." Warren locked the iron door and pocketed the key. Three long strides returned him to the stove's warmth, where he lowered his voice. "Those liberties happen to involve a Miss Annie Whitaker?"

Caleb's blood surged. "I figured murder was a hanging offense even this far west, so I brought him to you instead."

Warren's sweeping mustache quirked with apparent appreciation of Caleb's self-restraint. "The People's Court meets day after tomorrow. We'll hold the old cuss here until then." He crossed the room, took a seat behind his broad oak desk, and opened a ledger. "This isn't the first report we've had of him taking a shine to the single womenfolk, but you're the first witness we've had to the offense other than the women themselves."

"Will there be a trial?"

"More likely an informal hearing." Warren's gaze shifted from the ledger to Caleb's reddened knuckles. "I take it you're the one responsible for the bloodletting?"

"Yes, sir." Caleb flexed his fingers, swollen now from the force of Cooper's face coming to blows with his fist.

"Any other witnesses?"

"Just myself and Ann--Miss Whitaker, but I saw to it that Cooper apologized to her father, who returned to the store not long after the incident."

Warren grunted his approval. "Good. A confession. That will speed things right along. I'd just as soon get Cooper out of these parts, and this might do it. Time he sold out to somebody else and moved on." He laid his pen down and leaned back in the squeaky chair. "In fact, I think I know someone who might be interested in buying the Fremont Hotel and Saloon. Give Cooper a stake to leave and clean up the town all at the same time."

Caleb reset his hat. "I work at the livery. I'd appreciate a word about the hearing before it takes place."

"Oh, you'll hear. Court meets in Cooper's building, upstairs above the saloon. You might even be called on to testify."

Caleb nodded his thanks and opened the door.

The chair creaked. "Good timing."

Pausing, Caleb looked over his shoulder into the magistrate's coal-chip eyes.

"Good thing you happened by the mercantile when you did."

A tight throat and tighter chest prevented Caleb from speaking before he stepped onto the boardwalk and closed the door.

In spite of the drop in temperature, he smoldered with the closest he'd ever come to righteous anger. _Lord, vengeance is Yours, You say ..._

A sudden wind whipped down the street, swirling giant snowflakes into his face. He screwed his hat down, turned up his collar, and shoved his hands in his pockets. His need to see Annie was as stinging as the wind. He had to make sure she was all right, let her know Cooper was locked up until a hearing.

Scouting both ways along Main Street, he bent his head against the wind and crossed the frozen roadway. A large evergreen filled the mercantile's front window, and a dozen such trees from his childhood paraded across his memory. As he reached for the knob, the door flew open and Springer Smith darted out with a miniature tree, his sister chasing close behind. Caleb stepped back and tugged his hat brim to Springer's mother, who quickly followed, arms heaped high with wrapped bundles.

"Can I help you, Mrs. Smith?"

Tired but smiling blue eyes met his for a moment before latching onto running children. "Thank you, but I've got help aplenty--if I can just catch it."

The woman dashed down the boardwalk as if a child herself. Springer had already tossed the little tree in a nearby buckboard and was lifting his giggling sister in. He relieved his mother of her armload, then helped her to the seat before climbing in and gathering the reins.

The family scene clutched at Caleb. Would he ever know such blessings?

"Well, are you coming in or are you going to stand there until you look like a snowman?" Annie stood in the doorway, hands on her hips.

He stomped his boots on the walk and stepped inside, wondering which he was more grateful for--the inviting atmosphere of the mercantile or the beautiful woman who worked there.

Slapping the snow from his hat, he smiled into gold-flecked eyes. "Don't mind if I do."

Her gaze dropped to his knuckles and she reached for his arm. "Your hand."

Her touch stalled his speech for a moment. "No need to worry, Annie. It's you I'm concerned about."

Daniel Whitaker tossed two coal chunks in the stove and clapped black dust off his hands. "Looks like we're about to have the first good storm of the season."

Responsibility pulled Caleb's attention to the windows. Snowfall had thickened in a matter of moments and blanketed the boardwalk. From what he'd heard of Rocky Mountain blizzards, he should leave now for the livery and check the stock before the storm worsened.

"Surely you'll stay and have a bite with us, won't you, Caleb? I'm sure my father is as eager as I to hear what happened with the magistrate."

A slight flush replaced her pallor from that morning, and he ached to pull her into his arms again. Torn between duty and desire, he chose the latter, convincing himself that a quick meal, hot cup, and good company would give him the sustenance he'd need to weather the storm in a stable.

"Let me take your hat while you warm yourself at the stove. And I'll have the stew ready in no time."

He followed her with his eyes and watched her assign his worn felt to a peg on the back wall. Her father filled a tin mug and raised it in Caleb's direction.

"Coffee's hot, son. Come have a cup."

Caleb took the mug and a chair and felt as naked as a jay under the storekeeper's scrutiny. He glanced at the tree. "That's quite a spruce you've got there, Mr. Whitaker."

"That it is." The man lifted his gaze to the tall evergreen at the window." Sorrow slid across his features, landing briefly in his eyes.

"That blamed tree nearly cost me the most precious thing in my world." He blinked a time or two and rubbed the back of his hand beneath his nose.

"Daddy, such language." Annie tightened her apron sash and gathered tin plates from the cupboard. "We've the good Lord to thank and Caleb here." She shot a bright look his way and her eyes settled on his fingers worrying the hole in his sleeve.

He jerked his hand away.

"Daddy, didn't we get a ready-made wool shirt or two in our last shipment?" A look passed between father and daughter that Caleb didn't quite understand.

Daniel pushed out of the chair with a grunt. "I've got a wool shirt that might just fit you, son."

Caleb set his cup beneath his chair and followed Whitaker to the front. The storekeeper reached under the counter and pulled out two waistcoats, heavy socks, and a deep blue wool shirt that probably cost half the wages Caleb had managed to save.

Fingering the dark wool, he weighed the promise of warmth and knew he'd be a fool not to buy it. He set it aside and pulled the notepaper and _Cañon City Times_ from his waistcoat and laid them on top. Then he unbuttoned a heavier tweed waistcoat that looked like it fit, and exchanged it for the lighter one he wore. Already he felt better.

"I'll take this waistcoat and the shirt." He dug his money from the old waistcoat pocket. "And a soap bar if you've got it."

Whitaker pulled a box from a shelf behind him. "If you need it, we've got it." Then he tore a large square of brown paper from a roll on the counter, laid the shirt and Caleb's old waistcoat in the center, and topped it with a soap cake and two pairs of heavy socks before wrapping it all together with twine.

"That'll be two dollars." A cocked brow and sober eyes dared him to quibble with the storekeeper's generous assessment.

Caleb laid his money on the counter, fully aware that Daniel Whitaker was giving him five dollars' worth of merchandise, at least by Missouri standards. It was all worth a lot more out here, but he'd not assault the man's dignity--or his tender show of gratitude--by arguing.

"Thank you."

Whitaker's mustache twitched and his eyes watered, and Caleb thought of Saint Nicholas, though a sadder saint than usual.

"I'll leave this here until I go."

"Go?" Annie's question floated to him on a meaty current, chased by the smell of warm, buttery biscuits. "We've got a tree to decorate, and I can use all the help I can get stringing choke cherries and popcorn."

She stood before the stove, a plate in each hand, loose hair curling against her neck. The most beautiful site Caleb had set eyes on in his entire life.

"You hear that?" Whitaker blew his nose and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. "You'll not get away without poking a hole in every one of your fingers."

Caleb laughed but glanced out the window at the steadily falling snow. He'd stay just long enough to eat and then get back to the livery.

Returning to his chair, he accepted the heaped plate Annie offered and waited until she had seated herself between her father and him.

