Книга - West of Heaven

West of Heaven
Victoria Bylin


For Everything There Is A SeasonBe it sorrow, hope or love–and Jayne Dawson had weathered all three.Widowed before she was truly a wife, she'd found aid and comfort with Ethan Trent, a decent man beset by sorrows of his own. But could the grieving rancher ever release the darkness of his yesterdays to join her in a brighter tomorrow?The protection of his name was all Ethan Trent could offer Jayne from the danger stalking her. Though buffeted by life's storms, pregnant and alone, this angel of a woman gave him so much more–the ability to feel again…and the power to dream!









“We took vows, Jayne.


“This may be a marriage in name only, but I intend to protect you. You’ll be safer here than anywhere else.”

Danger had heightened her senses, making her aware of the taut cords in Ethan’s neck and the heat of his skin. She’d lost so much—her home, her business, her dream of loving a good man. Tears welled and spilled from her eyes.

Ethan brushed them aside with his knuckles. “It’ll be all right. I promise.”

But she couldn’t stop the throbbing in her chest. More tears spilled, thicker than the first ones, until Ethan tipped his head downward and kissed them away, trailing his lips from her temple to her cheek.

Did he feel it, too, this yearning for comfort? She couldn’t be Laura for him, not ever. But just for tonight she could meet a need, both his and hers…!




Praise for Victoria Bylin’s debut


Of Men and Angels

“An uplifting tale of a spiritual woman, who’s deeply

human, and the flawed man she loves. It’s evident that

Ms. Bylin writes from her heart.”

—Old Book Barn Gazette

“Deft handling makes the well-tarnished Jake

a man to admire.”

—Romantic Times

“Of Men and Angels is the perfect

title for a perfect book. The characters are wonderfully human and well

rounded, and the story is an exciting, heartwarming and

spiritual tale with a magnitude of emotion.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Unconditional love and the quest for forgiveness

take center stage in this involving romance.”

—The Romance Reader’s Connection




West of Heaven

Victoria Bylin







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Mom and George,

for having the courage to love twice.

I also want to thank my editor, Kim Nadelson, and

executive editor Tracy Farrell for their guidance.

They made this book possible.

As always, hugs to my husband and sons,

who make life…good.




Contents


Prologue

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

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue




Prologue


Midas, New Mexico

April 1885

“W hat in God’s name is all that racket?”

Her husband’s voice rasped in Jayne Dawson’s ear. She and Hank had been married less than a week and were sharing a real bed for the second time. He’d been whispering that this time would be better than the first, when someone had started pounding on the door to their room in the Midas Hotel.

“Criminy,” he muttered. “He’s gotta be mixed up.”

As Hank went back to nuzzling her neck, Jayne closed her eyes to block out the intrusion. When the man coughed again, she stiffened like a fence post. “Hank, maybe we should—”

Silencing her with a kiss, her husband stroked her breast. The rhythm was too quick for her. She needed time to catch up with him, maybe a little sweet talk, anything to take her mind off the stranger standing just outside their door. With a determined moan, Hank slid a wet kiss down her neck.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Jayne turned her head against the pillow. “Hank, I can’t do this with someone standing in the hall.”

“He’ll go away. Just relax.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“I know you’re in there, Jesse.”

“Shit!” Hank leaped off her as if he’d been struck by a bullet. Moonlight turned his body bone-white as he snatched his pants off the chair and hurried into them. He put on a shirt, then pulled his Peacemaker out of the gunbelt and cocked the hammer.

“Hide, Jayney,” he ordered. “Get under the covers and don’t move a muscle.”

“Who’s Jesse?”

He shook his head. “Just do what I say.”

It wasn’t in Jayne’s nature to obey anyone, but being stark naked put her at a distinct disadvantage. She scooted lower on the bed, flattened herself against the mattress and listened as her husband stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

She strained to hear through the thick oak, but the tinny music from a nearby saloon masked the voices in the hall. She lowered the sheet an inch and peeked over the hem. The oil lamp flickered against the ivory wall, casting shadows through the gloom as a sinister chortle reached her ears. Her gaze narrowed to the doorknob just as it began to turn.

Was it Hank? Or the stranger with the rasping cough? She would have given a month of Sundays to have been wearing her best dress, or any dress for that matter, but she settled for leaping out of bed and shoving her arms into the cotton wrapper Hank had tossed on the floor. There hadn’t been time for a fancy trousseau like the ones she had stitched for the Lexington well-to-do. A week ago she’d been disappointed. Now she was just glad to be covered.

Clutching the flaps of the garment around her middle, she dropped to a crouch in front of her trunk and rummaged for her mother’s sewing shears. If the stranger came at her, she’d fight with her last breath before she’d let him touch her. And she had a few things to say to Hank, too. He owed her an explanation.

As her fingers gripped the scissors, Hank slipped back into the room, turned the lock and braced both hands high against the door. With his wheat-colored hair and slim build, he reminded her of the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike.

Still clutching the scissors, she pushed up from the crouch. “Who was that man?”

Her husband raised his face to the plaster ceiling, blew out a breath, then dropped his arms to his sides and faced her squarely. “Do you remember when I told you I had a past?”

How could she forget? They’d been alone in the tiny sitting room above her mother’s dress shop. He’d told her she was the best thing that had ever happened to him and that he wanted a fresh start in life. That’s when he had revealed that he’d been a lawman in Wyoming and that he’d killed a good man by mistake.

“There are things I can’t tell you,” he had said. “But if you can see fit to forgive me for my secrets, I’ll love you forever.”

Forgiveness sprung from her soul as easily as water from an abundant well. She’d met him in church just two months earlier on Christmas Eve, and never before had she seen a man with such soulful eyes. His sun-bleached hair had been tipped with gold, like the ornamental angels hanging in the snow-crusted windows of the sanctuary.

“God can forgive anything,” she’d said. “And so can I.”

Until tonight, not once had it occurred to her that the past might not be ready to forgive him. How naive she’d been. But thoughts of California had stirred her blood. She had wanted to see more of the world than the streets of Lexington, and so she had trusted Hank with her dreams. At least until now. Tying a knot in the belt to her robe, she made her voice firm. “You have to tell me everything, Hank. Right now.”

His shoulders rounded as he blew out a breath and faced her. “I will, Jayney, as soon as I get back. But I have to go with this man. I’ve got something he wants, and that means I’m going to be gone for a few days.”

“A few days? This is crazy. We should go to the sheriff right now. He’ll help us.”

He shook his head. “Going to the locals will just make things worse.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. We’ll talk as soon as I get back, but until then, stay in the hotel. If I’m not here in three days, that’s when you need to go to the law.”

She watched as he slipped into his old brown duster. A week ago she had stitched a packet of money into a secret pocket for safekeeping. “Hank, our savings—”

“Trust me, Jayney. I’ll be back, but I might need something that’s in that pouch.”

She understood how it felt to be poor and friendless. She wanted to grab her scissors and cut out the money, but his eyes were pleading with her to believe in him. Besides, she’d spoken her wedding vows from the heart and she believed in keeping promises.

“All right,” she said. “But hurry. I’ll be worried.”

After he lifted his hat off the bedpost, Hank brushed his lips against hers, a soft kiss that tasted like goodbye.

Which is exactly what it turned out to be.




Chapter One


“L ady, face it. Your husband’s dead and you’ve got to go.”

Jayne pushed to her feet from the crouch she had assumed next to Hank’s body and scowled at the rancher blocking the light from the barn door. The day was as gray as pewter and just as hard. She was standing in a falling-down barn on a ranch in the middle of nowhere with a filthy man glaring at her as if she’d just spit in his face.

Where were his manners, not to mention his compassion? Granted, he’d found a dead man in his barn and he had a right to be upset, but couldn’t he show a bit of sympathy for a new widow? Almost anyone else would have offered a kind word, even a cup of hot tea to take off the chill, but not this man. He was looming in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and one dirty boot draped over the other, staring at her as if she were vermin.

She’d eat dirt for a week before she would let him intimidate her. A wife had duties, and she intended to fulfill them. She also needed the greenbacks in Hank’s duster.

The sheriff was standing just inside the barn door, tapping his boot as if she were wasting his precious time. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dawson, but Mr. Trent is right. We’ve got to leave.”

“Surely we can wait a few minutes. I’d like to be alone with my husband.”

The rancher huffed like a bull getting ready to charge. “You don’t have a few minutes. A storm’s coming, and I want you and Handley out of here.”

“It’s April,” she said reasonably. “A little rain is nothing. I need some time—”

“It won’t be rain, dammit. It’s going to snow like hell and if you don’t leave now, you’ll be stuck here for a week. I want you gone.”

The sheriff grunted. “Settle down, Trent. You’ve got no call to yell like that.”

“Like hell I don’t.” The rancher narrowed his gaze to her face. Gold flecks burned like a campfire at dusk and his lips thinned to a bitter sneer. “Do you understand, ma’am? You cannot stay here.”

With the silvery sky at his back, he was more of a shadow than flesh and blood, but she’d gotten a good look at Ethan Trent earlier in the day. His face was lean to the point of gauntness, and he was wearing the most ragged clothes she’d ever seen. He needed a bath and a shave, not to mention a few good meals, but it wasn’t her place to march him down to the creek with a scrub brush and a cake of soap. Hank had left her with a mess of her own to clean up.

Rising to her full height, she glared at the man blocking the light. “My apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Trent. We’ll leave right now. If you’ll loan us a horse for my husband’s body—”

“I don’t have a horse to spare. I’ll bury him myself.”

“Thank you, but no. I want to take Hank back to town.”

“You can’t.”

But she had to. She wanted the comfort of standing in a church and singing hymns as she’d done a year ago for her mother, though she doubted Ethan Trent would understand that sentiment. He was staring at her with the angriest brown eyes she had ever seen. They were liquid and hard at the same time, like water frozen across a slick of mud.

“I have to see my husband properly buried, Mr. Trent. I have to say goodbye.”

He huffed as if she had told a joke. “Don’t waste your time. He won’t hear a goddamned word.”

Her mouth gaped. “That’s a cruel thing to say.”

