‘Dancing isn’t all that hard. I could teach you the basics.’

‘You mean here? Now?’ Laura asked.

‘Why not?’

Caleb swept her into his arms. The hand that caught the small of her back was firm and strong. He held her close, following the subtle cues of her legs and body until he felt sure enough to take the lead.

Laura could feel the light brush of his arousal through her skirt, and the sweet, wet burning of her own response. She closed her eyes as his lips brushed her hairline and nuzzled her forehead. They stood holding each other, both of them trembling in the darkness.

His mouth skimmed hers. She responded hungrily, her body arching upwards to press against his. He lifted her off her feet and she hung suspended against him.

Abruptly he groaned. ‘Laura, you need to go back to the dance now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if you stay out here I won’t be held responsible for what I do to you.’

Elizabeth Lane has lived and travelled in many parts of the world, including Europe, Latin America and the Far East, but her heart remains in the American West, where she was born and raised. Her idea of heaven is hiking a mountain trail on a clear autumn day. She also enjoys music, animals and dancing. You can learn more about Elizabeth by visiting her website at www.elizabethlaneauthor.com

Previous novels by this author:

ANGELS IN THE SNOW (in Stay for Christmas anthology)

HER DEAREST ENEMY

THE STRANGER
Elizabeth Lane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Author Note

As a descendant of pioneers who settled the American West, I live in awe of the women who survived frontier life. The thought of how it must have been for them, facing danger, illness and unthinkable hardship every day for the sake of their families, fills me with admiration and gratitude.

Most amazing of all were the women who survived alone, raising children, ploughing fields, herding livestock, planting and harvesting—women who had to be teachers, doctors, farmers, even warriors when danger threatened their loved ones.

Having been a single mother myself, I know that even with a good job and modern conveniences raising a family alone can be tough, sometimes heartbreaking. This book is my tribute to all of you, single and married, who give of yourselves to make a better world for your children, and for children everywhere. Enjoy.

For my sister, my friends,

and strong women everywhere.

Prologue

New Mexico Territory, May, 1876

Caleb McCurdy saw the girl as he rode through the ranch gate with his two brothers. She was standing outside the modest adobe house, her arms reaching up to hang a pair of faded long johns over a sagging clothesline. Her figure, clad in a blue gingham frock beneath a spotless white apron, was small and neat. The loose ends of a yellow ribbon fluttered from her taffy-hued curls.

She looked to be about seventeen—Caleb’s own age. The sight of her after the long desert crossing was like a drink of sweet, cool water.

“Quit your gawkin’, boy,” Caleb’s eldest brother, Noah, growled. “Pretty thing like that, hangin’ up a man’s underwear, I’d wager she’s already taken.”

“What the hell!” Caleb’s second brother, Zeke, grinned and licked his chapped lips. “Ain’t no law against a fellow fillin’his eyes is there? Lawse, what a little sweetheart! Gets me hard just lookin’ at her!”

Caleb shot him a look of disgust. Their father had always claimed Zeke was born crazy. As a child Zeke had enjoyed tormenting small animals. Then he’d hit his teens and discovered women.

“Shut up, Zeke,” Caleb muttered. “What if she hears you talkin’ like that?”

Zeke’s only reply was a derisive snort.

The girl had seen them. Clothespins dropped to the dust as they pulled their mounts to a halt. She hesitated, gazing at the trio with wide, startled eyes like a doe about to bolt.

“Howdy, ma’am.” Noah touched the brim of his grease-stained Stetson. “Didn’t mean to spook you. My brothers and me, we come all the way from Texas, and it’s been a long, dusty ride. We was hopin’ you’d be kind enough to let us water our horses and fill our canteens. Then we’ll be on our way.”

She gazed uncertainly at the three riders. Caleb knew she didn’t like what she saw. They looked like filthy saddle tramps, which they pretty much were. Noah was slit-eyed and lantern-jawed, with a scruffy beard that had been gray for as long as Caleb could remember. Zeke had pockmarked skin, prominent yellowish eyes and full red lips that curved in a humorless smile.

When the girl’s gray eyes found him, Caleb knew that she saw little more than a shadow, dark and wiry and silent beneath his low-brimmed hat—a gangly youth who looked more like his Comanche mother than he did like his fully white half brothers. She gave him the barest glance before she spoke.

“Wait here, please.” Her throaty voice carried an ill-hidden note of anxiety. “I’ll go and get my husband.”

Zeke chuckled as she fled around the corner of the house. “What a little honey,” he murmured. “Lawse, what I wouldn’t give for a go at what’s under them petticoats!”

“That’s enough, Zeke.” Noah shifted in the saddle, pulling his long jacket over the hefty Colt .45 that hung at his hip. “Last thing we need out here is you makin’trouble with the squatters. You can damn well keep your pants buttoned till we pull off that big job and get to California. After that, you can hump all the women you want!”

Caleb glanced from one man to the other. He’d known all along that his brothers were wild. Still, he’d been elated when they’d agreed to let him tag along to California after their father’s death. For a boy who’d never been out of the county where he was born, the trip had loomed as a great adventure.

So far, however, the journey had been disappointing. The endless days in the saddle, eating dust and listening to Zeke and Noah snap at each other, were beginning to wear on him. And what was this talk about pulling a job? Something didn’t sound right, Caleb thought. Maybe it was time he thought about cutting off on his own.

But now that both his parents were dead, Noah and Zeke were all the family he had. How could he just ride off and leave them? Blood had to count for something, didn’t it?

Caleb’s thoughts dissolved as the girl came back around the corner of the house. With her was a tall young man with fair hair, blue eyes and a long-barreled Winchester rifle in his hands. To Caleb he looked like a hero from the cover of a dime novel.

He took a moment to look the three riders up and down before he smiled and lowered the gun. “Mark Shafton,” he said. “And this is my wife, Laura. You’re welcome to the water, gentlemen. In fact, we’d be pleased to have you stay for a meal. Laura makes a right tasty pot of bean stew, and today she’s cooked enough for an army.”

The young wife kept her face lowered. Her fingertips pressed her husband’s arm in what Caleb guessed to be a silent plea to get rid of the strangers. But Mark Shafton paid her no attention. The man was either a saint or a fool, maybe both. The smell of seasoned beans that drifted from the house made Caleb’s mouth water, but he couldn’t help hoping—for pretty Laura’s sake—that Noah would decline the offer.

“That’s right hospitable of you, Mr. Shafton.” Noah swung wearily out of the saddle. “We been hankerin’ for a home-cooked meal ever since we left Texas. I’m Luke Johnson, and these are my brothers Sam and Will.”

Caleb shrank into his jacket as the two shook hands. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard Noah give false names. Clearly he meant to cover their tracks. But why? That was the question that chewed on Caleb’s nerves.

Maybe after they left this place he’d confront his brothers and demand to know what was going on. After all, he was practically a man now. He had a right to know.

“You can water your horses at the trough over there,” Mark Shafton said. “By the time you’ve washed up at the pump and filled your canteens, dinner should be on the table.”

“I’ll get more butter out of the springhouse and set some extra places.” Laura darted off like a little hummingbird—so beautiful, Caleb thought. Just looking at her gave him pleasure, like the sight of a cactus in bloom or the deepening glow of a sunset.

Inside, the sparsely furnished house was well kept and cheerful. Strings of garlic and Mexican chiles hung from the open rafters of the whitewashed kitchen. Sprouting herbs in little pots lined the windowsills. The plain plank table had been scrubbed and oiled till it glistened. In its center, a small pottery vase held fresh yellow buttercups and blue columbines.

Laura ladled the beans into bowls from the big iron pot on the stove, then joined the four men at the table. She sat directly across from Caleb, her eyes focused on her food. Caleb watched the careful motion of her spoon as it traveled from the bowl to her pretty rosebud mouth. She took tiny bites, as if she were only pretending to eat.

“We came west last fall, right after we were married,” Mark Shafton was saying. “My wife had inherited a little money back in St. Louis, and I invested it in this prime land. We’ve got five hundred acres, with a good stream running down from the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. You may have noticed the dam I built—I’m right proud of it. It channels water through the springhouse, just a few steps from the back door, so Laura doesn’t have far to walk. That’s important these days.” His eyes lingered on his pretty wife. A smile tugged at one corner of his chiseled mouth.

“Well, you’d best keep a sharp eye out for floods,” Noah muttered around a mouthful of beans. “Strikes me that a big storm could bring enough water down that channel to do some real damage.”

“So I was told.” Mark Shafton buttered a piece of crusty bread. “But when I build something, I build it to last, so I’m not greatly worried. In a few years I plan to have one of the finest cattle ranches in the territory.” He leaned back in his chair and regarded the visitors with a smile. “That’s enough about us. Tell me about your trip, gentlemen. I always enjoy talking with travelers. A man can learn a lot about the country that way.”

While his brothers chatted with Mark Shafton, Caleb stole glances at Laura. Once she looked up, and her dove-gray eyes met his before they flashed downward. After that he was more careful. He loved watching her, but she was already ill at ease. He had no desire to worsen her discomfort.

All too soon, the meal was over. Noah rose from his chair, stifled a belch and announced that it was time to leave. “We’re right grateful for your hospitality, ma’am,” he said, lifting his Stetson from the back of the chair. “It’s been a long spell since we had such tasty vittles.”

He strode outside, followed by Mark Shafton, with Zeke trailing behind. Laura had risen and was gathering up the bowl of butter and the pitcher of milk to take to the springhouse.

“Can—Can I carry that for you?” Caleb’s voice squeaked, forcing him to clear his throat before he could finish the question.