Whitaker bowed his head and began nearly before his daughter settled.

"Thank you, Lord, for protecting my Annie." His voice cracked, and he paused to clear his throat. "And thank you for sending Caleb when you did, and for this food and the strong roof over our heads. Amen."

The memory of Annie pinned beneath Cooper pushed itself unwelcomed into Caleb's mind. He turned his thoughts instead to the stately spruce in the store window and last year's tree in the parsonage decorated by the Women's Society. Glittering guilt tried to top the pine, but he doggedly knocked it away and replaced it with gratitude.

Cañon City might just be where he belonged. For what reason he wasn't yet sure yet, but he hoped it had something to do with the storekeeper and his auburn-haired daughter.

~

Annie pushed hard against the door after Caleb left. Thin powder drifted through a gap at the bottom and swirled against her shoes. She hugged her arms across her chest and watched until he disappeared into the blowing snow. Without his duster, he'd be frozen solid by the time he made it to the livery. Thank goodness she'd given him another quilt before he left.

Shivering, she retreated to the stove. Her father sat sipping his coffee and staring at the potbelly. She had to get his mind off the Cooper incident--for her sake as well as his. They'd both go crazy this winter if she didn't.

Caleb had assured them that the People's Court would meet soon to deal with Cooper. At least that was what Magistrate Warren had said.

Annie had made the acquaintance of several men who served on the court--upstanding citizens who often visited when they came for their mail or shared coffee round the stove. Edna had been right about one thing: there was no law in Cañon City. At least not like they had in Omaha. No sheriff or marshal yet, but these men didn't seem to brook much nonsense. She'd already seen a couple of scoundrels run out of town, and she prayed the same fate would befall Jedediah Cooper.

She filled the dishpan from a crock by the wall and set it on the stove. Gazing at the beautiful spruce in the window, she shifted her thoughts to Christmas, which was only two weeks away. Oh, for the delicate ornaments that adorned Aunt Harriet's tree, and the crèche that held the highest honor on the mantle. All the way from France it had come, Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus tucked into the stable--

With a jolt, Annie thought of the livery and Nell. She hadn't checked on the mare in weeks, and she'd not thought to ask Caleb about her condition.

She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. It was just as well she hadn't brought up the subject, because Daddy still didn't know. But what if Nell foaled during the storm? Alone? And needed help?

Caleb was there.

Relief nestled in her thoughts. He knew what to do.

Warmth threaded through her arms, and she doubted it came from the stove or the water bubbling in the dishpan. She shaved in soap curls and from the corner of her eye noted her father's pensive mood.

"As soon as this weather lets up, we could invite Martha and Caleb and the Smiths over for a tree trimming. What do you think?"

Her father let out a deep sigh, drained his coffee, then stood and added his cup to the dishpan. "I think that's a fine idea, Annie girl. A fine idea." He planted a kiss on her cheek and twisted the end of his mustache.

Turning his back to the stove, he clasped both hands behind him and looked through the front windows. "I doubt we'll have any more customers today."

Nerves fluttering like a sparrow, she pressed on. "I've been meaning to tell you, but Nell's in a ..."

Waiting for the right word to form on her lips, Annie gathered her skirt in her hands and lifted the dishpan from the stove and set it on the back counter.

"In a what? A stall? 'Course she is, and I still don't think it's worth what I'm paying to board her. Can't sell her now, but come spring, I'm sure the Turks or Deacons will offer a good price."

Annie's pulse quickened. "She's in a family way, Daddy. She's carrying a foal."

His gasp sucked the air from the back of the store, and Annie clamped her mouth tight to guard her own desperate breath.

"How long have you known?"

She glanced over her shoulder. Surprise, rather than anger, rimmed his eyes, and she heaved the breath out as quickly as she had grabbed it.

"Caleb told me. I'd thought she was just getting a hay belly, but he expects her to foal sometime around Christmas."

If she phrased it right, things might still turn around. She shook her hands over the dishpan and rubbed them against her apron before joining her father at the stove.

"Isn't it wonderful, Daddy? A Christmas foal. A new little life in the stable, just like--"

He pulled her into hug and kissed the top of her head. "I feel you twisting me around your finger, Annie Whitaker."

He chuckled and the laughter shook her as he held her close. "But I guess it's as Martha says--the more the merrier."

Brimming with gratitude, Annie inched back from her father's embrace. "Speaking of Martha, is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

Her father harrumphed and sputtered and flushed from his collar to his snowy crown. But his eyes took on a mischievous gleam and he pinched Annie's chin like he had when she was little.

"Don't avoid the subject, Daddy. Will there be a wedding this spring instead of a horse sale?"

His full-bellied laugh bounced Annie from his arm, and she sent a silent thank-you heavenward.

"How did you know?"

"I'd have to be blind and deaf not to." Annie returned to the dishpan, dunked the plates and spoons in the rinse water, and set them upside down on a towel to dry on the sideboard. She'd worry about details later--like living alone in the back room once her father moved into Martha's home. Right now she wanted to simply share in his good news.

"I'm not blind either, Annie girl."

She looked up from the water.

"What'd you learn at the livery that day you took Caleb the quilt?"

Resting her hands on the edge of the dishpan, she studied his smug expression. He knew. "When did you figure it out?"

He smoothed his mustache and sat down. "I didn't. He told me a couple of weeks ago, but I had my suspicions. Remember the morning I asked him to offer thanks? A prayer like that comes from a man who's on a first-name basis with the Lord."

She picked up a plate and absently rubbed a cloth against its clean surface. "I think he'll be returning to his calling." Sadness gripped her belly, followed by regret that she would react so, rather than be happy for Caleb--happy that he'd found his way back to the Lord and his life's purpose.

The front door rattled in a sudden forceful gust, and concern needled into Annie's mood. Snow drifts climbed the windows. She looked to the halfempty coal bucket and through the storeroom entrance to the back to the door, where a fine white powder swirled in eddies along the floor.

Her father shrugged into his coat and gloves and headed toward the back with the coal bucket. "Find towels for the doors and I'll bring in more coal. We'll probably need a full fire going all day and night."

Annie followed him and kept the door from blowing clear open, filling their makeshift home with snow. In a moment he returned, stomping in like a wooly white bear.

"At least it's dry." His words huffed out on a white cloud. "Tend to the front door and I'll take care of this one."

She knelt at the trunk and withdrew blankets and fine linens intended for the table, not the floor. But they had no table and staying warm was a priority. Aunt Harriet would be appalled.

At the thought of her proud and proper relative, Annie's heart squeezed with longing for her sister. And though she missed her sibling desperately, for the first time in her life she was grateful for their satin and calico differences. Grateful that she didn't panic before a howling blizzard and the possibility of being snowbound for days. Grateful that God had brought her and her father safely to Cañon City, to people like the Smith family and Martha Bobbins and ...

And Caleb Hutton.

With this wind, snow would easily penetrate the slatted stable walls. Nell wasn't the only one she prayed would be safe and dry and warm during the storm.

She tossed the extra blankets on the beds, gave her father a length of toweling, and took two finely stitched dish towels to the front, where she weighted them against the door with flat irons. After she carried two new skillets to the back, her father shoved them against the door and the toweling he'd wedged along the threshold.

Not exactly the way she'd planned to use those embroidered pieces from her hope chest, but at least she had them to use.

Small blessings were still blessings.

Indeed. It was the smaller blessings they needed to stave off the cold--linens and coal chunks, unglamorous amenities in Omaha and her aunt's fine home. But Annie would not trade this narrow store and potbelly stove for all the finery and wealthy beaus Omaha could offer. Here she belonged.

And here she would stay.