“It’s the truth.”

Shaking his head, he paced across the barn, picked up a shovel with a rusty blade and glowered at her. “The wind’s picking up. You and Handley need to hit the trail.”

She shook her head. “I’m not leaving without my husband. Not like this.”

Who else in the world knew that Hank was afraid of the dark? That he slept with a lamp turned low and that he feared death? The one time he’d accompanied her to her mother’s grave, he’d stood several feet away, whistling to himself as if that would make a difference.

I don’t ever wanna die, Jayney. It’s just too damn dark.

And it was. Especially today with the hard sky pressing through the splintery walls of the barn and a wild-eyed rancher gripping the shovel, scowling at her as if she’d committed a crime.

Sheriff Handley strode through the doorway, not bothering to take off his hat. The man had no respect for the dead, or for her.

“Are you finished, ma’am?” he asked forcefully.

Jayne glared at him as he glanced down at Hank with marked disgust. Why hadn’t the man thought to bring an extra horse to carry the body? He was both stupid and rude. He didn’t deserve to carry the badge.

She cleared her throat. “Sheriff, would you please tell Mr. Trent that we need to borrow a horse.”

The rancher shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t have one to lend. I ride the roan, and the gelding’s not going anywhere.”

The sheriff dipped his chin at her and arched his eyebrows as if she were a child. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Dawson, but circumstances can’t be changed. Mr. Trent has kindly offered to give your husband a decent burial. You need to take him up on that offer.”

Kindly wasn’t how she would have described the man clutching the shovel as if it were a weapon. He resembled a half-crazed grizzly more than he did a human being. And maybe something even more dangerous—an animal wounded beyond caring about himself or anyone else.

She’d heard tales of trapped animals gnawing off their own paws to escape from steel traps. As she looked into Ethan Trent’s hard brown eyes, she knew those stories were true. She didn’t want her husband to be buried by this bitter man.

“All right, Sheriff,” she said, standing straighter. “You and I will leave as soon as Hank is buried, but I need a few minutes alone with him.”

The rancher huffed, grabbed a pickax to go with the shovel and stormed out of the barn. “You deal with her,” he said, glancing back at Handley.

The sheriff put his hands on his hips. “Ma’am, Mr. Trent is right. That storm could turn to a blizzard in the blink of an eye, and it’s gonna get mighty cold. I’m partial to sleeping in my own bed, and for you, young lady, I recommend the comfort of the hotel.”

But the hotel held nothing but bad memories of the night Hank walked out on her, and of the three foolish days she had waited for him. She wasn’t ready to go back to that emptiness. She had to make Handley understand. “Are you married, Sheriff?”

His eyes stayed as hard as rock. “For thirty years.”

“Then you understand why I have to stay.”

“No, ma’am. I understand why you have to leave. Your husband would want you to be safe.”

The sheriff had a point. Hank would have been annoyed with her for riding out here in the first place, but she had taken a vow, “Until death us do part.” Though death had come, they weren’t quite parted, and they wouldn’t be until Hank was buried.

“Please, Sheriff, ride back to town without me. If the rain gets worse, I’ll sleep in the barn and go back to town tomorrow. I’m a good rider, and I’m sure Mr. Trent will loan me a blanket.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” He chuffed like a mule and Jayne knew she had lost the argument.

If she couldn’t win with logic, she would have to find another way to see her husband laid to rest, but no matter what else happened today, she had to retrieve the money hidden in his duster.

“I understand, Sheriff.” Steepling her fingers at her waist, she glanced down at Hank. “I won’t take more than a few minutes.”

Handley gave a curt nod and paced out the door.

As soon as he was gone Jayne dropped to her knees, looked at the frozen mask of her husband’s face and broke into sobs. She had given him her heart and trusted him with her future. How could he have done this to her? Who was “Jesse,” and why had Hank gone off with a stranger? What secrets had he kept from her?

A moan tore from her throat as she made a fist and pressed it into his belly. His duster had gaped wide, revealing the denim shirt she’d mended for him in Lexington. The sight of it shot her back in time to their first kiss, the brief marriage ceremony and the wedding night that had been a disaster from start to finish. She couldn’t bear to think about that night, the grimy train ride that followed or their last moments in the Midas Hotel.

Tears as thick as oil spilled from her eyes. Would Hank still be alive if she’d gone to the sheriff sooner? She had followed his orders to a tee, waiting for three full days before she told the story to Handley.

The balding sheriff had been skeptical and rude. “Your husband’s probably off with an old drinkin’ buddy, ma’am. He’ll be back when he’s sobered up.”

But Hank never drank. When she had told the sheriff, he’d shrugged it off. She had searched on her own, but no one had given her the time of day, except for Reverend John Leaf. He’d asked a dozen questions, none of which she could answer, and then promised to keep his ears open. Not until a rancher reported finding the body of a U.S. Marshal had the sheriff paid her a visit.

In spite of his objections, she had insisted on riding with him to the Trent ranch today. She had to see the facts for herself, and yet this moment wasn’t quite real. She had expected to feel a connection to Hank that bridged the gap between life and death, but she sensed only a terrible stillness. She wanted something to hold, a memory that wouldn’t fade with time, but she had no keepsakes. Hank hadn’t given her a wedding ring, and with their one pitiful night of coupling, she doubted she’d conceived a child.

Her gaze locked on the badge pinned to his duster. She had never seen it before and she couldn’t imagine why he’d put it on. Sucking in a breath, she unpinned the silver star and put it in her pocket. Like it or not, she had her keepsake, and it was time to get down to the business of living.

Her fingers shook as she turned back the bottom flap of his duster in search of the secret pocket. Her stomach lurched at the thought of being penniless. She had been too small to fully understand poverty when her father died, but her mother had kept her own memories alive.

Always save for a rainy day, Jayne. You never know when a storm will strike.

What had Hank been thinking when he’d walked off with their nest egg? She should have stopped him, or at least demanded that he leave the money. She’d let love get in the way of practicality, and that was a mistake she wouldn’t repeat. It was only by God’s grace that she hadn’t ended up flat broke.

She picked at the seam of the pocket until she managed to make a small hole, then she ripped the stitches, took out the envelope and broke the wax seal. It tore the paper like a scab that wasn’t ready to fall off. Feeling the wax tight under her nails, she slid the contents of the envelope into the light. Instead of greenbacks she saw a collection of papers covered with several kinds of writing.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “This isn’t right.”

Her stomach lurched as she focused on the first sheet of paper, a crinkled advertisement for land in Los Angeles. Across the top Hank had written the name of a bank. As she set the handbill on the dirty floor, she saw a sheet of stationery bearing the name of a Lexington attorney. Beneath the letterhead she saw typewritten words that made her gasp. Franklin Henry Dawson had written out his Last Will and Testament the day before they had married. In stiff, formal language, he had bequeathed to her all his worldly possessions.

What worldly possessions? They had nothing but hope, and now that was gone.

“Hank, how could you?” she whispered.

As she turned to the next page, she saw another formal letter, this one from a bank confirming the receipt of Mr. Dawson’s wire deposit. It didn’t make sense. Hank wasn’t a wealthy man. They’d used the money from the sale of her dress shop to buy train tickets.

Confused, Jayne scanned the next sheet of paper where she saw Hank’s blockish printing. As if reaching down from heaven, he started to answer her question.

Dear Janey,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. I love you, girl. I wanted to give you that “always” we talked about, but—

“Ma’am? It’s time.”

The sheriff’s bellow rumbled through the barn as he paced in her direction. She suspected that he’d drag her out by her hair if she didn’t come willingly, but she couldn’t leave Hank to be buried alone. Not with his final “always” echoing in her heart.

She couldn’t stand unfinished business or ragged seams of any kind. She needed a last goodbye, but if Handley wasn’t willing to give it to her, she’d take it. The trail back to Midas wove through the hills like a tangled thread. Her livery mare was surefooted. She would lag behind and then race back to the Trent ranch. The sooner she left with the sheriff, the sooner she’d be back.

Slipping Hank’s letter into her pocket, she pushed to her feet. “I’m ready, Sheriff.”

As he marched out the door, she hunched against the cold, following him to the pine tree where their horses were tethered. A distant thump drew her gaze to a grassy slope about fifty feet from the barn. There she saw the rancher in profile as he raised the pickax high above his head. The blade sliced through the air with a whoosh, then struck the hard earth with a thud.

She winced.

The sheriff gripped her arm. “Ma’am? Come along now.”

“I’m all right.” Shaking off his grasp, she pulled herself into the saddle. Handley mounted his bay and led the way down a path that cut across the meadow near Hank’s gravesite. As they rode past the brown gash in the grass, Ethan Trent pushed back his filthy hat and looked at her with eyes as unyielding as petrified wood.

The remnants of a life lurked in that hardness and her heart pulsed with understanding. She knew how it felt to be alone and in pain. But she also knew how it felt to drag herself out of bed in the morning and face each day. She’d done it when her mother died and she’d do it again tomorrow, without Hank.

She believed in herself and in God, and no matter what difficulties came her way, she’d find a way to survive. She always did.

Trust God and stay strong.

Louisa McKinney had used those words to stitch her way to success. In spite of being a twenty-year-old widow without family or resources, she had established herself as Lexington’s leading dressmaker. Jayne vowed to follow in her footsteps.

Today she would bury her husband. Tomorrow she’d find work in Midas and put every penny aside for the train fare back to Lexington. She’d cry for Hank, but it wouldn’t stop her from cleaning up the mess he’d left, nor from helping the authorities find his murderer. His letter chafed in her pocket. She would show it to Handley in the morning, but tonight she wanted to be alone with her husband’s last words.

Her mare followed the sheriff’s bay into the forest without being nudged. Silent minutes passed as the temperature dropped with the coming storm. The path wound through thick pines, then dipped into a ravine and climbed up a slope littered with pine needles.

Handley had almost reached the top of the hill when his horse lost its footing. Righting the animal took all his attention, and Jayne saw her chance. She turned the mare, dug in her heels and took off for the Trent ranch at a gallop.




Chapter Two


“M rs. D-a-a-a-w-s-o-n!”