She shook her head. “You’d better catch up with your brothers, Will. You don’t want them leaving you behind.”

The name threw him for an instant. Then he remembered it was the one Noah had given him. She had actually remembered it. As for being left behind by his brothers, there was nothing he’d like better, Caleb thought. Maybe the Shaftons would hire him to stay on and help with the ranch. He was a good worker and there was nothing he didn’t know about horses and cattle.

But Caleb knew better than to dream. When Noah and Zeke rode out the ranch gate, he would be riding with them, and he would never see Laura again.

As Laura hurried out the back door with the butter and milk, he turned away and headed outside. Noah was standing by the horses, talking to Mark Shafton. Zeke was nowhere to be seen.

As he walked toward the corral, Caleb felt a sudden, embarrassing urge, likely brought on by having eaten so many beans. “Beg your pardon, Mr. Shafton, but would you mind if I used your privy?” he asked.

“Go ahead,” the young man replied. “It’s out in the trees, past the springhouse. But you might have to wait for your brother. He went that way a minute ago.”

Caleb found the privy empty, with no sign of Zeke. He did his business and was bending to wash his hands in the creek when he heard voices coming from behind the closed door of the springhouse.

“Just hold still, girlie, while I get a hand under them petticoats.” Zeke’s voice was rough and ugly. “Behave yourself, now, and you’ll be fine. Hell, you might even enjoy it.”

“Please don’t…” Caleb could barely make out Laura’s strained whisper. “Please, I’m going to have a baby.You might hurt—” Her words ended in a gasp.

Caleb pounded against the wooden door. “Zeke! You crazy fool, let her go!” he shouted.

The door resisted as if it might be latched or braced. Frantic, Caleb backed off and flung his full weight against the rough-sawn planks. This time the door gave way so suddenly that he hurtled through the opening and crashed full force against the opposite wall. Something snapped in his shoulder. Dizzy with pain, he careened backward to crumple on the earthen floor.

His eyes caught the flash of a blade in a dark corner of the springhouse. Zeke, he realized, was holding his big Bowie knife against Laura’s throat with one hand while the other hand fumbled beneath her skirt. Dazed and hurting, Caleb scrambled to his knees. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side.

“Get out of here, you stinkin’ little half-breed,” Zeke snarled. “And don’t you go runnin’ to Noah, or I’ll carve you up like a—”

His words ended in a shriek as Laura sank her teeth into his forearm. “You hellcat!” he howled. “I’ll show you—”

They were grappling now, the blade catching glints of the light from the open doorway. Caleb flung himself toward them but he was weak with shock and pain. A kick from Zeke’s heavy boot sent him crashing back against the wall.

Laura screamed like a wounded animal. Caleb’s stomach contracted as he saw the crimson slash where the knife had cut her face from temple to chin, barely missing her eye. He lunged forward, only to stumble into the shadow cast by the tall figure in the doorway.

“You…bastards!” Mark Shafton’s hands gripped the rifle. His voice cracked with fury. “Is this how you repay decent people? By God Almighty, I’ll kill you both!”

Laura had twisted free. She reeled against Caleb as her husband raised his rifle and aimed it at Zeke’s chest. Shafton’s finger was tightening on the trigger when an ear-shattering report rang out from behind him. He dropped the rifle, crumpled forward onto the ground and lay still. A dark red bloodstain began to spread across the back of his clean chambray shirt. Laura fell across his body, wailing like a child.

In the doorway, Noah lowered his smoking pistol. His face was a mask of icy rage. “Get to the horses, damn you!” he snapped at Zeke. “You, too, boy, unless you want to watch me kill a woman!”

“No!” Caleb staggered to his feet and planted himself in front of his brother. “Let her alone! Haven’t we done enough to these people?”

Noah shook his head. “Show some sense, you young fool. If we leave her alive she’ll go straight to the law. We’ll have a posse on our trail before nightfall.”

“She’s going to have a baby,” Caleb said. “If you want to kill them both, you’ll have to shoot me first!”

Noah swore and spat in the dirt. “Damnfool boy! All right, come on, then. We’ll lock her in the springhouse and make tracks. By the time she gets out we’ll be long gone.”

“No. I’m staying here.”

“In a mule’s ass you are!”

“She’s hurt and needs help. I can keep her quiet long enough for you to get a head start and—”

Caleb gasped as he glimpsed Noah’s raised arm. Then the butt of the pistol cracked against his skull and the world crashed into blackness.

It was the last thing he would remember about that day.

Chapter One

July 1881

On the crest of a long ridge, where the eastern slope of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains fell to high desert, Caleb McCurdy paused to rest his horse. Below him a sea of summer-gold grama grass, dotted with clumps of sage and juniper, rippled over the foothills. Willow and cottonwood formed a winding ribbon of green along the creek that meandered into the valley. If he followed that ribbon, Caleb knew it would lead him to an adobe ranch house with sheds and a corral out front and a springhouse just beyond the back door.

He had never wanted to come here again. But the memory of the place had haunted him for the five years he’d spent in Yuma Territorial Prison. Now that he was free, Caleb knew he had to return and face what had happened here. He had to find out what had become of Laura.

His being arrested had nothing to do with the crime against the Shaftons. It was later that same spring that his brothers had gone into a Tombstone bank and left him outside to watch the horses. By the time Caleb had realized there was a robbery in progress the deputy was already snapping the handcuffs around his wrists. Zeke and Noah had made their getaway out the back of the bank. That was the last he’d seen of them.

Caleb had been tried as an accessory and sentenced to six years behind bars. The torrid Arizona nights had given him plenty of time to ponder his mistakes. Staying with Noah and Zeke had been his worst choice. They were family, he’d rationalized at the time. Besides, it wasn’t as if Noah had killed Mark Shafton in cold blood. Noah had fired to save his brothers. As for Zeke, he couldn’t help being the creature he was. For all his flaws, he, too, was blood kin.

Caleb’s fist tightened around the saddle horn. Lord, what a fool he’d been, tagging along with his brothers like a puppy trotting after a pair of wolves. He should have known his trust would lead him straight down the road to hell.

If the tragedy at the Shafton Ranch had cracked the shell of Caleb’s innocence, the weeks that followed had shattered it. Liquor, gambling, women—he’d sampled them all. He would have done anything to blot out the sight of Laura’s bloodied face and the sound of her screams.

His brothers had roared their approval and declared him a man. Then they’d staked him out like bait in front of that Tombstone bank to draw the lawmen while they got away with the loot.

Good behavior had gotten him out of prison a year early. But the hot hell of Yuma had toughened, aged and embittered him. He was twenty-two years old. He felt fifty.

Nudging the sturdy bay to a walk, he wound his way down the brushy slope. The day he’d walked out of prison, he’d taken work with a road-building crew that hired ex-convicts. Two months of backbreaking labor had earned him enough to buy a horse, a beat-up saddle, a gun and knife, a blanket and a change of clothes. With twenty dollars in his pocket, he’d headed east, toward New Mexico and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Now, on this day of blinding beauty, the long ride was coming to an end.

The afternoon sky was a searing turquoise blue. Where the horse walked, clouds of white butterflies floated out of the grass. A red-tailed hawk circled against the sun.

Caleb’s throat tightened as he watched it. How many days like this had he missed, locked away in that sweltering heap of rock and adobe where the cells were ovens and the earth was hot enough to blister bare skin? How many days without fresh air, clean water and decent human companionship?

Annoyed with himself, he shoved the question aside. Self-pity was a waste. Rotten luck was a fact of life, and he’d long since learned not to whine when he got whipped. Besides, Caleb reminded himself, his time in prison hadn’t all been wasted. He’d made one friend there, a dying man who’d helped him turn his life around. If his beaten soul held a glimmer of hope and truth, he owed it to Ebenezer Stokes.

Maybe that was why he’d come back here. For Ebenezer—and for Laura.

Without willing it, he began to whistle a soulful melody—a song whose words had long since burned themselves into his brain.

Eyes like the morning star, cheeks like the rose.

Laura was a pretty girl, everybody knows.

Weep, oh, you little rains, wail, winds, wail…

Those cursed lyrics hadn’t left him alone in five long years. They had tormented his days and nights, conjuring up the image of Laura as he’d last seen her, slumped over her husband’s body with blood streaming down the side of her face. Maybe after today that image would finally begin to fade.

Stopping at the creek, he watered his horse, splashed his face and slicked back his sweaty hair. The place he’d known as the Shafton Ranch couldn’t be more than a couple of miles downstream, he calculated. What would he find there? Strangers, most likely. Noah had sworn that he’d left Laura alive. But even if that were true, Caleb couldn’t imagine her remaining alone on the ranch. The best he could hope for was that she’d sold out and moved on, and that someone would know where she’d gone.

If the worst had happened, maybe he could at least beg forgiveness at her grave.

The creek was overgrown with brush and willows. Moving back into the open, he followed the tangled border out of the foothills and onto the grassy flatland. His gut clenched as he spotted the ranch in the distance. The memories that swept over him were so black and bitter that he was tempted to turn the horse and gallop off in a different direction. Setting his teeth, he forced himself to keep moving ahead.

He could see the gate now, and the corral where he and his brothers had tied their mounts while they ate the meal Laura had prepared. Mark Shafton’s dam was still intact, as was the springhouse, spared over the years from the danger of flooding. But the whole place had a forlorn look to it. The windmill was missing two slats and the corral gate hung crooked on one broken hinge. Two dun horses and a milk cow drowsed in the corral.