~

Caleb dropped his bundle by the stable doors and ran to bring Rooster and Sally inside. Shouldering his weight against the broad panels, he managed to close them against the wind before too much snow blew into the alleyway.

He led his horses to the last two empty stalls and tossed them each an armful of hay. Unsettled by the creaking rafters and whistling walls, a few of his other charges blew and stamped nervously. Rooster, Sally, and two of the mules seemed unconcerned. Nell dozed in the ruckus, one back leg cocked at the knee and her eyes half closed.

Caleb heaved a heavy sigh. At least there'd be no delivery tonight.

He pitched his bundle and the new quilt onto the bedroll, rousing the cat from a tight curl. It blinked once, stretched its toothy mouth in a wide yawn, and recoiled itself against the quilt.

Annie's quilt.

He knew because he'd held it to his face all the way back from the mercantile and her scent had nearly driven him mad. Did she really care that much about his well-being, that he was warm during the storm?

Henry had a fire in his forge, bless him, but he must have gone home to ride out the storm with his wife. The thought set a yearning inside Caleb stout enough to push him out into the wind and back to the mercantile. But what would he say? _Marry me, Annie. Come live in a barn and be my wife._

The sheer audacity of such a proposal disgusted him. He'd not ask her to share his life until he knew where and what that life would be. It'd be a long while before he shared anything more than a simple meal with Annie Whitaker.

He unwrapped his bundle, tucked the soap in his pocket, and took his water bucket to Henry's furnace along with his new shirt. In the fire's radiant warmth, he stripped down and washed, then exchanged his thin cotton shirt for the new dark wool, grateful for the comfort and fit. Whitaker had judged right.

Back in his stall, Caleb lit the lamp and unfolded the _Times._ Milner was quite the writer, setting his opinion in plain view of the paying townsfolk. Touting the rise and economic progression of Cañon City, he reviewed how it had weathered bad reports of disheartened gold seekers following "prominent discoveries lying in a northerly direction."

Caleb huffed. Those prominent discoveries had resulted in Fairplay, Oro City, and a half dozen other mining camps.

He read on concerning the "sunny side of Pike's Peak," and rubbed his head, still damp from a good scrubbing. Maybe he should have tried the newspaper office before the livery.

Milner's account spoke of business houses doing an enviable trade, a town population near eight hundred, and one hundred and fifty finished buildings--twenty of them stone.

Caleb snorted at mention of a three-story hotel. He hadn't seen any work on such an establishment. Maybe Milner knew something he didn't. Though he had certainly heard enough of what the editor called the "fall of the hammer, the click of the trowel, and the blast of the stone quarry."

It all looked good in the newspaper, but seven hundred people sure didn't fit in those hundred and fifty finished buildings. Milner didn't mention the tents clustered along the river.

Caleb set the paper aside and lay back on his bedroll. Gold seekers weren't the only disheartened souls who had sought out this far Kansas Territory. And if Milner was right and the place continued to grow, Cañon City might soon be as big as Denver City or Santa Fe.

He reached for his Bible and let it fall open. Jeremiah again, the weeping prophet, and Mollie Sullivan's picture. He studied the image. Pretty, yes. Beguiling, certainly. A woman after his heart? Not at all. She never had been, he realized now.

He took his Bible to Henry's forge, where the fire lay dying in a cooling bank. With no malice or ill thoughts, he laid Mollie's picture against a fading coal. "Bless her, Lord. And may she and her husband serve you."

The copper-edged image curled and shriveled to ash as he watched, and he sensed a small flame purging a place deep in his soul. Then he found the twenty-ninth chapter of Jeremiah, dimly illuminated by the fire's thin glow. But he didn't need the light, for the words had taken up residence in his memory.

"For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you an expected end."

The promised peace settled upon him like a warm cloak. Outside the wind beat against the livery, and the building groaned in the onslaught. He wrapped his arms across his chest and held the book within them. Finally, after months of running, here in a barn, he could rest in God's expected end. Not what he, Caleb, had expected, but what the Lord had planned.

With a deep sense of surrender, Caleb returned to the box stall, snuffed out the lamp, and crawled beneath his canvas tarp, Annie's quilts, and the enduring grace of a loving God.

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A blue china sky greeted Annie Sunday morning, the air as crisp and cold as deep well water. White drifts leaned against the Main Street buildings, and the roadway was a frozen, mudless track. In Omaha, a storm like yesterday's would have her sister and their aunt soaking dirty skirt hems after church for sure. Not to mention their fine cloth shoes.

She snugged her scarf closer and waited on the boardwalk for her father.

Only the Lord's Day could still the perpetual hammering of the city's rising. Though the community stretched and fussed with growing pains, life was simpler in this bare-bones mountain supply town. The simplicity of hard work left her feeling lighter, with fewer cares and worries, knowing she didn't have to compete with Edna's fashionable clothing or cringe beneath Aunt Harriet's glaring judgment of unruly hair.

Annie knew she fell short of her aunt's expectations, particularly where men were concerned. Not that Cañon City was teaming with eligible bachelors worth even a second glance. Most were lonely miners who drank too much, dusty cowboys in need of a bath, or entrepreneurs who knew a good investment when they saw one.

Or a gentle horse handler who continued to occupy her thoughts. She took a forceful breath to clear her mind. So sharp was the air, it nearly cut through her lungs.

"Ready, Annie girl?"

Her father shut the mercantile door and offered his arm. Grateful for the short walk to the church house, she curved her fingers inside his elbow. Buggies and buckboards lined the street beyond the church, and a few horses stood loosely tied to the livery's hitching rail across the way, a location upon which her eyes so easily settled.

The big front doors were parted just enough for a peek into the shadowy stable. At the thought of Caleb wrapped beneath her quilts, she banished the vision with a quick prayer that he'd been warm and safe through the storm.

Annie hiked her skirt to mount the church steps. Hannah Baker was not at her usual post at the door with her soon-to-be husband, Pastor Hartman. Surely a brisk winter storm had not been too much for the rancher's daughter, always cheerful as a meadowlark, greeting everyone with her melodic voice and bright smile.

Annie hurried inside. Hannah sat slump-shouldered halfway to the front, wilting beneath a woolen scarf and dabbing at her cheeks, cloistered by her family. Annie and her father took the bench behind Hannah, and she cringed at the young woman's whispered explanation.

"My dear Robert remains in the pulpit and I remain with my family."

By the time Pastor Hartman finished his closing announcements that morning, everyone knew why Hannah couldn't stop crying.

The couple's pending marriage the week after Christmas had been postponed indefinitely. Hartman's brother, Reverend Justice Hartman of Denver, had broken his leg in a buggy accident earlier in the month and word had just arrived that he dare not make the trip south to perform the ceremony.

In fact, he'd sent for Robert to officiate over Christmas festivities in Denver.

What arrogance. Annie sucked in her cheek to keep her thoughts to herself in Hannah's presence. How dare the elder brother presume upon his sibling and this fledgling community. Just because Justice Hartman's congregation had a fine brick building with a bell tower didn't mean he could drag Cañon City's beloved pastor from his flock.

But clearly, blood was indeed thicker than water--even at Christmas. No wedding before the new year. And unless someone stepped forward, no Christmas Eve services for the town's small congregation of merchants and miners and ranchers. The pastor's tone made it clear that he had bowed to his brother's wishes and would be leaving that very afternoon.

Annie nearly cried herself as she filed out with others after the service. This was not the Christmas she'd hoped for. Truth be told, she wasn't sure what she'd hoped for in the first place. There would be no traditional trimmings she'd grown up with, no Edna or Harriet, no festivities at all--other than what she cobbled together at the mercantile. And now, no Christmas Eve service with carol singing and warm wishes from friends and ...