Jayne sat tight in the saddle and gave the mare full rein. The hood of her cloak slipped from her head and her hair collapsed in a tangle. When a shower of sleet burst from the sky, icy needles crackled through the trees and stung her face. The wind howled, masking the mare’s hoofbeats as they rounded the first curve. In another minute the road would be slick with mud, but for now it was safe for the mare to gallop.

“Mrs. D-a-a-a-w-s-o-n!”

The shout was fainter now. Surely the comfort of a warm bed and a hot meal would draw the sheriff home to Midas. The trail steepened and then veered east. Listening for Handley, she heard nothing but the storm and slowed the mare to a fast walk.

As suddenly as the sleet had started, it stopped. She raised her face to the sky where snowflakes as big as teacups were collecting on the trees. In front of her eyes, the pines were changing from towering sentries to lacy white angels.

Taking the greeting as a sign that coming back to bury Hank was right, she nudged the mare into a trot and rode straight into Ethan Trent’s meadow.

The rancher was nowhere in sight, but the grave was deep and surrounded on three sides by freshly turned earth. Snow mottled the brown mounds, and a loamy fragrance drifted to her nose on the stiffening wind. The scrape of canvas against dirt drew her eyes down the slope where she saw the rancher dragging a burlap sack past the splintery wall of the barn.

He could have been pulling a child’s sled, but she knew the sack held Hank’s body. She reined the mare to a halt, sat straight in the saddle and watched as Ethan Trent dragged his burden up the hill. His steps were slow and measured, his back rounded and his gloved hands knotted in the frayed weave of the burlap. When he reached the grave, he aligned the body with the long edge of the rectangular hole, paused for breath and bowed his head.

He was probably avoiding the snow, but she wanted to think he was showing respect for the act he was about to commit, if not for the man he was laying to rest.

She was grateful for that small comfort, but then he knotted his fists at his heaving sides, stared straight into the heavens and shouted a curse she would never repeat. With his oath ringing in the air, he dropped to his knees and rolled the corpse into the grave.

Jayne stared in horror. The veil of snow erased all color from her world except for the red flush burning across the rancher’s cheeks. Through the mist, she watched as he crossed one arm over his chest, rested his elbow on his forearm and pinched the bridge of his nose. His wide shoulders started to shake, and a low groan cut through the air as he raised both hands to his face and pressed them against his eyes, as if to hold in tears.

Stunned by a grief that matched her own, Jayne climbed off the mare and walked in his direction. As the horse clopped to the barn, the rancher’s gaze drifted to her face. Rising slowly to his feet, he blinked as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. Golden hope flickered in his irises like a candle in an empty window, but it died as suddenly as it had appeared. In place of that hope, she saw a loathing as deep and lasting as the grave at his feet. Sneering, he picked up the shovel and hurled more dirt into the hole.

Fresh tears scalded her cheeks. “I’ve come to help you bury my husband.”

“Help me? God Almighty,” he said, heaving more dirt into the grave. “Where the hell is Handley?”

“On his way to Midas. We parted ways at the ravine.”

From beneath the brim of his hat, he assessed her with a cold stare. “You’re stubborn, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m strong-minded.”

“What the hell’s the difference?”

“A stubborn person just wants her own way. Someone who’s strong-minded has principles and lives by them.”

He looked down at the dirt thumping into the hole, lifted another load and sent it flying. His gaze shifted back to hers. “So what damn principle gives you the right to invade my privacy?”

If he wanted an apology, he wasn’t going to get it. “Common decency is what gives me the right, Mr. Trent. How would you feel in my shoes? What if this were your wife?”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Jayne realized that she had made a terrible mistake. The shovel stopped in midswing, hanging over the grave as the rancher stared blindly into the hole. She’d once seen ice break apart on the Ohio River. The fractured planes of his face were no less treacherous.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know you. I shouldn’t have presumed—”

“Damn right.” He slowly turned the blade of the shovel so that dirt and snow fell together in a tarnished mist.

Trying to be respectful, she said, “I should have realized—”

“You should’ve gone with Handley.”

“But—”

“Dammit, lady. Mind your own business.”

“I’m trying to apologize.”

“Don’t.”

Taking a step back, she bowed her head and kept quiet. She owed him that much for burying Hank, but every instinct told her that silence was the last thing this man needed. He was a kettle boiling in an empty kitchen, one that had long since gone dry and was ready to explode. She’d be wise to keep her distance.

Closing her eyes, she prayed for strength as the rancher worked. The rhythm of the shovel became a dirge, a wordless goodbye that lasted for a small eternity. The snow was blowing sideways by the time he finished.

Tamping the mound with the shovel blade, he said, “I’m done. You can sleep in the barn or freeze on the trail. I don’t give a damn either way.”

Jayne believed him, but it didn’t matter. She’d come back to say goodbye to Hank and that’s what she intended to do. She had a warm cloak and would make a bed in the barn out of straw. She didn’t need the rancher’s help. She felt nothing but relief as he stormed off, put away the tools and marched across the yard to the tiny cabin.

The door slapped shut. In the sudden silence and absence of all things human, she surrendered to the tears she’d been fighting for a week. She sang her favorite hymns. She recited the Shepherd’s psalm and walked through the valley of the shadow of death, over and over, until the words were a jumble.

Exhausted, she dropped to her knees and squeezed a fistful of dirt. Someday she and Hank would be together again, but not for a very long time. On one hand, life was uncertain and eternity was a breath away. On the other hand, that gap spanned thousands of days.

Rising to her feet, Jayne turned her back on the grave and looked across the meadow to the rancher’s cabin. An L-shaped sliver of light marked a small window covered with a sheet of boards. Next to it a vertical line gave shape to the door. She smelled wood burning in the hearth and saw a plume of white smoke rising from the chimney.

As the adrenaline drained from her body, so did her natural warmth. Shivering, she imagined sipping hot coffee and the heat of a fire thawing her toes. She also imagined the rancher’s gaunt frame and his filthy clothes. He smelled like the bottom of a barn. The horses were better company, and that was a fact.

Holding her skirt above the snow, she trudged back to the splintery shell of the outbuilding. The cold and the dark didn’t scare her in the least. She would make it through the night an hour and a prayer at a time.



Ethan let go of the sheet of boards covering the window. The flat wood dropped back into place and pinched his finger.

“Dammit,” he muttered, shaking his hand to get the blood moving again. He had been standing at the sill for close to an hour, and the crazy woman was still singing hymns. He hated that sound. It brought back memories of Laura humming lullabies to their children and singing in church.

The widow had to be frozen half to death, but nothing on God’s green earth could bring her husband back. Ethan knew that for a fact.

Damn him for a fool, but the window drew him like a magnet attracting iron ore. After downing the dregs in the coffeepot, he slid the plywood open again. The widow had dropped to her knees and bowed her head.

He could still taste the acid coffee in the back of his throat and his stomach was burning. He needed to eat something, but the thought of this morning’s charred biscuits didn’t appeal to him. Neither did another can of beans or canned meat or canned anything. Laura had been a good cook, even better than his mother, and Ethan steeled himself against the memory of real food even as the widow’s singing tugged at him.

Be Thou my vision, oh, Lord of my heart.

Naught be of else to me, save that Thou art.

God damn him to hell. The widow was singing Laura’s favorite hymn. Did she have regrets for words left unsaid and things left undone? Was she as alone as she seemed? As brave and daring as it appeared? She must have been crying, but the melody didn’t waver. Her shoulders stayed still and her arms remained stiff at her sides, as if by not moving she could make time stop.

Everything about this woman’s grief was familiar to him except the need to see her husband buried. He wished to God he’d never seen the casket holding Laura’s body with the baby on her chest, nor the pine boxes holding his two sons, nailed shut, one on top of the other in the grave next to hers.

His stomach rumbled with hunger, a defiant echo of life in the face of so much death. Hating himself for feeling that need, Ethan covered the window, slopped a can of beans on a plate and ate them cold. He washed the mess down with more bad coffee.

The hymn stopped just as he took the last swallow. Holding the empty cup, he pulled back the wood and looked for the widow. The sky had turned from gray to royal blue, a sign of twilight and colder temperatures, but the widow hadn’t budged. If she had a lick of sense, she’d get settled in the barn before nightfall.

Ethan felt a niggle of worry low in his belly. He knew how it felt to be numb with grief and, for an awful minute, wondered if she intended to freeze to death. He couldn’t let her stand outside much longer, but the thought of having her in his house was unbearable. Closing his eyes, he counted to ten and then to twenty, praying she’d be gone.

When he found the courage to look, he saw her walking down the hill through the ankle-deep snow. Heavy flakes dotted the shoulders of her cloak and he worried that her feet were wet. Even wrapped in heavy wool, she had to be shivering. When she reached the barn, she looked back at the cabin. Her eyes, he remembered, were bright blue, but in the dim light they were hollow and dark. He slammed his fist against the wall. He didn’t want her here. With a defiant tilt of her chin, she walked into the barn and closed the door.

He wondered if she’d find the matches and lantern he’d put on the shelf for her, and if she’d burrow in the fresh straw for warmth. The temperature would plummet before dawn, and the walls had holes the size of his fist. He’d made them in fits of rage.

She had to be hungry. The thought unnerved him, but he refused to give in to the small voice urging him to invite her inside. Loneliness was the price he paid for the worst decision of his life.

His shoulders sagged with a familiar guilt as he tossed two logs on the fire, stripped down to his long johns and rolled under the comforter covering the wide bed. In the silence of the night, echoes of the hymn she had sung drifted into his usual thoughts of Laura and the children. He considered going out to check on the widow, but he didn’t want to see her clear blue eyes. Besides, he reasoned, even a dog had the sense to get out of a storm. If Mrs. Dawson wanted to come in out of the cold, she could knock on his door. He might not like it, but he wasn’t quite heartless enough to turn her away.

Ethan knew how cold it could be at night. His ranch was situated on a high plateau in the shadow of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Some winters were as dry as the southwestern desert. In other years his land endured as much snow as the Rockies. This winter had been mild and the spring storm would have been welcome, except for the woman in his barn.