The small adobe house was closed and quiet. The only sign of human life about the place was the batch of washing that fluttered from the clothesline in the side yard. Caleb rode in through the gate, dismounted and looped the bay’s reins over the corral fence. He could see now that the clothes on the line consisted of little shirts and overalls, stockings, underwear and nightgowns. He could see the swing hanging from the limb of the big cottonwood that shaded the springhouse. Caleb didn’t want to think about the springhouse and what had happened there. But the idea of children living here, running and playing in the bright sunlight gave a small lift to his spirits.

Taking a deep breath, he strode up the path, crossed the shaded porch and rapped lightly on the door.

“Go into your bedroom, Robbie,” Laura whispered to her son. “Latch the door. Don’t open it until I knock three times and say the password.”

Robbie, who’d been headed outside to play, obeyed without question. He knew better than to argue with his mother when a stranger came to the house.

Laura waited until she heard the metallic click of the latch. Only then did she take the double-barreled shotgun from its rack above the bookshelf and thumb back both hammers.

The rap on the door came again, more insistently this time. Laura’s heart, already racing, broke into a gallop. “Who’s there?” she called.

“Caleb McCurdy’s the name. I didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am. Just wanted to ask a question or two, then, if you want me to leave, I’ll be on my way.”

McCurdy. Laura groped for some memory of the name and came up empty. There was something familiar about the voice that filtered through the heavy wooden door, but without a face to go with it…

Bracing the gun stock against her hip, she opened the door a few cautious inches. “What do you want?” she demanded.

The man who filled the narrow opening was tall and lean, with straight, black hair and a battered face. A closer look revealed jutting cheekbones, obsidian eyes and skin that was burnished to the hue and texture of saddle leather. He was dressed for the trail in unfaded clothes that looked recently bought, but what struck Laura at once was his expression. He was staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

His throat moved. Then he closed his mouth tightly, as if he’d thought the better of what he’d been about to say. For an instant his gaze lingered on the ugly scar that zigzagged down the left side of her face. Then he averted his eyes, as most people did when they met her.

Laura jabbed the shotgun’s twin barrels toward him. “Well, then, speak your piece, Mr. McCurdy, or be on your way. Strangers aren’t welcome around here.”

Caleb filled his eyes with her defiant face. Lord, she hadn’t recognized him. Otherwise, by now, he’d have a belly full of buckshot. After what had happened five years ago, he could understand why she greeted callers with a gun. She was likely terrified. What he couldn’t understand was why she’d stayed in a place with so many tragic memories. Surely she had kinfolk back east who would have welcomed her home.

Her large gray eyes studied him cautiously. It made sense, now, that she wouldn’t know him. His real name would mean nothing to her. And he was no longer the bashful teenager who’d adored her across the kitchen table. Five years had put height and muscle on him, and prison had altered his features. A fight with the prison bully had broken his nose. An accident with falling rocks had split his lip and laid a puckered scar across his left eyebrow. Even his eyes had long since lost their look of innocence.

Laura had changed, too. The knife wound on her face had healed badly, leaving a jagged white streak from her temple to the corner of her mouth. Her hair was pulled harshly back and twisted into a tight knot. But it was her dove-colored eyes that struck him to the heart. They were an animal’s eyes, wounded and mistrustful.

They had done this to her, he and his brothers. And Caleb knew that, in his own blundering way, he was as much to blame as Zeke and Noah. He had tried to rescue her and failed. Worse, his interference had opened the way to Mark Shafton’s death.

“I’m waiting,” she said. “You’ve got ten seconds to tell me what you want before I blast you off my porch!”

Caleb scrambled for words, saying the first thing that came to mind. “Your corral gate needs mending. I’ll do it in exchange for a meal.”

She hesitated, her eyes coming to rest on the pistol that hung at his hip. Impulsively, he unfastened the gun belt and held it toward her. “Take this for safekeeping if you’re worried about me,” he said. “Believe me, I’d never hurt you or take anything I hadn’t earned.”

She recoiled slightly, more from him than from the pistol, Caleb suspected. “Lay the gun on the porch,” she said. “You’ll find some tools in the shed. When you finish mending the gate, your food and your weapon will be waiting on the front step. You can take them and go.”

Caleb nodded and turned away, aching for her. Even with the scar, Laura was a beautiful woman. With the ranch as a dowry, she could have had dozens of suitors fighting for her hand. But fear, it seemed, had made her a recluse. He could not imagine such a woman letting any man near her.

The fluttering clothes on the line caught his eye again. He remembered now that she’d told Zeke she was pregnant. Her child would be a little more than four years old, a boy, judging from the pint-sized shirts and overalls. Laura would have her hands full, raising a son alone.

Was there any way he could help her? Not likely, Caleb told himself as he walked toward the shed. He’d be a fool to stay within shotgun range for long. A look, a word, anything could trigger Laura’s memory and her finger. Worse, if she recognized him and sent word to the sheriff, he could end up in prison again, this time as an accessory to murder.

And if he did stay, what could he do for her? Tell her lies? Hurt her again? Caleb sighed as he unlatched the door of the toolshed. He had learned all he’d set out to learn. Laura’s life was far from perfect, but she was surviving as best she could. The wisest thing he could do now was ride away and leave her alone. And he would—as soon as he mended the corral gate.

Laura peered past the frame of the window, watching as the man named McCurdy rehung the sagging gate. He moved with a quiet sureness, one shoulder bracing the timbers while he hammered the nail that held the iron hinge in place. She had tried to do the job herself a few weeks ago but had lacked the strength to hold up the heavy gate while she worked with her hands. Caleb McCurdy made the task look easy.

Her fingers brushed the scar that trailed like spilled tallow down the side of her face. Who was Caleb McCurdy, she wondered, and why had he come this way? Laura was curious, but starting a conversation would only encourage him to stay longer. She’d agreed to his offer out of the necessity to get the gate repaired. But all she really wanted was to be left alone.

He was well spoken and decently dressed. But aside from that he was a rough-looking sort with the face of a brawler. There was no telling what a man like that might do to a helpless woman with a child. Until he was out of sight, she would be wise to watch his every move.

“Who’s that man, Mama?” Laura had let Robbie out of his room a few minutes earlier. Now he was standing on tiptoe beside her, peering over the sill.

“Nobody,” she said. “Just a saddle tramp who needs a meal. At least this one’s willing to work for it.”

“Can I go outside and swing now?” the boy asked. “You said I could if I cleaned up my room.”

Laura hesitated, torn, as always, between the need to protect her son and the awareness that even a small boy needed some freedom. Every time Robbie left her sight she was sick with worry. But the last thing she wanted was to raise him to be a timid, fearful man.

“Please,” Robbie begged. “Just for a little while.”

Laura sighed. “All right. But stay close to the swing. Don’t go near the creek, and leave that man alone, do you hear?”

“Yes, Mama.” He skipped across the kitchen and out the back door, letting the screen slam behind him. Laura watched him through the window as he ran toward the swing. Such a beautiful, open, trusting little boy. So like his father.

But her husband had been too trusting, she reminded herself. In the end, Mark’s faith in the goodness of his fellowmen had killed him and very nearly destroyed her.

In those black days after his murder, only the thought of their unborn child had kept her alive and fighting. Now Robbie was her life—her whole life. She would die, or kill, to keep him safe.

The sight of Caleb McCurdy’s gun belt, coiled like a rattlesnake on the seat of the rocking chair, reminded Laura of the bargain she’d made. Slicing off four slabs of brown bread, she made sandwiches, layering them with meat from the grouse she’d shot in the foothills and with lettuce from her garden. When she was finished, she wrapped the sandwiches in a clean piece of flour sack, knotted the corners and left them on the porch next to the gun belt. As an afterthought, she filled a tin cup with cold water from the kitchen pump. He’d been working hard, and the early summer sun was hot.

Locking the front door behind her, she went back to the kitchen window and looked outside. Caleb McCurdy had the hinges in place and was testing the gate, moving it back and forth to make sure it swung smoothly. Soon he’d be returning to the porch for his meal. It was time she got Robbie back into the house.

She hurried through the kitchen, out the screen door and onto the stoop to call him.

Her heart froze.

The swing dangled empty on its long ropes. Her son was nowhere in sight.

Caleb was gathering up the leftover nails when Laura burst around the corner of the house. Her face was white. “Robbie—my boy!” she gasped. “Where is he?”

“He was on the swing the last time I looked over that way. He can’t be far.” Caleb dropped the nails and the hammer next to the gatepost. It was the nature of little boys to run off and explore. They did it all the time. But the expression of stark fear in Laura’s eyes went beyond motherly concern. Did she suspect him of doing something to her child? Was she afraid he’d snatched the boy to lure her outside?

But why brood about it? After what his family had done to her, Laura had every reason to be fearful and suspicious.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll help you look for him.”

They sprinted back toward the tree, where the boy had last been seen. Laura called her son’s name while Caleb checked the creek, which flowed high with runoff from the melting snow in the mountains. There was no sign of the boy in the water, nor were there any fresh tracks along the bank.

“Have you looked in the springhouse?” he asked her. Laura shook her head. “I always keep it locked. He wouldn’t be able to get in.”

A glance toward the springhouse confirmed her words. The door hasp wore a forbidding steel padlock. Caleb understood Laura’s need to keep her son away from the horror of that place. But there was nothing he could say about it. Even in his silence, he had already begun to lie to her.

The sooner he rode away from here, the better it would be for them both.