Oh, it just wasn't fair.

Her foot ached to stomp, and she held it to the wooden step and leaned her weight into it. She hadn't even had the small pleasure of speaking with Caleb.

Was he worried over Nell?

Annie's father spoke quietly in Pastor Hartman's ear, and both men stared at the livery.

_Of course._

She snugged her cloak tighter and looked around for Martha. The seamstress stood commiserating with Hannah, and guilt's cold fingers clutched Annie's conscience for thinking only of herself and her own disappointment.

She approached with an outstretched hand. "I'm so sorry Hannah." A squeeze of the young woman's arm brought fresh tears. "I'm sure things will work out. He'll be back as soon as he can. You know he will."

If it didn't snow three feet between Christmas and January like every freighter said it always did.

Turning to Martha, Annie lowered her voice. "Please tell Daddy I'll be along directly. I'm going to stop at the livery and check on Nell."

Martha's sorrowful eyes transformed. "You tell that young Caleb that we expect him for Sunday dinner. I've already set a place for him at the table."

Annie planted a kiss on Martha's cheek, squeezed Hannah's soggy handkerchief-wrapped fingers one more time, and hurried across the road.

The perfume of hay and horse flesh wafted from the stable as she squeezed between the doors. Had Christ's birthplace smelled like this? She'd never considered the possibility since every holiday season in her aunt's home summoned the scents of baking and spices and candles and greenery. But here, in the shadowy stalls and open livery rafters, she felt somehow closer to the essence of the first gentle Christmas.

Well, maybe not so gentle.

Caleb's low voice sounded from Nell's stall and sent shivers up Annie's arms. She moved closer, watching him work his way behind the mare, his deep tone as comforting as a mother's lullaby. Annie held a hand to her mouth, afraid for even the quietest word to disturb the moment.

Caleb had rolled up his shirtsleeves, and his muscled forearms bore evidence of hard work. Annie knew the strength in those arms, but his hands smoothed along Nell's swelling body as gently as a whisper. She knew that touch as well, and it stirred something deep within her.

The memory of his rescue flooded in and she shivered, drawing his attention outside the stall.

"It won't be long," he said softly, not changing the meter or volume from his earlier murmurs. "Could be any day now."

Apparently satisfied with his charge's condition, he ducked beneath Nell's neck and slowly slipped through the stall door. Standing close in the alleyway, he rolled down his sleeves and searched Annie's face in the most disarming way.

She loosened her scarf, grateful to be in shadow. "You might want to pray that she foals soon, because I think you're about to be asked to fill in for Pastor Hartman at the Christmas Eve service."

Caleb's expression sobered. "What makes you say that?"

"The pastor's brother in Denver was injured and won't be coming down to perform the wedding. Instead, he's asked Pastor Harman to come to Denver and take over duties there for Christmas. Not only will there not be a wedding here, there won't be a Christmas Eve service either."

Annie's sense of injustice had twisted the scarf she fingered into a knot.

Caleb stared at her.

Clearly, he hadn't made the connection.

"I believe Daddy told the pastor of your previous calling."

Caleb buttoned his cuffs and reached for his hat. A sharp downward pull hid his eyes, and Annie took a step closer seeking their depths. "You'll do it if they ask you, won't you?"

His embattled expression gave her pause and she drew back. He stopped her with a hand at her waist and closed the distance between them.

Annie's pulse danced at her temple and in her throat. How dark his eyes, as if he warred against some inner torment. She clutched the ends of her scarf in one hand and laid the other against his chest. His heartbeat ran as hard as her own. "Do you doubt that you can do it?"

With his free hand, he touched her hair, then smoothed the back of his fingers against her cheek.

"You are beautiful, Annie Whitaker. Beautiful in spirit and in form."

She commanded her breath to come evenly, steadily. It wouldn't do to swoon in his arms right there in the livery. Lowering her gaze, she studied the texture of his new waistcoat, at a loss for words the first time in her life.

Caleb lifted her hand from his chest and pressed her fingers against his lips before putting a safer distance between them. "I can do it if He calls me."

Annie's hopes hitched. "Pastor Hartman?"

He smiled at her confusion. "If God calls me, He'll enable me."

"But didn't He already call you?" Regret followed immediately upon her remark, for sadness washed over his face. Without thinking, she reached to smooth it away.

He caught her hand. "Will you be there?"

"Yes." Would breath ever come again without her heart racing like a runaway horse?

His smile returned, and he squeezed her hand and released it. "If God wants me to stand in His pulpit again, He'll make it clear to me and present the opportunity Himself."

Stunned by his humility and flushed with emotion, Annie coiled her scarf around her suddenly empty hands and moved toward the door, seeking the clarity of cold air. "Martha is expecting you for dinner. She's already set a place for you at the table."

His features softened, and he lifted his duster from a nail on the wall. "Then we'd best be going, hadn't we?"

~

Caleb took one last look at his charges, then closed the livery doors against the cold. He offered his arm to Annie, and she rewarded him by tucking her small hand into the crook of his elbow. Without hesitation.

A week and a half until Christmas Eve, with a Sunday service before that. Annie's news had simply confirmed his recent commitment. He'd already told the Lord He'd go where he was called.

Clattering hooves drew his attention to a cloaked rider approaching with hat pulled low. Annie's fingers tightened on his arm.

"Caleb." Robert Hartman reined up beside them. "Annie." He touched his hat and his gray mount blew its smoky breath and stomped impatiently, invigorated by the cold and anticipating a run.

"Pastor Hartman." Caleb offered his hand. "We'll miss you at Christmas, but our prayers go with you for a safe trip to Denver."

"Thank you." Hartman yanked unnecessarily on the reins, sending the horse dancing backward.

Caleb stepped forward and took the headstall, mumbling low.

"Annie's father tells me you're a preacher," Hartman said.

"Yes, sir. Spent a year or so at a small church in Missouri, then came west." With the flat of his hand he rubbed the horse's face while reading Hartman's expression. No need to go into reasons and regrets.

"Wish I'd known sooner. We could have visited, compared notes. But as you know, I'm on my way to my brother's and need someone to hold the Christmas Eve service that people are counting on. Not to mention next Sunday, and maybe more after that, depending. Are you willing?"

The gray startled forward at Hartman's clumsy kick, and the man jerked back on the reins again.

"Easy," Caleb murmured. Hartman's eagerness to leave transmitted to the horse. Caleb stepped aside. "I'd be happy to. Thank you for your trust."

The gray reared slightly and tossed its head. "I'll be back as soon as I can, and will send a letter to Hannah telling her when to expect my return."

Hartman looked at Annie. "Thank your father for me. I feel better knowing someone will be here in my absence."

He nodded to Caleb. "I'll be praying for you."

"And I for you." Caleb's concern for Hartman's safety rose as the gray tiptoed on the frozen roadway. "Let up on the reins and watch your heels and he'll be easier to handle."

Hartman grinned. "Thank you. I might say the same about our unique congregants. Merry Christmas."

Winning the struggle, the gray wheeled and charged east out of town. Caleb snugged Annie's arm close against him, confident that he already knew the text for his Christmas message.

As they passed the magistrate's office, Annie tensed.

"It's all right." He covered her gloved hand with his own. "Cooper's locked in a cell at the back of the building. Saw it myself."

His little fighter wasn't as calm as she tried to appear, and the look she gave him drew every ounce of protectiveness up through his veins. He wanted to keep her safe, warm, close.

God help him.

Two blocks west and they stepped off the boardwalk and turned north toward Martha's home. The dry snow squeaked beneath Caleb's boots, and powdery crystals swirled in a light crosswind. Annie tucked her scarf against her chin.