Curled against the rough wall, he wrapped the blanket around his feet. The fire had burned down to embers and the cabin was nearly black. Sleep came slowly, bringing with it vivid pictures of his family. But instead of recalling happier times as he usually did, he relived the day they died. Vivid and harsh, the memories followed him into an exhausted sleep until the gray light of dawn filled the cabin.

Waking up with a jolt, he thought of the widow.

Boiling mad, he tossed back the blanket and pulled on his clothes. Just as he did every morning, he stood straight and stared at himself in the heart-shaped mirror hanging over the bed, trying to remember the man he had once been. It was a hopeless cause, and today it was worse because of the woman in his barn.

Guilt burned in his belly like a banked fire as he hunched into his coat and tugged on the gloves Laura had knitted back in Missouri. Pushing down on his hat, Ethan opened the door and groaned at the sight of knee-high snow. His gaze rose to the barn. Half buried in the drifts, it looked like a sinking ship, and his heart sank with it. The trail to Midas would be impassable for days and muddy for weeks.

The thought of having Mrs. Dawson on his property for another minute, let alone a week, turned his mood from sour to rancid. Fighting his temper, he stomped across the yard and stormed into the barn. He expected to see the widow wrapped in her heavy cloak in the pile of fresh straw, but she wasn’t there.

“Mrs. Dawson?”

The silence accused him of being a coldhearted son of a bitch. Had she wandered into the storm to die? He knew how it felt to fight that temptation. Only his pride and a sincere fear of hell had kept him from eating a bullet when Laura and the children had died. If Jayne Dawson had chosen that path, the decision was hers. They would both have to live with the choices they had made.

The thought gave Ethan no comfort. He made his voice louder. “Mrs. Dawson!”

A low moan drew him to the back of the barn. Peering into an empty stall, he saw a filthy horse blanket and the bottom edge of the widow’s navy-blue cloak.

“Lady, get up.”

She stirred beneath the blanket, then bolted upright as a chest-deep cough erupted from her throat. She covered her mouth with both hands, but the air still shook with the ferociousness of the coughing spell. Fever burned in her cheeks.

Ethan wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Her eyes were the color of the sky at high noon, and her straw-blond hair had frozen into a tangle. Remorse burned from his heart to his head. He treated his two horses better than he had treated this woman. What if it had been Laura in need, or his daughter?

He cleared his throat to soften his gravelly voice. “Ma’am, you need help.”

Struggling to breathe, she clutched at the blanket. “I am so sorry…to do this to you…I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t waste your breath.” He couldn’t bear that high-pitched wheeze. “Can you wait while I do chores?”

Nodding, she struggled to her feet and stood while he filled the feed bins and used an old broom handle to poke through the ice covering the water buckets. He needed to muck out the stalls, but it would have to wait. Mrs. Dawson looked ready to faint.

He leaned the stick against the wall. “We need to get inside.”

Instinctively he held the door for her, just as he had done a thousand times for his wife. The widow’s skirt brushed across his boots, then she waited for him to take the lead. Her eyes barely reached his shoulder. She’d never be able to match his stride, and so he swung his boot from side to side to kick a path for her.

He couldn’t hear her footsteps, only a light wheezing and the swish of her skirt. When she fainted, he barely heard the thump of her body sinking into the drift.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered.

Dropping to his knees, he yanked off one glove and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. Feverish heat burned straight through to his bones, and he saw that the collar of her shirtwaist was wet with perspiration. He shook her shoulder and called her name, but she didn’t make a sound.

The last thing in the world he wanted to do was to carry her, but what choice did he have? Sliding one arm beneath her shoulders and the other under her knees, he rocked back on his heels and lifted her from the snow.

As her face rolled against his chest, he saw bits of straw stuck in her hair and sleep creases on her cheeks. He wanted to scream at the heavens as he trudged to the cabin, pried the door open with his elbow and carried her to his bed. The unwashed sheets still bore the mark of his body and the torment of his dreams. It seemed wrong to set her down in such a private place, but he did it anyway.

She moaned and muttered how sorry she was, whispered Hank’s name and called for her mother. He had to get her into dry clothes, but the cabin was barely warmer than the barn, and it made sense to leave her in the cloak until he had a fire roaring in the hearth.

He poked the coals and added two handfuls of kindling so it would catch fast and burn hot. The scrap box he kept by the rock fireplace held next to nothing and he kicked himself for being lazy about filling it. Hunching in his coat, he made a quick trip to the woodpile behind the cabin, stacked the logs on the hearth and laid a piece of dry pine on the embers. It caught with a whoosh, pushing heat into the room as Ethan looked at the woman on his bed.

She hadn’t moved a muscle, and he honestly didn’t know which would be worse—undressing a live woman or burying a dead one. All he knew was that he didn’t want to touch her, and he would have to do just that if she didn’t wake up. “Mrs. Dawson?”

No answer.

Ethan took off his coat and rested his palm on her forehead as if she were a child. Her fever shamed him. He imagined burying her next to her husband and waiting for the spring grass to wipe out the graves so that he could forget this moment, but he knew he would never forget.

He couldn’t see her chest moving beneath the cloak, so he touched her throat in search of a pulse. He found it in an instant, a strong beat that told him she wasn’t a quitter. “Lady, wake up,” he said.

Moaning, she struggled to open her eyes.

“Your clothes are wet from the fever. Can you get undressed?”

“This can’t be happening,” she said, almost whimpering.

“Here, let me help you, love.”

Love. His pet name for Laura. Horrified, Ethan shot to his feet, snatched his nightshirt off a nail and tossed it on the bed. “Wake up now. You’ve got to get out of those damp things.”

“I’ll try.” She raised her head and tugged on her cloak, but she didn’t have the strength to pull it free. Weaker than before, she fell flat against the mattress.

Steeling himself against the heat emanating from her body, Ethan wrapped his arm around her shoulders, removed the cloak and dropped it on the floor. “We have to get your shoes off, too.”

Nodding, she pulled her feet to the side of the bed. Her soles brushed his thigh, and he stepped aside as he unbuttoned the fancy boots and slid them over her ankles. Gritting his teeth, he rolled her stockings down her slender calves and tugged the cotton over her toes. They were small and pink and pretty. His stomach clenched, but he touched them anyway, just to be sure they were warm.

The woman was shivering now, struggling to undo the front of her jacket with her half-frozen fingers.

“Here, let me,” he said.

“I can do it—” But a racking cough stole her breath.

Forcing himself to look down, he slid his fingers beneath hers and undid the buttons. He pulled at the jacket sleeves until her arms broke free, revealing a white silk shirtwaist blotched with perspiration. Bravely, he worked those buttons, too, this time discovering rosy-gold skin and a chemise made transparent by a feverish sheen.

He tried not to look directly at the widow’s breasts, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking in the differences between her body and Laura’s. His wife was the only woman he had ever known in that way. She had been soft and round, a dark-eyed beauty with a complexion like cream. Mrs. Dawson’s skin made him think of the summer sun. On its own, his gaze roamed downward, where he saw her firm breasts and the shadow of brown nipples beneath the cotton.

A rush of desire made Ethan hard and angry. That ache belonged to Laura, and he didn’t want to feel it ever again, especially not now. He wanted to get the widow undressed, in bed and out of his head as fast as he could.

Her damp underthings needed to come off, but a man had his limits. He’d help her with the skirt, but that was all he could manage. Growling, he said, “Raise up your hips.”

Strangling on a cough, the widow did as he ordered, though she failed miserably to work the button at the waist. Ethan took over, looking at the ceiling as he maneuvered the skirt down her thighs and past her knees. As she curled into a tight ball, he dropped the garment on the floor, covered her legs with his quilt and shoved an old nightshirt in her face. “You can finish without me.”

Turning his back, he added a log to the fire and poked the coals. Only when the bed stopped creaking did he dare turn around.

What he saw shattered his lonely world like a splitting maul in a round of pine. The woman sleeping in his bed was beautiful. Wrapped in his blanket with her gold hair tangled on his pillow, she didn’t look to be much more than twenty years old. Ethan had a good ten years on her, and the past two had turned him into an old man.

He strode into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee and sat near the fire to muddle through his thoughts. He had a woman in his bed burning with fever and coughing like a lunger. He didn’t want her here, but Mrs. Dawson hadn’t given him a choice or even a say in the matter.

Guilt sluiced over him. Laura, I’m so sorry for taking you away…

Laura had been content in Missouri, but he had wanted a change. She had supported his dream of owning land because she loved him, but deep down he knew she would have been happier to spend their lives in the same small town where they had grown up. He’d promised her a bigger house and a good life for the kids, but he had failed them all. They hadn’t made it past Raton.

Ethan didn’t want to think about that lost part of his life. The immediate problem at hand was Mrs. Dawson. As much as he hated having her in his house, he was stuck with her until the trail cleared and she recovered enough to ride.

Staring at the fire, he listened to the thud of snow falling from the trees. It was a lonely sound, but one he welcomed in his silent world. Today, though, other sounds filtered to his ears. Mrs. Dawson whimpered like a kitten in her sleep, and her cough rasped like sandpaper on fresh-cut wood. When she rolled to her side, the bed creaked and he thought of Laura filling the spot next to him.

Gulping the last of his coffee, Ethan rose and walked to the kitchen. As he passed the bed, the widow moaned and flung the blanket aside, muttering something about missing a train and calling to her mother. Sweat beaded on her forehead and he saw half moons of dampness on the nightshirt just below her breasts.

He picked up the blanket intending to cover her, but common sense told him her body needed to cool as the fever spiked. Not knowing what to do scared him, but what scared him even more was not wanting to look away.

Disgusted with himself, Ethan tugged the quilt up to her chin and turned to the kitchen. His boot caught on the clothing he’d dropped on the floor, and he caught a whiff of the barn. Bending low, he picked up the riding skirt, the jacket and the blouse. She’d have to wear them again. Hoping it would be soon, he hung the suit on the nail where his nightshirt had been and shook out the blouse.