While Laura searched the willows, Caleb studied the bare earth around the huge, gnarled cottonwood that supported the swing. His Comanche mother, who’d died when he was twelve, had taught him all there was to know about tracking. But he could see no small, fresh footprints leading away from the base of the tree. Where could a little boy go without leaving a trail?

And then, suddenly, he knew.

Speaking softly, he beckoned to Laura. “Come and stand right here. Wait till I’m out of sight. Then look up into the tree and call to him.”

With wondering eyes, she stepped onto the spot where he’d stood. Caleb moved back under the eave of the springhouse. He wanted to make sure the boy wasn’t too frightened to show himself.

“Robbie?” Laura looked up into the branches above her head. Relief, shadowed with exasperation, swept across her face. “Robert Mark Shafton, what on earth are you doing up there?”

A joyous giggle rang out from ten feet above her head. “I climbed up here, Mama. All by myself!”

Laura’s voice shook. “You had me scared half to death! I’ve been calling and calling. Why on earth didn’t you answer me?”

“I was playing hide-and-seek! You were supposed to find me!”

“Well, pardon me, Master Shafton, I didn’t know this was supposed to be a game.” Laura stood glaring up at her son, her hands on her hips. Caleb watched her from the corner of the springhouse. Five years ago, Laura Shafton had been a shy, enchanting young bride. Tragedy and motherhood had brought out her inner strength. She was magnificent, he thought.

Too bad he couldn’t risk telling her so.

“You get down from there, Robbie,” she said. “Carefully, now, so you won’t fall.”

“Are you going to spank me?” Robbie straddled a sloping limb, clinging to his perch like a treed cat. He was a beautiful child, with his mother’s eyes and his father’s golden coloring.

“No, I’m not going to spank you,” Laura said firmly. “But you’ll be spending some time in your room, young man. We’ll talk about it when you get down.”

The boy inched backward down the limb, but he couldn’t see where he was going. His small feet groped for purchase. He was clearly in trouble.

Laura gasped. “Wait, Robbie! Don’t try to move!” But the child was already slipping off the limb.

Caleb sprinted out from the shelter of the springhouse and started up the tree. “Hang on, I’ll get you!” he shouted, scrambling up the knotted trunk. But he was already too late.

He heard Laura’s scream as Robbie lost his grip and plummeted downward in a shower of twigs and leaves. She sprang for him, trying to break his fall, but as she reached out, she lost her balance and stumbled. The boy fell through her fingertips, struck the ground with a sickening thud and lay still.

Chapter Two

“Robbie! No!” Laura crumpled to her knees beside her son’s body. He was lying facedown on the grassy earth, one arm bent outward at a nightmarish angle. She could see no sign that he was breathing.

“No—” She reached for him, frantic to snatch him up and cradle him in her arms, but a steely hand gripped her shoulder, pulling her back.

“Don’t try to move him,” Caleb McCurdy said. “That could hurt him worse. Give me some room. I’m no doctor, but I’ll do what I can.”

Struck by the urgency in his voice, Laura shifted to one side. She felt a cold numbness sinking into her bones, as if she were being frozen in a block of ice. The birds had fallen silent and she could no longer hear the gurgling creek. The only sound to reach her brain was the pounding of her own heart.

McCurdy knelt beside her. She held her breath as his long, brown fingers probed the length of Robbie’s spine, pressing gently against his ribs. Seconds crawled past. This was all her fault. If she hadn’t scolded the boy, insisting that he come down at once, he would have waited for help. He would have been safe. Now he could be dying or so badly hurt that he would never run, swing or climb a tree again.

Laura prayed harder than she’d ever prayed in her life. Five years ago she’d almost given up on prayer, but the words came now in a rush of silent pleading. Please…please let him be all right, I’ll do anything, give anything…

More seconds passed in frozen agony. Then Robbie coughed, gulped air and began to struggle. His legs kicked freely, but when he tried to move his arm, he flinched and broke into a wail of pain.

“There now, your mother’s right here.” McCurdy eased the sobbing boy onto his back and lifted him off the ground. Supporting the broken arm, he laid him tenderly across Laura’s lap.

Laura pressed her face against Robbie’s dusty hair, kissing his ears and his dirt-streaked face, murmuring incoherent little phrases of love and relief.

McCurdy exhaled and sank back onto his heels. The bright sunlight cast his eyes into shadowed pits. “My guess is he just got the wind knocked out of him. But you’ll need to watch him for a few days. Get him to a doctor if there’s any sign that something’s wrong. And that arm’s got to be set and splinted.”

“There’s no doctor within twenty miles of here,” she said. “Can you help me with the arm?”

He hesitated, then slowly nodded. “I’ve seen it done—had it done when I broke my own arm as a boy. There’s not much to it, but it’ll hurt.” He looked down at Robbie. “How brave are you, boy?”

Robbie’s eyes opened wide in his tear-stained face. “I’m not scared of anything. Not bugs or snakes or even our big red rooster. Not even trees,” he added with a wan little grin.

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Caleb McCurdy’s mouth. He looked younger when he smiled, Laura thought. She had judged him to be in his thirties. Now she realized he might be closer to her own age. But he had clearly seen some hard living. Like her he was scarred. Inside, she suspected, as well as outside.

Reason told her he was the last man she should trust. But right now her son needed help, and Caleb McCurdy was all the help she had.

“Are you brave enough to let me straighten your arm?” he asked Robbie. “It’s going to hurt.”

“It hurts now,” Robbie said, grimacing. “I’ll be brave.”

“Good boy.” McCurdy brushed a knuckle against the boy’s flushed cheek. For Laura, the awkward caress was one more reminder of what Robbie had missed growing up without a father. She was doing her best with the boy. But there was only so much a lonely, frightened widow could do to raise a son to manhood. Every day the task became more daunting. The killer who’d gunned down Mark Shafton had shattered three lives—Mark’s, hers and Robbie’s.

Caleb McCurdy rose to his feet. “The sooner we get this over with the better,” he said. “I’ll need some thin, straight wood for the splint and something to wrap around it.”

“Try the woodpile,” Laura told him. “I’ve got an old nightgown I can tear into strips. That should do for wrapping.”

“Fine. Take your boy inside. Lay him down and get him as calm as you can. I’ll be in as soon as I get the wood ready.”

Cradling her son in her arms, Laura carried him through the back door and into the house. Through the window, she caught a glimpse of McCurdy rummaging through the woodpile. Less than an hour ago the man had been a complete stranger. Now he’d be coming into her home. She would be trusting him with her life and the life of her precious son.

The last time she’d opened her door to strangers was the day of her husband’s murder. The thought of doing it again sent a leaden wave of fear through her body. Not all men were evil, she reminded herself. So far, Caleb McCurdy had treated her with courtesy and kindness. But she couldn’t afford to lower her guard. Robbie’s life and her own could depend on her vigilance.

Robbie was whimpering with the pain of his broken arm. Laura laid him on her own bed, propped him with pillows and arranged the arm gently across his chest. She could see where the bone angled halfway between the wrist and elbow. The sight of it made her stomach clench.

Soaking a cloth with cold water from the pump, she laid it over the swelling flesh. Then she brought him some fresh cider to drink out of his special blue china cup. “My brave little man,” she whispered, kissing his damp forehead. “Close your eyes and rest. Everything’s going to be all right.”

She waited until his whimpering eased. Then she found the threadbare flannel nightgown, sat down on the foot of the bed and began tearing the fabric into strips.

Caleb chose a straight chunk of pine and split off two thin slabs with the hatchet. Then he sat down on the chopping block and began smoothing the pieces with his knife, rounding off the rough edges and shaping them to the contour of a child’s arm. Laura’s son would need to wear the splint for at least six weeks. He wanted it to be comfortable.

As he worked, his mind pictured Laura, seeing the terror in her eyes as she plunged toward her fallen child. What if the boy had been killed? Laura was so deeply scarred by the past that one more loss would have shattered her.

And the boy was not out of the woods yet. He could have internal injuries that might not show up right away. Days from now, he could start vomiting blood. Caleb had seen a man die that way in prison after a vicious kick to the gut. The same thing could happen to a child.

Caleb sighed as he shaved the last rough edge off the makeshift splint. How could he ride off and leave Laura alone at a time like this? Unless she ran him off her property with the shotgun, it would be a kindness to stay for a few more days, at least until her son was out of danger. There appeared to be plenty of work to do around the place. He could use that as an excuse, to avoid worrying her.

Brushing the wood shavings off his denims, he sheathed the knife and went around the house to the front door. Laura still viewed him as a stranger. She’d even left his food and gun belt on the porch so he wouldn’t have to come inside. Now he was about to invade her home. One misstep on his part could plunge her into panic. He would have to weigh his every move and measure his every word.

Cautiously he rapped on the door. He heard her light, quick footsteps coming from the back of the house. Then the door swung inward and she stood on the threshold, wide-eyed and trembling.

“Robbie’s resting on my bed,” she said. “I’ll hold him while you set the arm. Will it hurt a lot?”

“I’ll be as gentle as I can. But yes, it’ll hurt. He’ll likely scream, but it’s got to be done.” He followed her through the parlor. Except for the little wooden train cars scattered over the braided rug, the room was much as he remembered it. “If you’ve got some whiskey, we could use it to make him drowsy,” he said.

“No.” She didn’t look back at him. “I don’t keep whiskey in the house.”

She led him into her bedroom, where the boy lay in a nest of pillows. Clearly, Laura was more concerned about her son than she was about having a strange man in this, the most intimate room in her house.