Martha's walkway had been swept clear, and smoke curled from the chimney. Caleb stomped his feet and opened the door for Annie, and his mouth watered at the aroma that welcomed them. The small cabin swelled with good will and good food.

He'd gladly live in a cabin like this if Annie shared it with him.

He took her cloak from her stiff shoulders, wishing he could wrap her in his arms until she relaxed against him. "Don't think about tomorrow," he said quietly. "Just enjoy this time, here, now."

_Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof._ A good thing to remember.

Tomorrow would indeed have enough worries of its own.

~

Monday morning, the hall above the Fremont Saloon overflowed with people for Cooper's hearing. Word got around fast.

Caleb stood against the back wall, a position that gave him a clear view of Cooper, Magistrate Warren, and Annie seated with her father toward the front.

The saloon owner wasn't as cocky as he'd been the day Caleb dragged him to the jail. He was probably sober--a frightening condition for a man given to liquor and license.

Caleb wished there was some other way to go about justice that didn't require Annie's public testimony, but she held her head high and spoke clearly and unemotionally.

Cooper squirmed in his seat, and the truth was apparent, if the murmurs and nods rippling through the crowd were any indication. Warren must have been right. It seemed that Cooper was overdue for his comeuppance.

After a brief discussion, the court members told Cooper that if he sold his property and left town immediately, they'd let him go. Otherwise, he'd serve time in jail and be required to pay a heavy fine. Caleb felt they were letting the man off too easy, but one look at Annie reminded him that Cooper's absence was what she really wanted.

A keen sense of protectiveness surged through his blood again. Whatever it took.

The gavel sounded and Cooper was led away to turn over the deed to his hotel and saloon and ride out of town.

It was done. Now Caleb could spend a few days preparing for his next public challenge. His return to the pulpit.

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Caleb started a fire in the woodstove, lit the lamps, and set out extra tapers for the evening service. Then he swept the front steps and carried in the heap of pine boughs Karl Turk had earlier dropped by from his cuttings. Several branches still bore cones, and their sweet pitch filled the clapboard building with a familiar Christmas promise.

Fresh hope. A future. God's expected end.

Caleb longed for all three.

His first Sunday had gone well. People had not stayed away simply because their pastor was gone and his fill-in was a stable hand.

Humbled by Pastor Hartman's willingness to leave his flock in Caleb's care, and the congregation's willingness to give him the opportunity, he checked the fire again and adjusted the damper. The small building should be warm by the time people arrived for the evening's service.

But rather than stay and go over his brief sermon, Caleb answered his instincts that called him back to the livery. He'd learned a long time ago to follow that call where animals were concerned. He just hadn't paid it as much heed with people.

Scanning the room and pleased with his preparations, he softly closed the door and hurried to the livery.

Thank God, he'd listened.

Nell flattened her ears as Caleb entered the stall--not her usual easygoing welcome. Her rounded belly had a more angular look, and she swished her tail and stomped a back foot. Caleb's gut twisted at the signs. _Not now._

Agitated and twitchy, Nell's discomfort sent her head reaching back toward her sides, blowing and whiffling. Caleb had no way to predict how soon or how quickly she would foal, and he couldn't be two places at once--in the livery with Nell and across the street at the Christmas Eve service.

He'd assured Pastor Hartman he'd care for the congregation--the brave souls who'd left the comforts and customs of home to start a new life in the Rockies. Maybe he could leave Nell to her own devices. How many times had he been surprised, as a boy, to walk in on a spindly legged foal nuzzling a carefree mama who had delivered without anyone's help?

But one never knew for sure. And Nell was Annie's joy. There was more to this delivery than simply another foal.

With divided loyalty tearing at his gut, he grabbed his duster and set out for the mercantile. The sliver of daylight above Fremont Peak told him folks would soon be arriving at the church. He'd ask Annie and her father to watch Nell while he greeted people, and to let him know if she was in distress

Annie stood bundled at the stove, ready to leave, while her father banked the fire and set the lid. The bell pulled her toward the door, and her eyes warmed with welcome until she saw what lay behind Caleb's own.

Hurrying to him, her voice rose tight and worried. "What is it? Is something wrong at the church house?"

He clasped both her hands in his, regretting the tension he'd set in her brow. "It's Nell. She's close to her time."

He looked over Annie's head to her father tugging on his overcoat and scarf.

"I'm here to ask if you'll stay with her while I start the service and let the people know what's happening."

"Of course we will. Let's go." Daniel stormed out the door as if he'd put all his life and soul into that mare rather than bemoaned her appetite.

The lantern Caleb had hung outside Nell's stall pooled a yellow light in the alleyway and deepened the shadows beyond. Nell whinnied at the intrusion, and flattened her ears in warning.

"Don't go in," Caleb warned. "No matter what happens, do not go in the stall."

Annie and Daniel leaned against the railing, looking as if they'd never seen a horse in all their lives. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

"Promise me." Caleb laid his hand on Annie's shoulder, pressing until she looked at him.

"I promise," she said.

Nell paced as much as the cramped box allowed, and Caleb wished he had a larger space for her. In her irritable condition, any unwelcomed intruder could be hurt. Or killed.

"It's very likely she'll deliver without any problem. She may lie down and get up again. She may kick or moan. Whatever she does, do not go in there."

"What should we look for if we need to come for you?" Daniel's steady voice and calm expression restored Caleb's confidence in his choice of guardian.

"Two hooves and a nose is what we want to come first." His discomfort at mentioning such intimate details in Annie's presence subsided as he studied her unflustered profile. "If anything else presents instead, come and get me."

She touched his arm. "Daddy will come and get us. I am going with you." Her fingers pressed into his sleeve, and she lowered her voice. "I'll be praying for you as well as for Nell."

Caleb's heart hammered into his throat. With a final glance at the mare and then at the lovely woman who believed in him more than he deserved, he took her hand and they walked out the livery doors and across the street.

~

Hannah and her parents had driven in from their ranch, and Caleb gratefully acknowledged the young woman's tending of the lanterns and candles. The little church glowed with goodwill, and people chose benches closer to the front this evening, either to join in the festive Christmas spirit or to avoid the dropping temperature that lurked beyond the back door.

Caleb stepped up on the rough-hewn platform to lead the first carol.

No organ or piano accompanied the rich vocal mix of miner and merchant. But all knew the tune, and those who were braver broke into harmony. The few children's angelic voices joined the chorus, and Caleb's spirit rose on the sound. The very angels who declared the Lord's birth could not have announced it more majestically than the simple folk of this little mountain town.

His eyes settled on Annie, seated with the Smith family. She caught his look and held it with what appeared to be a promise. Could she someday be his?

Warmed by the fire and the people crowded into the tiny church, the air simmered with paraffin, lamp oil, and fresh pine. Bible in hand, Caleb stood next to the simple pulpit, wanting nothing between him and the people this night.

"As you all know, I care for the stock at the livery--a skill I learned many years before my seminary training. I stand here this evening to extend to you your pastor's heartfelt Christmas blessings, to rejoice with you in our Lord's priceless gift, and also to explain the situation at hand."

People settled in their places, women removed gloves, and men balanced hats on their laps.

Caleb cleared his throat and took a small step forward. "The Whitaker's mare has chosen this night to birth her foal, and if I'm needed--I apologize--but I'll be stepping out."

A few women ducked their heads at mention of such a thing in public and murmurs hummed across the room, but no one left. A good sign.

A deep breath loosened his chest and the familiarity of God's Word in his hand strengthened his stance. "The Scriptures tell us that our faith is more valuable than gold. We know something about that around here, don't we? _Gold_."

His emphasis of the word set heads to wagging and eyes to glittering.