Her scent filled him with a hunger that was both unwelcome and sharp. Closing his eyes, he buried his nose in the silk where he smelled honeysuckle and a woman’s skin. He ached for Laura, and yet this wasn’t her scent. She preferred lilacs and the feel of his clean-shaven face. Clutching at the fine silk, Ethan touched it to his cheek until his stubbled whiskers snagged it, hurling him back to his senses.

What kind of a man sniffed at a woman’s clothing? Appalled at his behavior, he draped the blouse over the suit and hung her cloak by the door. Stooping down, he picked up her shoes and set them on the hearth to dry.

Scouring his memory for home remedies for fever, he surveyed his stock of canned goods. Laura had given the children soup when they were ill, but his own mother dosed him with whiskey to settle a cough. He decided he would try both when Mrs. Dawson woke up.

She needed to rest and recover, but Ethan vowed to get her out of his house just as soon as she could ride. She had already taken everything he had to give.




Chapter Three


J ayne woke up with whiskey on her breath. Tasting the pungent sweetness, she remembered the rancher ordering her to swallow. It was the same remedy her mother had used, and she had downed the cure without arguing.

The whiskey helped her sleep, but she had lost track of time. Days and nights had blurred together in waves of prickly fever followed by violent chills. Had she been here a day? A week? She didn’t know, and the gloomy cabin offered no clues.

She needed to look out the window to see if the snow had melted, but before she could stand, a ferocious cough nearly cracked a rib. Pressing a rag to her mouth, she gasped for breath until the coughing stopped.

The feel of the rough muslin against her lips filled her with memories. In the mix of lantern light and shadows, she had imagined her mother at her side, but then the dream had faded and she’d recognized the rancher’s rough fingers and the smell of snow that clung to him. In near silence, he’d brought her clean rags for her cough, emptied her chamber pot and fed her hot soup for strength.

For strength…

She almost laughed out loud. Pneumonia had made her as burdensome as a baby. It was the most demeaning circumstance she could imagine, and Ethan Trent’s cabin was the last place in the world she wanted to be.

The rancher had taken good care of her, but he didn’t have a kind bone in his body. Lying in his bed, she wondered if he shouted at children and kicked dogs who didn’t get out of his way fast enough.

And yet he could be gentle, too. A plug of mucus had lodged in her throat last night. Close to suffocating, she had raised her hands over her head. The rancher had hurried to her side, braced her chest with his muscular forearm and thumped on her back. When she croaked for water, he’d brought it to her in a tin cup small enough for a child.

The distant ring of an ax and the smell of burned coffee gave the room a distinctly male air. Had a woman ever put wildflowers in a jug just to make the place pretty? Jayne doubted it. A square of rough logs, the cabin had a corner kitchen with a dry sink, a rock fireplace and two small windows, each covered with a sheet of boards instead of glass.

With the exception of the bed, the furniture was roughly made, and there wasn’t much of it. She saw a small table, two chairs, a rocker and a long shelf holding books and a cigar box. Work shirts and dungarees hung from nails on the wall, and he’d left a roll of wire and a pair of leather gloves on the hearth.

Curious, she twisted in the bed and peered into the kitchen where she saw a cookstove and a long-handled spoon dangling from a hook. Jayne’s heart clenched at the picture of the rancher standing at the stove and eating straight out of the pot.

As she turned her head, a heart-shaped mirror hanging above the washbowl caught a ray of sun. The feminine glass shone bright, as if he wiped it every day. The bed troubled her, too. The carved oak frame belonged in a Midwestern farmhouse rather than a mountain cabin.

Had Ethan Trent made love to a wife in this bed? It seemed more than likely, and her cheeks reddened with embarrassment. She had invaded this man’s privacy in the worst possible way.

Beyond the cabin walls, a log groaned as it split in two. Her bones ached with a similar misery and it hurt to breathe. She wanted to curl up into a ball and grieve for Hank and all she had lost, but she had to think about her future.

When she returned to the hotel, she would retrieve her trunk and the tools of her trade. She’d also have the ten silver dollars she’d stitched into the hem of a skirt. The money would be enough for a room in a boardinghouse. She’d find a job, save for a train ticket and go back to the life she’d always lived. It wouldn’t be hard. Her mother had given Jayne the skills to support herself and she had earned a reputation of her own.

“All women like pretty dresses,” her mother used to say. “As long as you can sew, you can take care of yourself.”

Jayne didn’t want to think about her mother’s store and the sweet memories it held. Her father had died in a riding accident, leaving his wife alone to support their baby daughter. It hadn’t been easy, but by the time Jayne was old enough to ask questions, her mother had made a name for herself and their simple needs were met.

Jayne closed her eyes and hugged her knees. She ached to be standing behind the familiar counter, but instead she was in Ethan Trent’s lonely cabin with more questions than answers. Every muscle in her body tensed. The time had come to read Hank’s letter. Still wobbly from illness, she shuffled to the wall where her cloak was hanging. Plunging her hand into the pocket, she found Hank’s papers and turned to go back to bed.

As she took a feeble step, an ominous tickle swelled in her throat. Too weak to cough and stand at the same time, she lurched toward the bed, but her lungs exploded before she reached the mattress. As she collapsed to her hands and knees, Hank’s letter fluttered to the floor, just out of reach.

She heard the door fly open.

“Dammit!” The rancher wrapped his muscular forearm around her waist and brought her upright so that his chest was pressed against her back. As the coughing eased, she smelled pine shavings and male perspiration. His hands shook as he spun her around.

“What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

“I just—” Her chest shuddered again. She couldn’t breathe, much less talk.

Holding her arms, he sat her down on the bed and held her steady as she hacked up something vile. With a growl of disgust, he handed her the rag she’d been using for a hankie and then stepped back from the bed. “Don’t push yourself. I want you well enough to leave.”

She wiped her mouth. “We agree completely.”

He pointed to the envelope on the floor with the muddy toe of his boot. “What’s that?”

“A letter from my husband.”

His eyes turned to agate as he picked up the letter and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed, and on the envelope she noticed a smudge from his warm hands. Wondering if she would see Hank’s fingerprints as clearly, she took the letter and slid it under her pillow.

After he took off his coat, the rancher poured coffee for them both and dropped into the rocker by the hearth. Steam misted the air as he lifted the cup to his lips, giving a damp shine to the whiskers hiding his face. She wondered what he would look like clean-shaven, whether his jaw was square or curved, and what his chin looked like. She suspected it was as hard as the rest of him and just as stubborn.

Stretching his neck and shoulders, he took a deep breath, causing the shirt to gape where a button was missing. He’d also torn the sleeve, probably months ago judging by the ragged hole.

Aside from being in need of mending, his clothes were just plain dirty. He could have passed for the town drunk, but she had never seen him indulge in the whiskey he’d used for her cough. He read dime novels at night, or else he browsed catalogs, making notes on scraps of paper he tucked between the pages. Sober and silent, he spent the evenings ignoring her, just as he was doing now. Except this morning she felt human again, and she needed answers.

Folding her hands in her lap, she asked, “What day is it?”

The rancher shrugged. “What difference does it make?”

It made a big difference. Back in Lexington she had kept a calendar by her bed, marking off the days. Time mattered, even if Ethan Trent didn’t think so. “I need to know how long I’ve been here.”

“Too long,” he said with a huff. Rocking forward, he jabbed at the fire with a broken broom handle. The logs crackled to life and embers plumed up the chimney.

“You must have some idea,” she insisted.

“As a matter of fact, I do. It’s been eight days, nineteen hours and twelve minutes since you showed up uninvited. Is that enough detail for you?”

She would have given five dollars to be wearing her riding costume, complete with boots, leather gloves and a riding crop. She had a good mind to tan this man’s hide.

“Is my horse still here?” she asked.

Nodding, he said, “She’s fit and ready to go.”

“Then I’ll leave tomorrow.”

Midas was less than two hours away. She’d tie herself to the saddle if she had to. She’d manage, just as she always did. Except Ethan Trent had risen from the chair, laced his arms over his chest and was glowering like a man on the wrong end of a bad joke.

“Mrs. Dawson, I want to be very clear. I want you out of here even more than you want to go, but it has to be for good. You’re in no condition to ride, and I won’t fish you out of another snowbank.”

He cocked one hip and glared some more. “You’re so thin you could fall through a crack. You can’t take a full breath without coughing, and we both know you haven’t eaten enough to keep a bird alive.”

“I’ll manage.” Except she could barely use the chamber pot herself, and the coffee cup in her hand weighed ten pounds. “I can take care of myself.”

“Like hell you can,” he said, scratching his neck. “But I’ll make you a deal. As soon as you can walk to the barn and back without gasping like a broken-down nag, I’ll ride with you to Midas.”

She bristled at being compared to a sorry excuse for a horse, but she held her tongue. “I know the way. You don’t have to go with me.”

“I’m not that kind of man.”

“And I’m not that kind of woman. I don’t want your help.”

“But you need it. I’ve buried enough bodies. I don’t want to find your bones picked clean by buzzards next time I go to town.”

“Really, I can—” A wet cough rose in her throat like cream in a butter churn. She tried to be discreet, but there was nothing dainty about the hack coming from her chest. Facing facts, she coughed as hard as she could while Ethan Trent poured a cup of water.

“Here,” he said, shoving it in her face.

It tasted fresh, giving her hope that tomorrow would be a better day. Putting the cup on the nightstand, she met his gaze. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll leave as soon as I’m well, but there’s something I have to say.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Do you read minds, or are you just plain rude?”

“You’re going to thank me for saving your life. I didn’t do it for you, Mrs. Dawson. I wish you had never come here.”

“That may be true,” she said. “But you’ve been considerate, except for the first night.”

“You should have asked for help.”

“You should have offered.”

The rancher walked to the window and slid the wood cover an inch to let in a bit of fresh air. A shaft of sunshine hit his eyes and he squinted against it. Through the whiskers, she saw his jaw clench in a wolflike snarl.

She had seen that look once before on a dog that had been run over by a wagon. Too young to know better, she had tried to pet it. The mutt had nipped her hand, drawing blood and leaving two small puncture marks. Louisa McKinney made sure her daughter never made that mistake again.