Caleb knew he should keep his eyes on the boy, but he couldn’t help noticing the store-bought mahogany bed with its quilted muslin coverlet and the matching wardrobe and dresser. The wall behind the dresser, where a mirror would have hung, was bare. In fact, there didn’t seem to be any mirrors in the house at all.

A silver-framed photograph of Mark Shafton sat on the nightstand. At the sight of that clean-chiseled face, Caleb’s stomach contracted so violently that for an instant he feared he was going to be sick.

“That’s my papa,” the boy said. “He got killed by some bad men.”

“Lie still, Robbie,” Laura said. “Don’t try to talk.”

“His name was Mark Robert Shafton,” the child persisted. “Like my name, only backwards. My name’s Robert Mark. My mama’s name is Laura. What’s your name?”

“Caleb.”

“My mama says I should call men mister. Can I call you Mr. Caleb?”

“Fine. Now let’s take care of that arm.” Changing the subject, he showed the boy the two pieces of the splint. “Your mother’s going to hold you while I pull your arm and straighten out the bone. Then we’ll put these sticks around your arm and wrap them so it’ll heal straight. All right?”

“You said it would hurt.”

“It will. But only for a few seconds.”

“I won’t cry.”

“It might help if you do.” Caleb glanced at Laura. “Hold him.”

Laura gathered her son close, burying his face against her breast. He squirmed and twisted his head away, wanting to see. She let him, even though she doubted the wisdom of it.

“Brace his shoulder,” Caleb McCurdy said, leaning above them. “Ready?”

Laura gripped the small body, feeling the thin bones strain beneath her fingers. A tear trickled down her cheek. He was so small and so brave. “Ready,” she whispered.

Caleb gripped Robbie’s wrist with one scarred brown hand. The other hand rested on the spot where the boy’s forearm was bent like a badly hammered nail. Gently at first he began to apply pressure, stretching the arm and pushing the break into position. Laura had read that the bones of small children were like green willows, more apt to bend and splinter than to snap. From the look of Robbie’s arm, the bone was still in one piece. Still, the pain had to be excruciating. She bit back her own sobs as her son began to whimper, then to scream.

“Done.” Caleb eased back on the straightened arm. Sweat was streaming down his face. “Good boy, Robbie. You’re as brave as any man I know. Now, if your mother will wrap your arm to cushion it and hand me the splints…”

Robbie’s screams had subsided to jerking sobs. Easing him back onto the pillows, Laura wrapped the first layer of flannel lightly around his arm, then handed Caleb the splints. He held them in place while she wound the wrappings. Working so closely together, it was difficult to avoid contact. The male aromas of sage, wood smoke and fresh perspiration crept into Laura’s senses until she felt strangely warm. Each accidental brush of his fingers against hers sent a jolt of awareness shooting up her arms and prickling through her body. She focused her attention on Robbie, diverting her thoughts from the rough-looking stranger who’d invaded her life. Soon he’d be gone. Then she could get back to the safe, private world she’d created for herself and her son.

He stepped away from the bed as Laura finished the wrapping and knotted the end of the flannel strip. Robbie lay back on the pillows, quiet now.

“Keep the arm raised as much as you can,” Caleb said. “That will ease the swelling.”

Laura rearranged the pillows to support the splinted arm. “I’m going to make you some chamomile tea, Robbie. You can get up later, after you’ve rested awhile.” She glanced back at Caleb, who was moving toward the bedroom door. “I’m beholden to you, Caleb McCurdy. Why don’t you bring your food into the kitchen and eat at the table. I’ll get you some cold cider and a slice of apple pie to go with the sandwich. That’s the least I can do.”

He hesitated for the space of a breath, as if pondering her offer. Then he thanked her and left the room. Laura covered Robbie with the soft merino blanket that had comforted him since babyhood. Bending, she brushed a kiss across his forehead. “Your father would have been so proud of you, my little love,” she murmured. He gave her a teary smile. She kissed him again and hurried out to the kitchen.

Caleb unwrapped his sandwich and laid it on the chipped bone china plate Laura had placed in front of him. He had sat at the same table five years ago. This time he occupied the place at the end, where Mark Shafton had sat on that day of horror.

Caleb was hungry and the food was well prepared. But his dry mouth had lost its ability to taste. Why had he come back here, to this place, these memories and this beautiful, damaged woman? He should have headed west to California or south to Mexico, where he could put the past behind him. Instead he’d chosen to open old wounds, and he was already bleeding.

Laura stood at the stove, measuring dried chamomile into a porcelain pot. He noticed the way she kept the left side of her face turned away from him, hiding the scar. “We don’t get many travelers out here since they finished the railroad,” she said, making polite conversation. “Where are you headed?”

“Texas. San Antone, most likely. Thought I’d take my time and see some new country on the way.” Another lie, as was everything he’d told her except his name. “I don’t see any hired help around,” he said, changing the subject. “How do you manage out here, a woman alone with a youngster? Wouldn’t you be better off selling the place and moving to a town?”

“I might.” She poured boiling water into the teapot. The flowery aroma of chamomile drifted into the room. “But I stay here to keep the land for Robbie. That’s what his father would have wanted—a legacy for him, his children, his grandchildren…” Her voice broke slightly as she spooned some honey out of a jar and dribbled a little of it into the tea. “I sold off the beef cattle and the spare horses after Mark died,” she said. “I wasn’t up to taking care of them, and I needed the money to live on. Steers and mustangs can be replaced. Land can’t. I’ll wear rags and go barefoot before I sell a single acre.”

Struck by the passion in her voice, Caleb studied the proud angle of her head and the determined thrust of her jaw. He had thought of Laura as fragile. But underneath her porcelain doll exterior was a core of tempered steel. He had glimpsed that steel when she’d turned on Zeke, sunk her teeth into his arm and grappled for the knife that would slash her face. Now he was seeing it again.

He should have guessed he would find her here, holding on to what was hers. So why hadn’t he turned around and left as soon as she opened the front door? Why was he still here, risking the chance that he might be recognized?

“But it doesn’t make sense to sit on the land while your money runs out,” he heard himself saying. “A ranch like this one could make you a right handsome living. You could run a herd of cattle, fatten them up on this good grass and ship them east by rail, or sell them to the army. Sheep would do all right in this country, too.”

She toyed briefly with her thin gold wedding ring. “You sound like my husband. He always said that one day we’d have the finest ranch in New Mexico.”

Caleb’s throat constricted around the piece of bread he’d just swallowed. He willed himself not to choke.

“I became a widow six months before Robbie was born,” she said. “I didn’t know the first thing about running a ranch. It was all I could do to survive and take care of my baby. When my nearest neighbor offered to buy the stock, I agreed to his offer, even though I knew he was getting a bargain. I needed the money.”

Caleb took a sip of cold cider and managed to swallow it. If he had any brains he’d get up from the table, thank Laura for the meal and ride away before he dug himself any deeper. But there was the matter of a small, broken boy who might yet need a trip to the nearest doctor. And there was the matter of this scarred, beautiful woman to whom he owed a monstrous debt.

Caleb’s mother had told him that among her people, if someone died because of another’s actions, the bereaved family had the right of adoption. They could claim the offender to take the place of their lost loved one and help provide for their family. It was a wise custom, one that served both justice and practicality.

Not that Caleb could ever replace Mark Shafton as husband, father and provider. That notion was unthinkable. But if he could teach Laura how to run the ranch, get her started with some cattle and hire some reliable help before he moved on, it might at least ease his conscience.

“You’ve got the makings of a good ranch here,” he said. “But the place needs some work. The windmill, the fences, the sheds…”

“Yes, I know.” She poured the tea into a small blue cup, set it on a saucer and added a splash of milk. “When Robbie’s a little older, I’ll have more time to spend keeping the place up. I’m not as helpless as I look. I can hammer nails and slap on whitewash with the best of them. But right now, I don’t dare turn my back on the little mischief. You saw what happened today.”

“I could help you,” Caleb said, feeling as if he’d just stepped over the edge of a cliff. “For a few good meals and a spot to lay my bedroll, I could have the place looking like new.”

She looked hesitant, and for an instant he felt his heart stop.

“You understand it wouldn’t be a regular job,” she said. “It would only be for a week or so, and I can’t spare the money to pay you. If you’d be satisfied with a bed in the toolshed and three square meals a day—”

Caleb forced himself to grin. “Lady, for pie like this, I’d mend fences all the way from here to California!”

She picked up the cup and saucer in her workworn hands. Again, as she moved toward the bedroom, Caleb sensed her hesitation. He was a stranger. And even if you were kind to them, strangers could turn into monsters.

“Give me time to think about it,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”

“Fine.” Caleb laid down his fork and rose from his chair. “While you’re thinking, I’ll go outside and start on that broken windmill.”

Without giving her a chance to protest, he walked out the front door and closed it behind him. By the time he reached the bottom step, his knees were shaking. What in hell’s name did he think he was doing? If Laura recognized him, he could be a dead man or, worse, on his way back to prison for life. Mount up and ride away, that would be the smart thing to do. Laura was a strong woman. She could manage fine without his help.

But the force that had drawn him to this place was pulling him deeper into Laura’s life. Whether it was guilt, duty or destiny’s unseen hand, Caleb sensed that he’d come here for a reason. Whatever the cost, he could not leave until he understood what that reason was.

Picking up the hammer and nails where he’d dropped them by the corral gate, he strode to the base of the windmill and began to climb.