"Consider the gifts the Christ child received from the Eastern kings: frankincense, myrrh, gold. A king's gold, pure and refined and weighty, nothing like what men scrabble for in the creek beds and canyons of these Rocky Mountains."

A few chuckles rippled across the room as men cast knowing glances among themselves and women _tsked_.

"So what kind of treasure do we bring to the Babe this Christmas? Refined, pure gold or crusty ore mixed with pebbles and dirt?"

The question sobered his listeners, and he lifted his Bible to read from First Peter. "Wherein ye greatly rejoice, though now for a season, if need be, ye are in heaviness through manifold temptations."

He looked up from the page and into the eyes of those seated on the benches and standing against the back wall. "We have manifold temptations represented here this evening. I personally have enough to pass among you with plenty left over. But I confess that I haven't greatly rejoiced in them."

Again he lifted the book and read from it. "That the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honor and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ."

A chilly gust swept in, and Caleb looked up to see Daniel at the door, worry tightening his brow. Annie looked toward the back and straightened, as if ready to stand.

He was nearly finished with his message. "Prospectors and speculators will tell you there is no gold in Cañon City. Show them otherwise. Let the trial in your life--whatever that trial may be--purify your faith to a burning, burnished gold, worthy of the King who was the Child, so that something more valuable than mined mountain ore will shine for Him here."

He closed his Bible and looked over the celebrants. "With Mr. Whitaker's sudden arrival, it appears that I am needed at the stable."

Low voices buzzed, and most turned toward the entrance.

"I apologize for cutting this celebration short, but I wish you all a blessed Christmas, and pray for your safe journey home and warm memories of your first such event in the great canyon's guardian city."

Hannah rose to attend to the candles and lanterns, and Caleb thanked her as he grabbed his hat and duster and hurried out, Annie at his side.

~

The few lines that Annie heard Caleb speak revealed a side of him that she longed to know more of. But right now, she needed the horseman, because Nell must be having a tough go of it.

Caleb stripped off his hat and coat as he entered the barn, gave them to Annie, and rolled up his sleeves. Nell remained on her side, and great rolling contractions rippled across her belly. Caleb eased into the stall, sending his rich, warm voice ahead. Nell's ears flicked his way and back again.

His gentle confidence stilled Annie's pounding heart, and she linked her arm through her father's. Within moments Caleb caught two tiny hooves in one hand and a white nose in the other. With one final heave, Nell pushed a miracle into his arms.

The mare lay still, exhausted and breathing hard. Annie feared she had no strength left at all when the horse raised her head and curled back around to sniff and nicker a motherly welcome. Finally, she pulled herself up and turned to stand over the leggy infant, licking and rumbling deep in her chest.

Annie stood enthralled by what she saw, so much so that she hadn't heard the great livery doors open and a small crowd approach. When a child's voice broke the stillness, she looked around to see a dozen people pressing into the alleyway, craning their necks for a look at the newborn.

"Welcome to Cañon City, little fella." Emmy Smith peeked through the stall slats at the wobbly foal whose spindly legs fought for purchase.

"I think you mean little _filly_ ," Caleb corrected with a smile in his voice.

Laughter rippled through the onlookers, and Emmy tucked her chin and poked out her lip.

"They're not laughing at you, they're laughing with you." Springer knelt beside his sister. "It's a little girl. _Filly_ means girl."

"Like me?" Emmy's bright eyes searched her papa's face, where he stood with an arm tight about her mama's shoulders.

"That's right, darlin'. Just like you."

"Guess you knew what you were talkin' about, Hutton." The crusty voice rose from behind the crowd, and heads turned to identify the speaker.

Magistrate Warren cleared his throat and tugged at his hat. "There's more gold here in these hills than the kind that glitters."

The yellow filly hobbled forward and nuzzled its mother, and people jostled and bid Merry Christmas on their way out of the stable.

At last, only Annie, her father, and Caleb stood at the gate watching Nell and her foal. Annie slipped an arm through that of each man standing beside her and pulled them closer. "Imagine, spending Christmas Eve in a barn. What would Aunt Harriet think?"

Her father coughed out a laugh that startled the filly, and he clamped a hand over his mouth and stepped back.

Annie giggled and looked to Caleb, whose eyes held such love that she wanted to melt into his arms right then and there.

"I'd best be getting to the mercantile." Her father's face fairly glowed. "Martha's there with a Christmas pudding waiting on us all to string popcorn for the tree."

Annie hugged his girth and planted a kiss on his ruddy cheek.

"You did a fine job tonight, son. A fine job." He slapped Caleb on the shoulder and headed for the door. "I'm going on. You both come along when you're finished here." At the door, he paused. "You know you're invited, Caleb. We wouldn't have it any other way. The more the merrier."

Annie caught the twinkle in her father's eyes and swore she saw his mustache twitch.

Caleb retrieved a water bucket and towel from his living quarters, then washed his arms and hands in the lantern's light. Annie looked away, warmth flooding her neck and cheeks. Such intimate moments they'd shared this day, and they weren't even courting. What would Edna say?

Her left foot gave a small stomp. She didn't care what Edna would say. Annie had found more in Cañon City than she'd ever dreamed. And she wasn't about to let proprieties take that from her.

With new resolve, she turned to see Caleb watching her, pulling on his duster and settling his hat on his head. An odd smirk played on his lips.

"What?" Suddenly fidgety, she swirled her scarf around her neck and dug in her cloak pocket for her mittens.

As he moved toward her, her feet grew roots. She couldn't have fled if she wanted to. But she didn't want to. His dark eyes drank her in. Her hair, her temples, her lips, disarming her until her insides went limp.

He stopped just beyond her tightly clutched hands, so close his breath touched her face, as did the scent of him--wool and leather, his canvas duster. He slipped one hand around her waist and pulled her into him, brushing her mouth with his eyes and then his lips.

She flattened both hands against his chest and felt again his heart beating a rhythm in time with her own.

"I love you, Annie Whitaker. Will you wait for me?"

_Wait? What's to wait for?_

Searching for her voice, she found it snagged on a question. "Wait?" she whispered.

"Until I have something to offer you. A home. A livelihood. Something besides a stable boy's pay and a box stall."

Her voice fled again and tears pushed behind her eyes. She swiped at them, determined not to be a silly twit like her sister. With a shaky breath, she yanked her voice back from its hiding place.

"On two conditions."

His jaw flexed at her counter and he pressed her closer. "And what might they be?"

"That you take me riding up the river as soon as the snow and ice melt."

A slow smile pulled his mouth on one side. "And your second condition?"

"That you kiss me again right now before Daddy and Martha come looking for us."

The last thing she saw between her closing lashes was hunger in his dark eyes.

# EPILOGUE

Annie fussed with the black trim on the bodice of her blue silk dress and reset her hair combs for the hundredth time.

"Let me." Martha shooed Annie's hands away from her head. "Be still now. You look absolutely divine. I tell you, that young man of yours won't know his head from his hat when he sees you in this blue taffeta. I knew I'd have a need for it someday, and with your hair shining like a kiln fire, how will he ever concentrate enough to officiate over Hannah and Robert?"

Annie wrapped the seamstress in a quick hug, then allowed her to fuss with the folds of her skirt. Hannah watched them both with a nervous twitch that set her bouquet to quivering against her cream-colored gown.

"Oh, Hannah, you're not frightened, are you?" Annie held a hand out to the girl, who looked as if she might faint any moment.

"I'm just so nervous," Hannah whispered as if sharing a secret. "I want everything to go right and be done with--before we have another storm or someone else breaks his leg. Tell me again how this is going to work."

"We're all going to be _Mrs._ to our dear husbands, child." Martha bloomed like a rose in her garden as she gave Annie's hair a final pat and turned to the youngest of the three brides. "You will lead us between the bench rows at the church house, followed by Annie and then myself. Your Robert, Annie's Caleb, and my Daniel will be waiting for us at the front."