“You can’t trust an animal when it’s in pain,” she had said. “They don’t know what they’re doing and they don’t care who they hurt.”

Jayne still had a scar from the dog’s fangs, and she had never forgotten its eyes, watery and glazed with suffering.

The rancher snatched his hat from the nail. “I’m going back to work.”

As the door slapped shut, Jayne sagged with relief—until she remembered Hank’s letter waiting under her pillow. Her fingers trembled as she slid a half dozen sheets of paper out of the envelope. She riffled through them, catching words that made her stomach flip.

Dear Janey,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. I love you, girl. I wanted to give you that “always” we talked about, but I can’t. I hope you can forgive me for what I’ve done. I’ve lied to you about so many things.

I never was a marshal. In fact, I’ve never had a thing I didn’t lie, cheat or steal to get. The past is ugly, but here it is. I met Timonius LeFarge a year ago in Wyoming and we started robbing banks together. We were good at it, but the last job went bad. A marshal named Franklin Henry Dawson chased us into the badlands.

I’ll never know if my bullet killed the man or if it was Tim’s, but it doesn’t matter. I saw his last breath as if it were my own and knew I had to change. Tim got drunk that night and passed out, so I took the money and the marshal’s badge and ran for my life.

A month later I found you in church, all sunlight and hope. I wanted you, girl—enough to turn into someone else, a deputy named Hank Dawson. I hope I gave you some happiness, because deep down I know I stole you, too.

If you’re reading this, I’m dead and Tim is alive. He wants the money, but it’s the only way I can give you that future I promised. I wired three thousand dollars to the First Bank of Los Angeles. All you have to do is show the manager our marriage certificate and the will.

Tim doesn’t know about you, but keep your eyes open. He’s older than me, a skinny fellow with red hair, light eyes and a scar on his left cheek. If you see him, go the other way. I’ve seen him do awful things to men and women alike.

I’m praying to God that Tim never finds us. And if he does, I’ll be praying I can end things right. That’s why I’m carrying the marshal’s badge. It’s a reminder that a man has choices.

No matter what happens, Jayney-girl, know that I love you. You gave me a second chance I didn’t deserve. Be safe.

Love,

Hank

P.S. Dawson was the marshal’s name. It’s a better name than mine and the only one I want you to remember me by.

One by one, she squared the pages into a neat pile. Tears welled for her losses, but anger burned even brighter. She didn’t even know her husband’s real name, and that was the cruelest lie of all.

Propped against a pillow in Ethan Trent’s bed, she wondered what had possessed her to marry a man she had known for just a few months, except she knew the answer. She’d been alone, had a thirst for adventure and was curious about a man’s company. She wanted to hate Hank for what he’d done, but the choice to marry him had been hers.

Right or wrong, she had to live with her decision. She would go to the sheriff as soon as she could ride and tell him the truth. Somewhere in this world, the real Mrs. Dawson was grieving for her husband. And somewhere in New Mexico a man named Timonius LeFarge was looking for his money, which meant he would be looking for her.

The steady pounding of a hammer broke through her thoughts. Warning the rancher about LeFarge was the right thing to do, but she hesitated. If he wouldn’t let her ride to Midas alone, what would he do if he found out she was being pursued by an outlaw? She didn’t want to find out. LeFarge was her problem, and she’d solve it herself.

Fresh anger welled as she thought about her five short days with her husband. He should have come clean with the law. If he’d given her a choice, she would have stood by him. Instead he had trespassed on her future without so much as a please or a thank-you. Nothing killed love faster than lies.

Tugging at the bedsheet, Jayne thought of the rancher sleeping on the hard floor while she slept in his bed. She’d stolen a piece of his life just as surely as Hank had stolen her future. Rolling onto her side, she vowed to leave just as soon as she could ride.




Chapter Four


E than took Mrs. Dawson’s cloak off the nail, saw a bit of straw on the sleeve and gave the garment a good shake. Her letter fell out of the pocket and landed next to his boot. He wasn’t a snoop by nature, but with the widow taking care of private matters outside, he was sorely tempted to read it.

Almost every night she had slipped it out from her pillow as soon as she thought he was asleep. With the hard floor digging into his shoulder blades, he would watch her eyes glitter in the firelight. He envied her those final words from her husband. Laura’s last words to him had been so ordinary he couldn’t remember them.

Ethan studied Dawson’s thin writing and the ugliness of the words “In the event of my death.” He hated the need for such a letter, but he respected the man for writing it. Not once had Ethan written a letter to his wife. They’d grown up together and there had been no need. Now he wished he’d given her that small pleasure.

He didn’t know if it was nosiness or thoughts of Laura that made him open the envelope. Being careful of the dog-eared flap, he took out the sheets. Curiosity got the better of him and he started to read.

I lied…stole…Timonius LeFarge…second chances… Love, Hank.

The punk fool didn’t know a damn thing about love. He’d left his wife in the middle of nowhere without a friend or an honest dollar to her name. He didn’t deserve the widow’s tears or the devotion that drove her to see him buried. If Dawson had walked through the door at that moment, Ethan would have bloodied his nose on general principle.

He didn’t want to look too closely at those feelings. Over a month had passed since she had come to his ranch, and yesterday she had marched to the barn and back without coughing once.

“I’m well enough to leave,” she had announced at supper last night.

They had taken to sitting together at the tiny table, eating in silence. Ethan had just scraped the last bite off his plate. “I can see that. Where will you go?”

“Home to Kentucky.”

“Do you have family there?”

“No, but I’ll be fine.”

He believed her. If the widow could put up with him, she could put up with anything. Yesterday she’d scrubbed the floor and he’d tracked in mud. She tossed him a rag and told him to wipe it up. The mud had stared at him for a good hour before he wiped up the mess and told her to mind her own damn business.

There wasn’t much of a chance of that, though. For one thing, she’d helped herself to his books, reading everything from his dime novels to Laura’s volumes of poetry to the Bible verses their sons had circled for Sunday school. A few times he had glanced up and caught her staring at him. He stared back, daring her to ask him what had happened to his family, which she did but only with her eyes.

Ethan put the letter back in her pocket. She insisted she was well enough to travel, but he wasn’t so sure. Twice he’d heard her retching in the garden, and in spite of long afternoon naps, she looked exhausted.

Reminding himself that he wanted her to leave, he walked to the barn, hitched up the workhorse and tied the livery mare to the back of the wagon. As he led the horses through the yard, he looked at the privy. The door was ajar, and he didn’t hear her in the cabin. Where the hell was she? “Mrs. Dawson?”

“Just a minute.” Her reedy voice had come from the garden.

Irritated, Ethan strode around the corner of the cabin just in time to see Mrs. Dawson toss up her breakfast.

It was a familiar sight to a man who had fathered three children, and his heart squeezed at the realization that the widow was expecting a baby. Memories of Laura carrying their first child washed over him. It had been a glorious time. It should have been a wonderful time for the widow, but knowing what she had ahead of her, Ethan couldn’t swallow.

She was standing in the shade with one hand braced on the cabin wall and the other holding her abdomen. “Please don’t watch me, Mr. Trent.”

Nodding, he went to the water pump, filled the bucket and brought it to her with a ladle. She rinsed her mouth and grimaced as she spat on the ground. “Is the wagon ready?” she asked.

“It’s ready, but you’re not.”

“I’m fine. The bacon didn’t agree with me, that’s all.”

Her eyes glazed at the thought of the grease and Ethan almost smiled. “I think it’s more than that.”

She shook her head. “It can’t be. I have to leave.”

He knew she felt both guilty for taking advantage of him and fearful of LeFarge. He wanted to tell her he understood, but he didn’t want her to know that he had read her letter. “Look, I know I’ve been a little—”

“It’s not that. I have to get settled, that’s all.”

Lifting her skirt, she stepped over a patch of mud and rounded the corner of the cabin. Ethan was two steps behind her when she suddenly swayed on her feet. Grabbing the wall for support, she leaned against the logs and slid to the ground. “I’ve never been this nauseous in my life,” she said.

The sight of her took him back to the day of the storm. His breath caught in his chest and he knew that he couldn’t let her leave. Dropping to a crouch, he touched her shoulder. “Looks like I’m stuck with you.”

“But I need to go home.”

He gave her the hardest look he knew how to give a woman. “What you need is rest.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s just that—”

“You’re going to have a baby.”

The joy in her eyes was mixed with sadness, making her seem older than her years. Understanding flashed across her face, as well, and Ethan felt cold and exposed.

“It seems you know about these things,” she said.

“I do.” His gaze held hers. Was that relief he saw in her eyes, or fear? She would be in danger if she left, but he’d made it clear that he didn’t want her to stay. Without giving his motives a thought, he made a decision. “You’re staying here while I go to town.”

“I was better yesterday,” she said. “Maybe we could go tomorrow.”

“Trust me. The sickness won’t go away for a while, and I’m low on everything from beans to bacon.”

Her face knotted and he wondered what he’d said wrong until he heard a sound that reminded him of a stream bubbling over smooth stones. When she tilted her face up to the sun, he realized she was laughing. How long had it been since he’d taken pleasure in a woman’s good humor? “What’s so funny?” he asked.

The widow tilted her face to his and poked him in the chest. “Don’t ever say bacon to me again. Just the thought turns my stomach.”

Ethan grinned. “So we’ll eat sausage instead.”

The widow got the giggles, and the next thing he knew, the spot she’d touched on his chest was burning, but he was laughing at the same time. The joke hadn’t been that funny, but she had tears streaming down her face, and so did he. Laura used to say that a belly laugh was good for the soul. Except he didn’t have a soul. He’d lost it in Raton. As quickly as it started, his laughter faded into a grunt. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

She looked confused, as if he’d blown out a lantern and left her in the dark. “Mr. Trent?”

Ethan stared straight ahead. “What is it?”

“Will you tell the sheriff I need to speak with him?”

She wanted to tell the sheriff about Dawson, but she didn’t want to share that problem with Ethan. Given his foul mood, he could understand her reluctance. “I’ll do that,” he replied.

“There’s one more thing.”

Ethan flinched. “What?”

“You are going to pay for that bacon remark.”