Chapter Three

Laura had taken extra pains with supper, mixing up a batch of sourdough biscuits, churning fresh butter and adding a pinch of precious ground seasonings to the rabbit stew. Caleb McCurdy had put in a long, hard afternoon, she reasoned. Not only was the corral gate mended, but he’d replaced the missing vanes on the windmill and patched the holes in the roof of the chicken coop, to say nothing of setting Robbie’s arm. Since she had no money to pay him, the least she could do was serve him a decent meal.

Glancing out through the kitchen window, she could see him washing at the pump. He’d tossed his brown flannel shirt on a sapling and unbuttoned the top of his long johns to hang around his waist. He was bending forward, letting the water stream through his raven hair. Now, slowly, he straightened, raking his fingers through his dripping locks. Water flowed over his bare shoulders to trickle down along the muscled furrow of his spine and vanish beneath the damp waistband of his denims. He was as lean and sinewy as a tom cougar with no trace of fat on his lanky frame. Where the setting sun shone on his wet skin, he blazed with liquid fire.

Turning, he cupped his hands and sluiced water over his chest and under his armpits. The nicks and scars that marred his coppery body spoke of violent times and rough living. Laura’s fingers tightened on the frame of the window. Caleb McCurdy had appeared out of nowhere, like an angel in her time of need. But he was clearly no angel. His dark eyes were too feral, his reflexes too quick. He had all the marks of a wild animal, ready to strike out at the first unguarded moment. She could not afford to trust him—or any other man in this godforsaken, bullet-riddled country.

So why did she stay? Laura had long since stopped asking herself that question. She knew the answer all too well.

Another letter had arrived last week, this one from her sister Jeannie, urging her to leave the ranch and come home to St. Louis. There would be a room for her in the family home, Jeannie had said, and a room for Robbie, where he could grow up safe and happy, surrounded by people who cared for him.

For the space of a breath Laura had been tempted. But who would she be in St. Louis? The scarred sister, hiding from curious eyes in some upstairs room, a prisoner of her own ugliness. And Robbie—he would be the son of a dead father and an unseen mother, dependent on others for a leg up in the world. Here the boy was heir to five hundred acres of fine ranch land. Here he would have his own piece of the earth. He would grow up to be a strong, independent man. For Robbie’s sake she had to stay—to bear the hardship of grinding work and the lonely terror of black nights. Her own life had ended with the flash of a knife and the roar of a pistol. Now she lived for her child and the man he would become.

Caleb McCurdy glanced toward the house. Laura shrank back from the window. Heaven forbid he catch her watching him. The last thing she wanted was to put wrong ideas into the man’s head—ideas that might be there already, she reminded herself. She would be wise to keep the shotgun handy.

He was reaching for his shirt now, thrusting his glistening arms into the sleeves. Soon he’d be coming inside to eat. It was time she fetched the milk from the springhouse.

She had left the milk until the last minute because the day was hot and she didn’t want it to spoil. Besides, there was nothing better than ice-cold milk after a day’s work, especially with hot, buttered biscuits.

Slipping into her bedroom, she took a moment to check on Robbie. The boy had passed a restless afternoon, but an hour ago he’d taken some warm broth and fallen into exhausted slumber. Now he lay curled on his side, his splinted arm resting on a pillow. Aching with love, Laura leaned over the bed and brushed a kiss where one damp golden curl fell across his forehead. He was her boy, her perfect, precious son.

What if she’d lost him today in that terrible fall from the tree? For the space of a heartbeat she’d feared…But no, Laura forced the thought from her mind. Robbie was safe now. His arm would heal, and soon he’d be good as new.

The springhouse, a sturdy log building the size of a very small room, stood just a few steps from the back door. Laura’s husband had built it over the creek, which he’d diverted from its true channel by means of a timber dam, covered with earth and sod. Inside the springhouse there was a perforated tin cool box set into the water, as well as shelves and hooks for hanging meat. It was a clever piece of engineering. Mark had been proud of his work; but after his death, Laura had come desperately close to dousing the structure with kerosene and burning it to the ground. Only practical need, coupled with the danger of setting the house on fire, had stayed her hand.

Even after five years, she could not step into that clammy darkness without feeling sick. Her hand shook as she turned the key in the steel padlock. The door creaked softly as it swung inward.

Her skin began to crawl as she forced herself across the threshold. There was no sound except the gurgling of water, but the buried echo of a gunshot lingered in the wooden heart of each log that formed the walls. The mossy earth was rank with remembered odors—gunpowder, blood, and the awful aftermath of death. Steeling herself against a rush of nausea, Laura bent and lifted the milk from the tin box. The jug was cold and dripping wet between her hands. She hurried outside with it, gulping fresh air into her lungs. For a moment she stood still, letting the twilight settle around her. The fading sun was warm on her face. A rock wren piped from the foothills beyond the tool shed.

Balancing the jug on her hip, she used her free hand to hook the padlock through the hasp and squeeze it firmly closed. Only then did her pulse slow to its natural rhythm. She would be all right now. The horror was locked away…until next time.

A furtive glance told her that Caleb McCurdy was no longer at the pump. An instant later she spotted him at the corral fence, filling the water trough. His arms lifted the big bucket as if it had no weight, pouring the water carefully so that none would spill and be wasted. In the fading light, his wet hair gleamed like polished jet.

Turning, he gave her a nod. “Anything you need?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard across the distance.

“Supper’s on.” She forced the words, her throat so tight that it felt as if she hadn’t spoken in months.

“I’ll be in as soon as I finish here.” He sounded as uneasy as she did. Laura imagined their mealtime conversation as a series of stilted comments on the weather, interspersed with long, awkward pauses. She’d forgotten how to make small talk, especially with a man.

But what did that matter? The only man in her future would be her son. As for Caleb McCurdy, he was nothing but a saddle tramp. As soon as the work ran out—sooner if he grew weary of it—he’d be over the hill and gone like a tumbleweed in the wind. By then, she’d probably be grateful to see the last of him.

In the kitchen, she set the milk on the counter while she checked on Robbie. He was still sleeping, his breathing light and even, his lashes wet against his rosy cheeks. With a grateful sigh, Laura hurried back to the kitchen, poured the foamy milk into earthenware mugs and took the tin of biscuits out of the warmer above the stove. She was arranging the biscuits on a plate when she heard the light rap at the door.

Her heart lurched. Her hands flew upward to smooth back the wind-tousled tendrils of her hair, only to pause in midair like hesitant butterflies.

What in heaven’s name am I doing? Laura forced her hands down to her sides. Arranging her features into a prim expression, she strode across the parlor, turned the latch and slowly opened the door.

The aromas wafting from the kitchen beckoned Caleb to enter. But the sight of Laura, flushed and trembling, stopped him like a bayonet to the heart. He hesitated at the threshold. Her eyes were large and bright, her face glowing in the amber light that slanted through the window. Her mouth, however, was pressed into a grim line, as if her lips had been sealed to keep any emotion from spilling out. Was she frightened, angry, or simply unsure of herself, as he was? For the life of him, Caleb could not read her.

Lord, what was he doing here? What had made him think he could help this woman, when he was part of the nightmare that had scarred her face and driven her wild with terror? If he had any sense, he would turn around, ride away and never look back.

But her lips were moving now, opening like soft pink petals. “Come in,” she said in a taut little whisper. “Your supper’s on the table.”

“It smells mighty fine.” He took a tentative step inside, letting the aromas of meat, onions, and fresh biscuits shimmer through his senses. He was tired and hungry. The food smelled damned good, and he’d earned every bite.

“How’s your boy?” Remembering his manners, Caleb pulled out her chair and waited until she’d seated herself before taking his own place—Mark Shafton’s place—at the head of the table.

“Better. He ate an hour ago and went to sleep.” She ladled the stew into big bowls with her small, chapped hands. It would have been easier with the boy here, Caleb thought. Alone with Laura, he would have to make conversation for the length of the meal. He’d never been good at talking to women, and five years in prison hadn’t helped that any.

“I…hope you like rabbit stew,” she said, passing him a plate of flaky, golden biscuits.

“I was raised on it back in Texas. But my ma’s rabbit stew never smelled this good.” He dipped a bit of biscuit in the broth, wondering if it was the proper thing to do. “Or tasted this good,” he added after savoring the morsel on his tongue. “Did you shoot the rabbit yourself?”

As soon as it was out of his mouth, the question struck him as inane. And Texas. Noah had mentioned Texas on that day, five years ago. Even the word could spark Laura’s memory. Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut?

“I didn’t exactly shoot it.” She buttered a chunk of her own biscuit. “Bullets are expensive. Snares are cheap. When I first came west, I couldn’t imagine harming helpless little wild animals. But when you’re raising a child, and you have to put meat on the table every day…” She shrugged. “It’s amazing what necessity can make you do. I did shoot the grouse you had for lunch. Early this spring, I even brought down a deer that wandered into the yard. Butchered it myself. We ate like royalty until the weather warmed up and the meat went bad.”

Caleb studied her over his mug, trying to imagine how she’d managed to survive the past five years, out here alone with a small child. In the fading light she looked as delicate as a rose and just as beautiful. Her eyes were the color of clouds before a storm, and her tawny hair clung in tendrils to her blooming cheeks. The neck of her gown was open to the heat, revealing the creamy skin of her throat and the slight swelling at the top of one breast.

He drank her in, filling his senses with the sight of her.

She shifted in her chair, turning the scarred side of her face away from him. He burned to tell her that the damned scar didn’t matter—that it wouldn’t matter to any man in his right mind. But that, he sensed, would only make her more self-conscious.

“Don’t you have anyone who looks in on you, Laura?” he asked. “Neighbors? Friends?”