"Then Caleb will take you and Robert through your vows." Annie fluffed Hannah's full sleeves. "He's going to kiss you in front of everyone." She couldn't resist teasing.

Hannah went white. "Caleb is going to kiss me?"

Martha burst into laughter and Annie colored with guilty delight. "No, silly. _Robert_ is going to kiss you. After Caleb marries the two of you."

"Then you will step back, Robert will step forward, and Caleb will take his place beside Annie for their vows," Martha explained.

Annie's pulse threatened to burst her tight neckline.

"Who will marry you and Daniel?" Hannah asked Martha, the flowers steadier in her hand with so many questions on her mind.

"Robert," Annie said. "He is the most senior pastor, and as his last duty here--at least for a while--he will have the honor of joining my father and Martha."

She slipped her arm around the seamstress's waist and gave her a quick hug. "Thanks to you and your talents, we make three lovely brides. Who would have thought you could fashion winter roses from ribbon and lace and fabric scraps?"

Martha blushed and waved away the remark, her cheeks nearly matching the deep burgundy of her simple but finely pleated dress.

Annie walked to the mercantile door. It looked as if the entire town was trying to squeeze into the clapboard church house. Three brides and their grooms would not be the only people standing for the ceremony.

Winter had calmed its blustery self just long enough for Pastor Hartman to return for his bride the week after Christmas as originally planned. Annie prayed for it to hold until their safe return to Denver, where Hartman would take over for his still recovering brother.

How suddenly circumstances had changed. Gratitude swelled within her for God's mysterious plans unfolding so perfectly. She and Caleb planned to live in the parsonage, her father would move in with Martha, and Springer Smith had already taken over at the livery under Caleb's watchful eye--at least until the boy learned to handle the horses. Oh, how Springer's face had lit when Caleb asked if he'd be willing.

Louisa Smith stepped off the church steps and headed up the street. "She's coming," Annie said, her breath suddenly shallow and quick. She looked to her fellow brides. "Are we ready?"

Both ladies straightened and raised their chins as if marching into a parade. What an affair this wedding promised to be--better than any Saturday night dance Cañon City would ever see.

"Here we go." Annie opened the door and set the bell to ringing.

"Like I always say,"--Martha linked her arm with Hannah and winked at Annie as they filed out to the boardwalk--"the more the merrier."

Annie fought the urge to hike her shimmering skirts and run to the church and into Caleb's arms. The effort consumed a good deal of her composure until they mounted the swept church steps and she peered through the doorway into the small sanctuary.

Caleb stood at the head of the crowded room in a new white shirt and borrowed frock coat, a string tie at his throat and a groom at each elbow.

His dark eyes locked on hers and drew her to the end of the terribly long aisle where she stopped before him, anticipation spinning through her. Their gaze broke when Robert moved to Hannah's side and Caleb looked away to officiate over the eager couple.

Annie's own bouquet quivered like Hannah's, but against the easy rhythm of Caleb's warm voice, the trembling soon settled and her mind wandered back over the past five months.

She had dared to venture west with her father. And in the doing, she had found much more than she could have dreamed--a vast and magnificent land and a wealth of love far greater than all the gold the Rocky Mountains could offer.

And every ounce of it shone in the smile of the horseman who now held out his hand to her. "Annie."