God help him, he smiled. “Am I now?”

“Definitely. When you least expect it. I’ll sew up your sleeves. Or—”

“Put salt in the sugar jar?”

She shook her head. “You don’t use sugar in anything.”

It was true. He hadn’t eaten so much as a cookie in two years, but this morning his mouth watered at the thought of something sweet—maple syrup on cornbread or a stick of peppermint candy.

With the widow leaning on his arm, he steered her to the cabin and left her by the door with her back pressed against the coarse wood. Then he climbed into the wagon, picked up the reins and doffed his hat.

“I’ll be back around dusk.” Thinking of Dawson’s letter, he added, “There’s a pistol in the cigar box on the mantel.”

Her eyes flickered with curiosity, then in the way of mothers-to-be, she touched her belly. “I’ll have supper waiting for you.”

He gave the reins a shake and took off down the trail. How would it feel to come home to a hot meal and a woman’s company? Probably good, and that was a problem for a man who couldn’t be happy.



Aside from his quick trip to report Dawson’s body, Ethan hadn’t been to town in weeks, but it hadn’t changed. A train in the station was working up a boiler full of steam, and the rattle of wagons filled his ears as he drove to the livery stable.

Glancing at the sky, he saw that it was close to noon. He’d had a hell of a time getting here. The wagon had gotten mired three times and he and his horses were covered with mud. If he had been alone, he would have ridden the roan and just filled up his saddlebags. Yet with a pregnant woman in his care, he needed more than a few bags of flour, coffee and beans.

But no bacon. He could still hear that laughter. It had charmed him, and his own chuckle had been a shock. So was the pressing need in his gut to get back before nightfall. Leaving her alone with a man like LeFarge on the prowl made his skin crawl.

Ethan stopped the gelding in front of the livery stable. He’d thought about keeping the widow’s mare until she was ready to ride, but he’d decided against it. The man who ran the livery had an ailing wife and six children to feed. The mare was income he wasn’t taking in. As he untied the horse, Ethan glanced around for the stable boy. The kid wasn’t around so he left the horse tied to a post. Not answering questions suited him just fine.

Next he visited the Midas Emporium. All two hundred pounds of Mrs. Wingate loomed behind the counter. “Mr. Trent! How are you today?”

Ethan ignored the question. He’d been studiously unfriendly to the town busybody, but in addition to everything else in her cluttered store, she sold books. She’d been the one to shove the dime novels into his hands, so Ethan put up with the chatter.

“Here’s my list,” he said.

He handed her the paper and browsed through the store as she put the order together. The shelves were full of trinkets meant to catch a woman’s eye and he stiffened at the sight of ribbons and fancy buttons. He thought of Laura’s box of doodads, but then a bolt of sky-blue gingham caught his eye.

The widow had one outfit to her name. He had no business noticing, but she’d look pretty in blue. Cautiously fingering the fabric, he wondered what Mrs. Wingate would do if he plopped it on the counter. She would probably bust a gusset with curiosity, but this wasn’t the time to make mischief, not with LeFarge looking for Dawson’s widow.

That meant he couldn’t fetch her trunk, either, so he settled for a plain wooden hairbrush, some white ribbon that could be used for anything, and a pair of trousers and a shirt that were too small for him. He didn’t want to think about her unmentionables, but that had to be an issue, so he picked up a bolt of white cotton. If Mrs. Wingate asked about it, he’d growl at her.

The clerk met him at the counter. “Can I get you anything else?”

Ethan glanced down at the small stockpile. It was enough to support a single man for a couple of months, but a pregnant woman had different needs. Gossip aside, he had another mouth to feed, or two if he counted the baby.

Pulling out his billfold, he said, “I want another twenty-five-pound sack of flour, three more cans of Arbuckle’s, a ten-pound bag of sugar, cornmeal, whatever tins of vegetables you have, dried apples, three dozen cans of milk and a bag of lemon drops.”

“Did you say three dozen cans of milk?”

“Yes, I did.” He slapped a few more greenbacks on the counter. “I’ve had a craving lately.”

Mrs. Wingate arched her eyebrows, but she didn’t say another word as she piled boxes on the floor. Then she glanced at the cotton and stared down her nose. “How many yards of this would you like?”

“All of it,” he said, scowling. He had no idea how much material it took to make a pair of ladies drawers, but it was clear Mrs. Wingate wasn’t going to back down. “I’m reseeding the garden. This is to keep off the frost.”

As if that made any sense. Any sane person would use old flour sacks, but Mrs. Wingate didn’t say another word as he loaded the boxes into the wagon and rode away.

The sheriff’s office was four blocks to the north. A flat-roofed adobe set apart from the storefronts, it was the oldest building in town. Ethan tied the gelding to the rail, hopped down from the seat and walked through the door. His gaze locked on Sheriff Handley who was sitting at his desk reading the Midas Gazette. As the hinges creaked, Handley lowered the newspaper and scowled.

“I’ve been wondering about you, Trent. Did that damn fool woman make it back to your ranch?”

Ethan had planned to tell him that the widow was alive, but Mrs. Dawson wasn’t some “damn fool woman,” and the sheriff had a spiteful glint in his eye. It seemed wise to find out more about LeFarge and the circumstances before he revealed the widow’s whereabouts, so Ethan frowned. “She was a pain that day.”

As Handley rocked forward in his chair, the front door opened again, stirring the air as Ethan looked over his shoulder. A stranger in a gray duster and a fussy black bowler stepped over the threshold, covering his mouth as he coughed. At the sight of wispy orange hair curling over the man’s neck, Ethan felt his blood chill.

The stranger removed his hat and scanned the room, glancing briefly at Ethan before locking his gaze on Handley. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Am I interrupting you two gentlemen?”

“That depends,” Handley replied. “What can I do for you?”

Ethan wasn’t about to politely excuse himself.

“My name is Timonius LeFarge,” the outlaw said. “I’m a detective with Pinkerton’s, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about a missing woman.”

Handley pushed to his feet. “You wouldn’t be looking for Jayne Dawson by any chance?”

LeFarge’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I am.”

“Then we’re on the same side of the law.” Handley stood and extended his hand as LeFarge approached the desk. When the two men shook like old friends, Ethan’s doubts about Handley’s judgment turned into the certainty that the man couldn’t be trusted.

Handley nodded in Ethan’s direction. “Detective, this is Ethan Trent. He’s the man who found Dawson’s body.”

“I see,” said LeFarge. “How far away is your place?”

Ethan’s mind snapped into action. No matter what else happened today, he had to prevent the two men from riding out to his ranch together. Handley knew Ethan lived alone, but LeFarge didn’t. If Ethan could keep the sheriff from blabbing that he was a widower, he and Mrs. Dawson could pass for husband and wife if the outlaw decided to pay a call. Given the circumstances, Ethan doubted that LeFarge would invite Handley along for the ride.

The plan would work as long as the outlaw didn’t already know what Jayne looked like. Determined to glean all the information he could from LeFarge, Ethan forced himself to be cordial. “My place is a ways from here, and the road’s full of mud. We can talk here just as well.”

Handley nodded. “That suits me fine. Have a seat, detective. Ethan can fill us in at the same time. I was escorting the widow back to town when she made a beeline to his ranch.”

“Is that so?” LeFarge lowered his angular body into the chair. “Where is she now?”

“She’s dead,” Ethan replied.

After staring for a good three seconds, LeFarge settled into the chair across from Handley. “Please, sit down, Mr. Trent. It sounds like you have a story to tell.”

Handley pursed his lips. “Why exactly are you looking for her?”

As Ethan pulled up a third chair, LeFarge leaned back like a judge holding court. “It goes back to her husband. The fellow you buried was named Jesse Fowler. Back in Wyoming, he robbed nine banks, shot a woman and killed the real Hank Dawson. When the Feds failed to arrest him, the marshal’s family hired me. It seems Fowler’s been using the man’s good name.”

“The man sounds like trouble,” Handley replied.

“That he is, Sheriff. He got away with a lot of money from those robberies.”

LeFarge sounded grim, but Ethan wasn’t fooled. Greed was burning in the stranger’s glassy eyes as he cocked his head to the side. “I trust we can count on your help, Mr. Trent. I have reason to believe that Jayne Dawson was in possession of the money from the bank robberies. That makes her an accomplice to Dawson’s crimes.”

The man was the smoothest liar Ethan had ever met, but two could play that game, especially if it meant protecting a woman and an unborn child. “She never made it back to the ranch. I found her remains in the middle of nowhere and buried the body where I found it. I figure she froze to death in that blizzard.”

The outlaw blinked like a bobcat waiting for its prey. “Did you check her pockets? Was there anything to indicate where she might have been headed?”

“Not a thing.” Ethan shrugged. “I wish I could help you, but I just came by to tell Sheriff Handley about the body.”

The sheriff rocked back in his chair. “I almost forgot. The hotel sent her trunk over a few weeks ago.”

LeFarge shot up from his chair. “Where is it?”

Handley pointed to the back of the room. “It’s right there. Help yourself.”

The outlaw pried the lock with a knife and opened the lid. The scent of honeysuckle wafted through the air as he tossed dresses and petticoats onto the floor. Lingering over a satin nightgown, he smirked. “I bet she’s a whore.”

Handley shook his head. “I talked to her a bit. That’s not too likely.”

Damn right, Ethan thought. He’d bet his ranch that she had worn that satin on her wedding night.

LeFarge kept riffling through the garments. “Can you gentlemen give me a description of Mrs. Dawson? I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing her for myself.”

Handley pursed his lips as if he were straining to think. “As I recall, she had light hair and came up to my nose. She was pretty but nothing special.”

Wrong. She was very special. Ethan had never met such an iron-willed woman, but he wasn’t about to argue.

“Eye color?” LeFarge asked.

Handley shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Ethan did. Her eyes changed color with her moods, from blue ice when she was angry to a soft shade of aqua when she laughed. “I think they were brown,” he said.

“What was she wearing?” LeFarge asked.

Handley sat straighter in the chair. “I can help you there. She was wearing a dark cloak when we rode out. It was black, or maybe gray.”