Caleb saw her eyes widen and he realized that once more he’d put his foot in it. A strange man, asking if she was alone. No wonder she looked as if she were about to bolt for the shotgun. Swiftly he changed the subject.

“My mother used to make jerked venison—salted and dried. I could show you how. That way, if you get another deer, the meat won’t go to waste.”

“I’d like that.” She paused to swallow a bit of stew. “Is that how they preserve meat in Texas?”

Texas again. Caleb’s throat tightened. “My mother was Comanche. Her people always made jerky. When I was a boy, I used to eat it like candy. Robbie will, too. It’s good, and you can take it in your pocket.”

She studied him with doe-like eyes. Caleb wondered how she felt about half-breeds. “Is your mother still alive?” she asked.

Caleb shook his head. “She died when I was twelve. My father’s gone, too.”

“Any other family? Brothers or sisters?”

“None that I’ve seen in a long time—or want to see.” Caleb’s mouth had gone dry. Her curiosity was cutting dangerously close to the truth. But he could not lie to those eyes—eyes like silvery crystal that seemed able to look right through him.

“I just got out of prison,” he blurted, seizing on a different truth. “I did five years in Yuma for my part in a bank robbery.”

Laura’s spoon clattered to the table. She was staring at him in horror, her eyes huge in her pale face. Maybe she’d throw him out now. That would make everything easier.

“Just so you’ll know, I didn’t hurt anybody,” he said. “And I didn’t take any money—never even laid eyes on it. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the wrong people. I’ve paid my debt, and now I’m going straight.” He pushed himself away from the table and rose to his feet. “I’d never hurt you or your boy, Laura. But if you don’t feel safe with me around, just say the word and I’ll leave now. It’s up to you.”

Caleb waited, forcing himself to meet those fathomless gray eyes. His innards crawled with self-loathing. What he’d told her was bad enough. But what he hadn’t told her was a hundred times worse. Using one truth to cover another was more heinous than a lie. It was a crime against innocence and trust.

Her silence lay heavy and cold in the room. Caleb could hear the slow ticking of the pendulum clock in the parlor, counting the empty seconds, and still she did not move or speak.

At last, when he could stand it no longer, he cleared his throat. “Well, I guess that says it,” he muttered. “I’ll be going now, as soon as I can saddle up. Much obliged for your hospitality and the good food.”

Tearing his eyes away from her he strode out of the kitchen and across the parlor. It was for the best, Caleb told himself. The longer he stayed, the deeper the lie and the greater the risk that Laura would discover the truth. He had the answer to the question that had brought him here. Wasn’t that enough?

He had reached the front door when he heard her voice.

“Come back here, Caleb McCurdy. You haven’t finished your supper.”

He froze with his hand on the doorknob. Open the door and walk out of her life, that would be the smart thing to do. But Caleb knew that wasn’t going to happen. With a sigh, he turned around and ambled back into the kitchen.

Laura was sitting where he’d left her, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the table. The fading light caught windblown tendrils of hair, framing her face in a soft, golden halo.

“Please sit down,” she said. “There’s something you need to understand.”

Caleb lowered himself onto his chair, waiting in silence. Even before she spoke, he knew what he was about to hear.

“Five years ago I thought my life was perfect. I had everything I wanted—a home, a loving husband and a baby on the way. Then one afternoon three rough-looking men rode in through the gate. Just the sight of them made my flesh crawl. I begged Mark to send them on their way, but he was a man who lived by the Golden Rule. We welcomed them, even gave them a meal. Then, just as they were getting ready to leave, things got ugly.” She stared down at the table for a long moment. “One of them caught me alone in the springhouse. He gave me this when I fought him.” Her fingers brushed the scar as she flashed Caleb a view of her left profile, then turned full face once more. “When my husband came rushing in and tried to save me, they shot him and rode off. He died in my arms.”

She made an odd little strangled sound, closing her eyes and clasping her hands until the knuckles went white. Then the breath went out of her in a long exhalation. She opened her eyes, composed once more. “I’m telling you this so you’ll understand how I feel about strangers. It hasn’t been easy for me, having you around the place today. But you’ve been honest about your past, Caleb. You’re a hard worker and you were here when I needed help with Robbie. You’re welcome to stay—until the work is done and you’re ready to move on, of course.”

Caleb gazed at her numbly, feeling as if he’d been kicked in the face. Lord, why hadn’t he walked away while he had the chance? If she’d run him off the ranch with the shotgun, he’d have been fine with it. But her declaration of trust, however reluctant, had undone him. Guilt knotted his innards with a pain so physical that he wanted to double over and groan.

Part of him wanted to know more. Had Laura been able to get help? Had she gone to the law with descriptions of the three men? Were he and his brothers wanted for the crime? But this was no time to ask. He’d pushed her far enough.

“I’m right sorry for what happened,” he muttered, taking a bite of food that had lost its taste. “I’ll be glad to stay, and grateful for the work. But if I do anything to make you nervous, just say so. I’ll be gone in the time it takes to saddle my horse. Understood?”

“Yes, and thank you.” She nibbled at a biscuit, then set it back on her plate. Both of them, it seemed, had lost their appetites.

The silence in the darkening room grew long and heavy. Caleb was relieved when Robbie woke up in the bedroom and began to whimper. Laura flitted away from the table. Moments later he could hear her through the open doorway, crooning a velvety lullaby to her son. Caleb forced himself to finish the stew and biscuits on his plate. He had a hard day’s work ahead tomorrow, he reminded himself. And he certainly didn’t want Laura to think there was anything wrong with her cooking.

He was sopping up the last of the gravy when she came back into the kitchen. By now it was almost dark. She paused to light the lamp on the counter. The match flickered in the gloom; then the golden light flooded her face, making her look as softly beautiful as the Madonna Caleb had once seen in an old Spanish church.

“Just a bad dream,” she murmured. “I got him into his nightshirt, and he went back to sleep. There’s pie if you’re still hungry.” When Caleb shook his head, she added, “You must be tired. Will you need a lantern to lay out your bedroll?”

It was a clear dismissal. Caleb slid back his chair and rose to his feet. “I cleared away a spot in the toolshed before I came in,” he said. “I’ll be fine. But let me put the milk and butter back in the springhouse for you. It’s getting dark out there. Might not be safe for a woman alone.”

The words were out of his mouth before he remembered. He’d made the same offer on that long-ago day when Zeke had cornered her in the springhouse. If she’d accepted his help then, the tragedy might never have happened.

This time she nodded and fumbled in her apron pocket. “Thanks. I’ll give you the key to the padlock. You can leave it on the nail by the back door when you’re finished.”

Again those firm words of dismissal, making sure he knew that she didn’t want him coming back inside. Caleb understood her reasons all too well. Still, it pained him that she felt the need to speak.

The miniature brass key glimmered as she drew it out of her pocket. Caleb reached out to take it from her. For the barest instant, his fingers touched hers.

Her fingertips were as callused and rough as his own. But the warmth of her flesh went through Caleb like a flash flood of raw need. He had touched her before—surely he had—when they were tending to Robbie’s arm. But this time the awareness of her, of every sweet, womanly part of her, left him dry-mouthed and dizzy.

For that instant, the only thing on his mind was wanting more.

The clatter of the key, dropping to the tiles, brought him back to his senses. With a muttered curse, Caleb dropped to his knees and fumbled in the darkness under the table. Laura bent close with the lantern. He could hear the silky rasp of her breathing behind him. Lord help him if he didn’t find that key—

“Got it!” His hand touched metal. He clambered to his feet, his fingers gripping the key, pressing its small, cold shape into his palm. Laura’s eyes were smoky in the lamplight. She took a step backward, widening the distance between them.

“Sorry,” he muttered, jamming the key into his own pocket. “Are you sure you want to trust these hands with your precious milk and butter?”

She forced a weary smile as she thrust the milk jug and the covered butter jar into his hands. He’d be all right now, Caleb told himself. He wouldn’t be tempted to brush his knuckle along her cheek as he left, or to lay a too-casual hand across her shoulder. He couldn’t allow himself to touch her again; that much he knew.

“Have a good night’s rest,” she said, opening the kitchen door for him. “When I see you up in the morning, I’ll call you in to breakfast.”

“That’s right kind of you. I’m looking forward to more of your good food.” Caleb moved out into the twilight. The door closed behind him, then jerked open again, flooding the stoop with light.

“Close the door of the shed before you go to sleep,” she said. “We get skunks in the yard, looking for eggs and food scraps. One morning I even found a rattler in the corral. I killed it with the shotgun. They like warm places where they can crawl in and hide. Believe me, you don’t want one of those for a bed partner.”

Caleb gave her a nod. “Thanks for the warning. We had skunks and rattlers back in Texas, too. Some of them were the two-legged kind. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. And you’ll be safe with me here.”

This time, when she closed the door behind him he heard the sharp, metallic click of the bolt.

Enough light remained for Caleb to see his way to the springhouse, but night was falling fast. He balanced his burden against the wall while he fumbled with the lock, turned the key and released the hasp. The door creaked inward and he stepped into the shadows.

The hair rose on the back of his neck as the nightmare memories crept around him. Laura’s anguished screams echoed off the walls, ripping through his senses. He felt the awful snap of bone and his own sick helplessness as Zeke’s blade opened her beautiful face. His eyes recoiled from the glint of light on Mark Shafton’s rifle and from Noah’s dark bulk in the glare of the sunlit doorway. The air was thick and smothering like a foul hand clamped over his face, shutting off his breath. It was as if the fear and evil born in that dank place had taken on a life of its own. All Caleb wanted was to get out of there.