With the surety of love and the promise of a shared future, she entwined her fingers in his and took her place beside him. The next great journey was about to begin.

~~~
Thank you for reading Book 1 of the Cañon City Chronicles.

A preview of Book 2, _Straight to My Heart,_ follows on the next page.

I hope you enjoyed Annie and Caleb's story in _Loving the Horseman_ as much as I enjoyed writing it. If so, I'd greatly appreciate a brief review on Amazon or your favorite book websites and other social media.

Keep reading the ongoing story of the Hutton family in Books 2 and 3, devoted to the lives of Annie and Caleb's children, Whit and Marti. You can order Book 2, _Straight to My Heart,_ and Book 3, _Romancing the Widow,_ or the entire Cañon City Chronicles collection under one cover.

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# Acknowledgements

My heartfelt thanks go to all who aided and supported me in telling Annie Whitaker and Caleb Hutton's story, particularly readers Amanda, Jill Maple, and Judy Ackerman, and my horse-shoeing cowboy husband, Mike. Much appreciation goes to Kim Aulerich Mahone for her expertise in the finer details of nineteenth century clothing and to my editor, Christy Distler.

# About the Author

Bestselling author and winner of the **Will Rogers Gold Medallion** for Inspirational Western Fiction, **Davalynn Spencer** writes heart-tugging romance with a Western flair. Learn more about Davalynn and her books and sign up for her free newsletter at www.davalynnspencer.com

# Straight to My Heart

Cañon City Chronicles

Book 2

CHAPTER ONE

Fremont County, Colorado

Spring, 1879

Whit Hutton eyed the rimrock. His buckskin's ears swiveled toward a deep fissure, nostrils flaring for scent.

No padded foot dislodged loose shale. No yellow eye glinted from the shadows, no tail whipped in the cool predawn. But she was there.

He heeled Oro up the ledge that hugged the cliff face, let the gelding pick his way along the incline at a cautious clip. More bighorn mountain sheep than horse, Oro took them higher while Whit kept his eyes on the rimrock and one hand at the ready.

His father's Colt lay holstered on his right hip, and a Winchester rested easy in the saddle scabbard. Trouble was, Whit didn't know what he'd need. If he spotted her from a distance, he'd use the rifle. But if he rode up on the lair, he'd do better with the handgun.

And if she got the jump on him, it'd be too late for either one.

The hair on his neck stood. Feline eyes were watching.

Two calf carcasses in as many weeks proved an old lion stalked the herd--one too slow for a swift pronghorn or mule deer. It needed easy pickin's, and Hubert Baker's cow-calf operation appeared to be the chosen chuck wagon.

Oro heaved them up and over the edge and Whit reined around for a view of Wilson Creek bottom. The sleeping Bar-HB covered the stream-fed valley and several thousand acres of unseen park, timber ridges, and rocky ravines. Baker, Whit, and the Perkins brothers called it home. Along with three hundred cow-calf pairs.

Lately, so did Baker's granddaughter, Olivia Hartman.

Whit turned his head toward a distant, rhythmic _ping_ , not surprised that the echo carried so far on the clear air this early. Train barons were fighting for the narrow right-of-way up the Arkansas River canyon, and crews with both the Denver and Rio Grande and the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe were racing to lay track through the gorge. Only one railway would fit where sheer granite shot a thousand feet straight up from the river. And that rail owner would benefit mightily from the lucrative Leadville silver strikes.

While rich men pawed the earth and lawyers bandied, ranchers like Hubert Baker were still driving their cattle to mining camps a few at a time or in herds to Pueblo or the Denver railhead. Ten days of dust-eating trail, that one.

He shifted, squeaking the saddle leather in tribute to riding drag. No more, since Baker crippled himself and put Whit in charge. Which meant Buck and Jody Perkins ate dirt on the drives like Whit had when he was an upstart. With no ma or pa of their own, the towheaded Perkins boys were happy enough to get chuck and a bed in the bunkhouse.

At least they hadn't lit out after easy money laying track for the feuding railroad companies.

The sun broke free, climbed Whit's back, and jumped into the valley. He looked over his shoulder, dipped his brim against the new light, and turned Oro toward the ranch house and breakfast. The cat had eaten. Now it was his turn.

His stomach snarled and he hoped Baker's granddaughter had whipped up some of her white gravy. She'd come to the ranch after her grandmother's death a month previous, and the little gal could fix up biscuits and gravy better than anything Whit had ever tasted. 'Cept his ma's cooking, of course. Couldn't beat her potbelly biscuits, as his preacher pa called them.

Guilt snagged a rib as Whit tied Oro at the house rail and walked around back to the washstand. He hadn't been home in three months, and he suspected his parents and little sister held it against him. But he had responsibilities now. He couldn't be traipsin' off to Cañon City whenever he wanted.

His spurs jangled against the kitchen floor and he continued through to the dining room, where the Perkins brothers were already elbow deep in steak and eggs. Baker insisted his hired hands eat at the house since his beloved Ruth passed. The old rancher was lonely. Whit could see it in his eyes when he looked at Livvy, a younger image of her mother, Hannah, Baker's only child. Whit used to tease the pig-tailed girl at church picnics when her family visited from Denver. But he hadn't figured on scrawny Olivia Hartman growing up to be such a good cook. And a beauty to boot.

"You wash?" She leveled her blue eyes at him, ready to fire if he gave the wrong answer.

"Yes, ma'am. Right out back at the washstand. Even used soap this time."

Jody grunted but didn't stop chewing to comment.

"Hands." She leaned slightly forward, demanding he lift his calloused fingers to her pretty little nose.

He pulled a wounded look across his face. "You don't believe me."

His mouth must have twitched, for she straightened to take the plate back to the kitchen. He jerked his hands out, palms up, and stepped as close as he could and still be the gentleman his parents raised.

Livvy sniffed, and her eyes smiled if her lips didn't. "Good." She set the plate on the table to the right of Baker, who sat at the head, and retreated to the kitchen.

Whit watched her disappear through the doorway. Someday he'd be sharing his meals in private with a woman like that.

"See any tracks?" Baker cut into a biscuit and sopped it in gravy.

Whit hung his hat on the chair back and took his seat. "No, sir. Too much shale in those bluffs to leave track. But I found her latest kill in the cottonwoods, half covered with leaves and brush."

He gulped his coffee, welcomed the kick. "But she was up there this morning. I could feel her."

Buck snorted. "You'll feel her, all right. Just as soon as she leaps down on that buckskin o' yours and snaps your neck in two."

"Won't happen." Whit cut his steak and met Buck's jab with a poker face. "She's waitin' for a corn-fed one. Like you."

Jody choked on a piece of meat and grabbed his coffee, sloshing most of it onto his plate in the process.

Baker didn't join the fun like he usually did, and his soberness dampened the younger men's humor. Whit laid down his fork and took up his coffee. The boss had something on his mind and Whit would just as soon hear it straight-out.

~

Livvy stood at the stove and wiped her hands on her apron. Pop wasn't his jovial self this morning. She had hoped the men could wheedle him into a better humor, but their good-natured bantering wasn't breaking through the dour mood he'd carried home from town yesterday.

She stirred the gravy in wide slow circles, listening for Pop's voice. It came low and tense, and she stilled the spoon to concentrate on his words.

"I'm sure you all know about the feuding that's been going on over the railway the last couple of years."

Knives and forks scraped against her grandmother's Staffordshire china, and a coffee cup clinked on its saucer. No one spoke, and she imagined the others nodding somberly.

"I don't want my men getting mixed up in any rail war." Pop's voice carried an edge. "This blasted railroad business is going to get someone killed, and it better not be any of you."

Someone cleared his throat. Whit, she guessed, who usually spoke for all the hired hands.

"We're too busy," Whit said. "Gathering starts today, and I figure we'll be branding for two or three days. We don't have the time or notion to be riding up that canyon taking pot shots at our neighbors."

Pop cursed and Livvy clapped a hand over her mouth.

"That's the problem," he said. "Those train barons have called in outside guns and they're offering money to any man that will sign on with them."

"Which side?"

The heavy silence meant Pop was staring a hole through young Jody, the only one foolish enough to ask such a question.

"Not that I'm thinkin' on joining them, mind you. I was just curious, that's all."

"Both sides."

A cup slammed into its saucer and Livvy flinched. She had only eight of the original twelve left, and the way Pop and these cowhands treated her grandmother's lovely blue-and-white china, she'd have no unchipped cups by summer's end. Tin suited them better, but at the dining table Pop insisted on the "good dishes." A tribute to his beloved Ruthie.

Chair legs combed the carpet as someone stood.

"You can count on us," Whit said. "We work for this outfit, not some railroad company."

Buck and Jody quickly agreed and flatware clattered against plates.

Livvy hurried to the sink, filled a dishpan, and set it on the stove, grateful again that her grandfather had the convenience of an indoor hand pump.

Pop and the boys made their way through the kitchen, thanking her as always. Whit went out the front. She checked the other water pan already on the stove and returned to the dining room for the rest of the dishes. Through the lace curtain she saw Whit at the hitching rail, adjusting Oro's cinch. A few steps closer, and she could watch him unnoticed--something she did too often of late. Comfortable in the knowledge that he couldn't see her through the lacework, she wrapped her arms around her waist and studied his dark, angular profile.

Jaw shadowed with stubble, he was still lean but no longer the gangly boy who had chased her in the church yard. So different, yet so much the same.

How did he see her now? As the skinny little girl who'd begged him to push her in the swing and cried when he teased her? Or as a woman who had lost that child's heart to hero worship years ago?

He looked at the window. Livvy sucked in a breath and tightened her arms, holding her place, lest movement give her away. A slow easy smile tipped his mouth and he nodded once. Then he gathered the reins, swung into the saddle, and touched his hat brim before riding away.

Her vision darkened and she swayed. Reaching for a ladder-back chair, she gasped for air, her temples throbbing. This had to stop. She couldn't spend all summer holding her breath every time Whit Hutton looked at her.

She finished clearing the table, set a small leftover steak on the sideboard, and covered it with a napkin. Then she carefully placed the china in the dishpan and checked through the kitchen window for the men's whereabouts. Satisfied that they were busy elsewhere, she grabbed a sharp knife and went out the front door.

An overgrown lilac bush billowed with deep purple blooms beside the dining room window. Carefully she cut three bunches and held them to her nose as she walked to the hitching rail. Glancing at the barn and bunkhouse, she turned to face the window. The lace curtains blocked her view of the chair where she had stood. Convinced that Whit could not have seen her through the sheer fabric, she went inside to search for a vase among her grandmother's crystal.

The heavy oak door opened right into the dining room with no formal entry hall. The ranch house had grown out each end of the original square-log cabin, spreading into a comfortable home. A small porch announced the entrance, but Mama Ruth had never bemoaned the informality. She had directed her British ancestral convention to more important things.

Like décor.

The Bar-HB might be a working cattle ranch, but Ruth Baker had swept a generous hand through her house where furniture and carpets, crystal and china were concerned. Livvy chose a lovely hand-painted vase from an ornate curio cabinet. She fussed with the heady blooms, slicing off the bottom of one bunch so its heart-shaped leaves cupped over the vase's lip. Several four-point blossoms dropped to the tablecloth and the rich perfume filled the room.

Mama Ruth loved lilacs, and every window in the rambling house had a bush nearby that bloomed profusely from late spring into early summer--gentle lavender, brilliant white, or deep purple. Even the dainty detail that edged the vase replicated the delicate blooms.

Livvy removed the soiled cloth to reveal the fine cherry wood table, then stepped back to view the lilacs.

Whit could not possibly have seen her. So why did he act as if he knew she was there? How full of himself he was--just as he'd always been--assuming she stood at the window. That arrogant air had not changed one bit since their childhood.

She glanced down at the simple bodice of her blue calico and the full white apron that covered her skirt. Had it shown through the curtain?

Or had he _felt_ her eyes on him?

~

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