No, it was navy-blue with large brass buttons. Ethan nodded. “That’s right. It was gray.”

Shoving the widow’s things aside, LeFarge tore into Hank Dawson’s clothing, snapping his shirts like a dog shaking a rabbit. Next he dumped out the drawers located in the sides of the trunk. A pair of scissors clattered to the floor and ribbons swirled on the planking like a posy of spring flowers. LeFarge kicked everything aside, took a knife from his belt and slashed the lining.

At the rasp of tearing silk, Ethan imagined skinning the outlaw an inch at a time.

Handley stood and ambled to the pile of clothing. “I’ll give you a hand,” he said. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Just being thorough. I’m looking for a letter, train tickets, anything.”

Handley kicked at a skirt with his toe. “If it’s any help, she and her husband were headed to Los Angeles.”

God bless you, Sheriff Handley.

“Then it looks like I’m on my way to California.” Rising from his knees, LeFarge coughed viciously, wiped his hands on his thighs and straightened his hat. “Gentlemen, thank you for your help. If Los Angeles doesn’t pan out, I may be back. Where exactly is your place, Mr. Trent?”

“About ten miles east,” Handley offered to Ethan’s chagrin.

“If you remember anything else, I’ll be at the hotel.” LeFarge extended his hand. The sheriff shook it as if he’d just met Wyatt Earp. Ethan shook it because he had no choice.

“It’s been a pleasure.” The outlaw tipped his hat and paced out the door.

Handley dropped to a crouch and stuffed the clothing back in the trunk. “Someone could use these things. Did you bring the wagon today?”

“It’s out front.”

“Would you mind dropping the trunk at the church? You can leave it on the steps. I’m sure Reverend Leaf will find it.”

“I’d be happy to help, Sheriff.” And even happier to have the widow’s possessions.

Handley put the last garment in the trunk, stood upright and shook his head with disgust. “That Dawson woman made me look like a fool when she ran off. The world’s better off without her kind.”

Ethan fought a powerful urge to set Handley straight about Mrs. Dawson’s character, but he didn’t trust the man. LeFarge had played his part well, and even with the letter from her husband, the sheriff was apt to lock her up. Ethan’s jaw tensed. He and the widow needed a new plan.

He picked up the trunk and followed the sheriff to the wagon. The lawman unlatched the tailgate and surveyed the supplies. “It looks like you’re stocking up.”

Ethan grunted. “I am. I hate coming to town.”

When the sheriff nodded and walked away, Ethan silently thanked Mrs. Wingate for wrapping the white cotton in brown paper to protect it from the dust in spite of his stupid explanation. He unwrapped the reins from the hitching post, climbed onto the seat and drove to the edge of town.

With its white clapboard sides and shake roof, the First Church of Midas resembled a New England farmhouse. He had been there once, exactly a year after he’d lost his family, but Reverend Leaf’s words about the seasons in a man’s life hadn’t done much good.

A time to weep, a time to laugh.

A time to mourn, a time to dance.

Ethan had left in the middle of the service and never went back, but that hadn’t stopped the Reverend from visiting his ranch every so often. Once he’d shown up with fresh-baked bread. They’d eaten it together, dry because they had no butter, and that night Ethan had cried himself to sleep. Sitting on the wagon, he wondered if maybe the preacher had been right.

A time to give birth, a time to die.

A time to tear apart, a time to sew together.

Clicking his tongue at the gelding, he drove past the empty churchyard with Mrs. Dawson’s trunk snug in his wagon. Only she wasn’t Mrs. Dawson anymore. She was just Jayne, and she needed his help. If the outlaw showed up, they needed to be prepared.

The thought of pretending to be married made Ethan’s heart thud with misery, but what choice did he have? To protect Jayne and her baby, he’d put up with just about anything.



Instead of finding his way back to the hotel, Timonius LeFarge took a window table at the restaurant across the street and watched as the rancher drove to the church. It made sense to donate a dead woman’s things to charity, but the rancher didn’t stop. Perhaps Ethan Trent had a wife…but the outlaw’s instincts told him otherwise.

LeFarge walked out of the restaurant without ordering and strode to the railroad depot while considering the events that had led to Jesse Fowler turning into Hank Dawson. Their last meeting had left Tim in a fury.

After discovering his ex-partner’s ruse in Lexington, Timonius had caught up with him in Midas where he’d learned that Mr. and Mrs. Hank Dawson were registered at the hotel. He’d gone to their room and told Jesse he had two choices: he could turn over the money or watch his wife die—right after Timonius took his pleasure.

To his credit, the kid had seen the wisdom of handing over the money. He’d told Tim that he’d gone straight and had deposited the cash in a bank in Albuquerque under his new name. They had taken off that night, but just before dawn the kid had gone for his gun. He’d missed, but Timonius hadn’t. Jesse had taken a bullet before galloping into the dark.

Tim hadn’t minded all that much. He’d learned to be all things to all people, and conning a bank manager sounded like child’s play. Except the fellow in Albuquerque had never heard of either Hank Dawson or Jesse Fowler. Timonius had been duped. He’d made his way back to Midas, asking questions along the way, but the widow had vanished into thin air.

The money had to be somewhere. The rancher might have taken it. Or maybe the widow and the rancher had formed an alliance…

Timonius thought about asking the sheriff if Ethan Trent was a married man, but if the answer was no, Handley would insist on riding with him to the Trent ranch.

As Timonius walked to the railroad depot, he weighed the possibilities. Either the widow was really dead and the money was waiting in Los Angeles, or the rancher had made it up as a ruse to throw him off track while she was near Midas waiting for the right time to go after it herself.

At the ticket window, a clerk peered at Timonius through his round spectacles. “Can I help you, sir?”

“When is the next train to Los Angeles?”

“Not for three days. We have a problem on the track down near Las Vegas.”

“One ticket, please,” LeFarge said.

The timing suited him perfectly. Three days was just enough time to pay a personal call on Ethan Trent.




Chapter Five


W hen she heard the rattle of the rancher’s wagon, Jayne climbed out of the warm bed, lit the lantern on the nightstand and peeked out the window. She saw him in the moonlight, sitting with his knees wide and his shoulders bent with fatigue, guiding the horse through the meadow.

It had been a hard day. The morning sickness had churned in her stomach until noon, and she had spent the afternoon wondering if being pregnant had sharpened her senses. She heard pine needles rustle and imagined LeFarge coming after her. When she pumped water, she recalled Ethan Trent’s rusty laughter. His smile had shocked her down to her toes. Behind that scruffy beard, she saw the hint of a handsome man.

The clatter of the wagon was louder now, so she went to the stove and stirred their supper. In spite of his meager supplies, she’d managed a batch of biscuits and a hearty stew from tinned meat and vegetables. It smelled good, and she wondered if the rancher liked to eat his food piping hot or if he preferred to let it cool a bit.

His wife would have known. Jayne could almost feel her fingerprints on the worn handle of the frying pan. The heart-shaped mirror must have been hers, too, but the rest of the cabin was untouched by a woman’s hands. Had Mrs. Trent died in childbirth or from an illness? Or perhaps she’d lost her life in an accident.

Jayne was certain that she hadn’t left her husband willingly. The woman had drawn stars next to the love sonnets in a well-thumbed volume of poetry. The Bible on the shelf held a mystery as well. Someone had written dates and initials by the simple verses taught in a child’s Sunday School class.

As the wagon rattled to a stop, Jayne picked up the lantern and opened the door. Light spilled into the yard, circling the rancher as he climbed down from the seat. Her gaze traveled from his muddy boots to his thighs to the hard line of his whiskered jaw. He was spattered with mud from head to foot.

Peering through the golden light, she said, “It must have been a terrible trip.”

“I got stuck a few times, but that’s the way of it.” He gave the horse a quick scratch on the neck. “Old Buck’s even dirtier than I am.”

She hung the lantern on a nail and walked to the back of the wagon. “I’ll help you unload. You must be starved.”

“I am.”

“I’ve got stew and—” Her fingers grazed varnished wood. “My trunk! How did you get it?” Her mother’s scissors. Her clothing. Letters and keepsakes. Trailing her fingers across the dark walnut, she said, “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Trent.”

“There’s no need. You can look through it while I get the horse settled.”

He hoisted it from the wagon and headed for the door. Jayne grabbed a sack of cornmeal and followed him into the cabin. “I can’t believe you brought my things. Did you go to the hotel?”

The rancher set the trunk down and stepped back. Her gaze narrowed to the broken latch and then shot to a dress sleeve dangling over the side. Someone had searched her belongings. “What happened?” she asked.

He rocked back on his heels and stared straight into her eyes. “Jayne, we have to talk.”

He had used her given name, and she wondered why. “Yes, we do. You’re entitled to the truth.”

“So are you.” Using the toe of his muddy boot, he nudged the trunk closer to the bed. “We’ll talk when I’m done with chores.”

Together they carried in cans and packages, stacking everything on the counter until she was worried it would tumble to the floor. He’d bought enough flour to last six months and enough milk for an entire family.

As soon as he left for the barn, she knelt in front of the trunk and opened the lid. Everything from her best dresses to her unmentionables had been jumbled together, and someone had rabbit-eared all of Hank’s pockets.

Who had riffled through her things and why? Shivering at the implications, she lifted the tangled clothing from the trunk and set it on the bed. Her mother’s scissors clattered to the floor. Bending low, she scooped them up and slipped her fingers through the loops.

You’re strong, Jayne. As long as you can sew, you can earn a living.

She heard Louisa McKinney’s voice in her heart and knew the words were true. She’d find a way to start over, but first she had to tell the rancher the truth. If LeFarge had found her, Ethan Trent was in more danger than she thought.

Leaving the clothing on the bed, she went to the kitchen to dish up his supper. Just as she ladled stew onto a plate, he opened the door. For the first time in a month, he left his muddy boots on the porch. Glancing at her, he stepped inside, reached into the pocket of his coat and handed her a small brown bag.

“These are for you,” he said.

His rough fingers brushed her palm as she took it. She peeked inside and then arched her eyebrows at him. “Lemon drops?”

“Sour things might settle your stomach.”





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