His hands shook as he replaced the milk and butter in the cool box and stumbled out into the night. His mother had warned him about the spirits that lingered in places where some awful event had occurred. As a man, Caleb had chalked her stories up to Comanche superstition—until now.

Laura went in and out of the springhouse every day, he reminded himself. Did the horror of the place haunt her as it had haunted him? Or had she managed to wall it off into some forbidden corner of her mind? Caleb’s jaw clenched at the thought of what she must have suffered and the courage it must have taken for her to stay here alone.

Filling his lungs with the cool evening air, he closed the padlock and hung the key on the nail beside the back door. Lamplight flickered through the window as Laura went about her work in the kitchen. Caleb pictured her small, quick hands, washing, wiping, putting everything in order for tomorrow. What would it feel like, he wondered, to stand behind her, wrap his arms around her shoulders and cradle her gently against him? He wouldn’t ask heaven for more—just holding her would be enough, feeling her warmth and smelling the sweet, clean aroma of her hair. That was what he’d missed most in the past five years. In most any town there were whores who could be had for a few dollars, but simple tenderness was beyond any price he could pay.

Frustrated, he turned away from the house and walked toward the shed where he’d laid out his bedroll. In the east a waning teardrop of a moon hung above the horizon. Clouds floated across its pitted face. The moon was scarred, and yet it was the most beautiful object in the sky. What would Laura say if he told her that?

But what was he thinking? He was a half-breed and an ex-convict. Even if his family’s crime could be rubbed out and forgotten, a woman like Laura wouldn’t be caught walking down the street with him.

He crossed the yard, keeping an eye out for skunks and rattlesnakes. His horse stood dozing in the corral. Its ears twitched as Caleb passed the fence. He could saddle up and go tonight, he thought. Maybe he’d ride south, skirting the foothills, all the way to Mexico. He could build a new life there, with his own little ranch and a fiery-eyed señorita who didn’t give a damn about his past as long as he bought her pretty things to wear.

But no, he had fences to mend, firewood to chop and ditches to clear. He had an injured boy who could still take a turn for the worse, and a brave, beautiful woman who could only do so much without his help.

With every day he stayed here, the risks would mount. But Laura needed him. And while she needed him, he wouldn’t leave her. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until he could leave her safer, happier and better off than he’d found her.

Wispy clouds were streaming over the mountains. Dark against the indigo sky, they floated like tattered silk on the evening breeze. Caleb’s eyes traced the path of a falling star. He was bone tired, but something told him he wouldn’t get much sleep tonight.

In Laura’s window, the light had gone out.

Chapter Four

Laura lay with her eyes open, staring up into the darkness. Beside her Robbie curled in slumber, his splinted arm still resting on the pillow. Usually he slept in his own room, like the little man he was so determined to be. But tonight she wanted him near in case he woke up frightened or in pain. Tonight he was still her baby.

From outside in the yard, she could hear the light creak of the windmill in the nighttime breeze. She recalled how Caleb McCurdy had climbed up to replace the broken vanes with pine slabs he’d cut and shaped from logs in the woodpile. She remembered the sureness of his long, brown hands and the easy power of his body, a savage’s body, beautiful in its lithe, catlike way.

Watching him was like watching a dangerous animal. He had a brawler’s face, but the broken nose and the puckered scar across his eyebrow lent him a cynical, off-kilter expression that drew her eye and piqued her fascination. Laura had found herself wishing she could draw him out, learn more about who and what he was. But the secrets that blazed in those dark, intelligent eyes had warned her to keep her distance.

His whole way of moving and speaking was a study in tightly reined ferocity. Yet she’d never known anything from him except gentleness.

The man had been in prison, she reminded herself. And his self-confessed part in the robbery that landed him there had likely been played down for her benefit. He didn’t act like a criminal. But then, how was a criminal supposed to act? How would she know?

Restless, Laura turned onto her side and bunched her pillow under her head. She would be wise to watch his every move, she cautioned herself. Not only was Caleb McCurdy an ex-convict, he was also half Comanche. She didn’t know much about Indians, but Mark had warned her about half-breeds. They had the worst traits of the white race and the worst of the red, he’d told her. That was why decent folks didn’t like having them around.

Blurred by darkness now, Mark’s silver-framed photograph gazed at her from its place on the night-stand. What a handsome man he’d been—so bright and anxious to do well for himself. As a young bride, Laura had hung on his every word. Only in later years had she come to realize that, in many ways, Mark had been no wiser than she was. They’d been two innocents, little more than children, at the mercy of an untamed land and its people.

Laura twisted the thin gold band on her finger. Mark had been wrong about so many things. Had he been wrong about half-breeds, too?

With a sigh, she eased onto her back once more. Her arm slipped around the shoulders of her sleeping son. Robbie was her one sure, solid truth. His life gave meaning to every breath she took, every beat of her heart. All the rest was so much dust in the wind…even the tall, dark stranger who’d appeared like a phantom out of nowhere.

One day soon he would move on, and Laura sensed that she wouldn’t see him again. Caleb McCurdy didn’t strike her as a man who formed ties to any place—or to any person. He would simply ride away and never look back.

“What’re you doing now, mister?”

Caleb fitted a board into the empty slot and used his free hand to pick up a nail and press the tip into the soft pine. He didn’t mind the question at all. After the lonely years in prison, it was pure pleasure being tagged around the yard by a curious little boy.

“I’m putting new wood on your chicken coop so the skunks won’t get in and eat the eggs at night. Do you think that’s a good idea?” He picked up the hammer and sunk the nail with a few sharp blows.

Robbie watched him, wide-eyed. “Won’t the skunks get hungry?”

“They’ll find other things to eat.” Caleb glanced down at the nails scattered on the ground. “You can help me if you want. Pick up a few of those nails. When I need one, you can hand it to me.”

“You bet!” Robbie scrambled for the nails, eager in spite of his splinted arm, which Laura had cradled in a sling made from a faded bandanna. The boy had bounced back from yesterday’s fall. Except for some soreness in the arm and some awkwardness with the splint, he seemed to be doing fine.

Caleb accepted a second nail from Robbie and hammered it into place. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Laura hanging a muslin sheet on the clothesline. She’d had wash hanging out the day before, he recalled. Today she didn’t seem to have more than a small batch, just some bedding and a few dishcloths. Caleb suspected that the long process of boiling, scrubbing, rinsing, wringing and hanging was little more than an excuse to be outside where she could keep an eye on Robbie, and maybe on him as well.

He remembered the very first time he’d set eyes on her, standing in that very same spot, with yellow ribbons fluttering in her hair, so sweet and perfect that she’d reminded him of a brand-new store-bought doll just lifted from its tissue-paper wrappings.

Today she was dressed in threadbare calico, faded to a washed-out blue-gray that was worn almost colorless where the fabric strained against her breasts. Her sun-streaked hair hung down her back in a single braid, with loose tendrils blowing around her face. Her deep gray eyes were as luminous as ever, but they were framed by shadows of grief and worry. Laura Shafton was no longer a doll. She was a strong, capable woman who had stared death in the face and survived. A woman who could shoot a snake, skin a deer, chop her own firewood and raise a son with loving firmness.

In Caleb’s eyes, she was more beautiful than ever.

“Can you shoot a gun?” Robbie asked, handing him another nail.

“If I have to.”

“Will you teach me how?”

Caleb shook his head. “A gun isn’t a toy. You can learn when you’re older.”

“How old?”

Caleb drove the nail in with a half-dozen ringing blows. “Maybe thirteen or fourteen, if you’ve got somebody to teach you. You need to be strong enough to hold the gun steady. And you need to be smart enough to know when and what to shoot.”

“I’m strong and smart. My mama says so.”

“Maybe so. But you’re not old enough to shoot a gun.”

The boy’s lower lip thrust outward. “But what if bad men come around, like the ones that killed my papa? What if I have to shoot them?”

Caleb felt his stomach clench with a pain so physical that it stopped his breath. He knew the boy’s question needed an answer, but words had deserted him. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. The sun had suddenly become too warm, its light so bright that it made his eyes water.

“Ka-pow!” Robbie aimed his imaginary pistol toward the corral and pulled the trigger. “Ka-pow! Ka-pow! Take that, you dad-blamed varmints!” Laura glanced around, an expression of concern on her face. The boy turned back to Caleb. “That’s what I’d do if bad men came!” he announced. “I’d shoot them all!”

Caleb found his voice. “I’ll tell you what, Robbie. Let’s finish nailing on these boards. Then maybe your mother will let me take you fishing this afternoon.”

“Fishing?” The round blue eyes brightened. “Can I catch a fish?”

“Maybe. I’ll show you what to do. The rest is up to the fish.”

“I’ll ask her now!” The boy spun away, then swung back toward Caleb, looking crestfallen. “But how can we go fishing? We don’t have a fishing pole.”

Caleb’s face relaxed into a grin. “Leave that to me,” he said.

Laura had agreed to let her son go fishing, but only on condition that she come along. Caleb seemed to get on well with the boy, but water could be dangerous. It would be all too easy for a man to become distracted and turn his back at the wrong moment. That aside, fishing would also be a useful skill for her to learn, one more way to put food on the table in times of need.

The problem of finding a pole and tackle had been solved when Caleb delved into one of his saddlebags and came up with a small canvas pouch. Inside was a coil of fishing line and an assortment of hooks and sinkers. All that remained was to find a long, stout willow with the right amount of flex and to dig a few worms from the garden. By then Robbie was dancing with excitement.

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