Chapter 11

Could anyone have a happy Christmas in such a place? Shea wondered as she rapped on the battered, gap-toothed door of Ty and his father's little cabin. For as much as Ty had been avoiding the studio, avoiding her, Shea hadn't been able to let the holiday pass without seeing him. She wanted to be sure Ty had a gift to mark the day, and she couldn't convince herself that Sam Morran would even remember it was Christmas. So here she stood shivering on their doorstep, hoping Ty was alone inside the cabin.

After a moment the boy cracked open the door and stood staring out at her. In his arms he held the biggest, scruffiest, meanest-looking calico cat Shea had ever encountered in her life.

"When did you get a cat!" she exclaimed.

Ty shrugged. "Me and Rand found him down by the river a couple weeks back."

Which meant the boys had been exploring another one of the places Cam had specifically told them not to go.

"Does—does your kitty have a name?" Shea asked, fighting the urge to admonish him about playing too near the water.

Ty ruffled the fur beneath the cat's chin. "I call him Rufus."

"Well, hello there, Rufus," Shea said, reaching to give the animal a scratch.

Rufus took exception to being fondled by someone he didn't know. He reared back in Ty's arms and hissed at her.

Shea gave a startled laugh and withdrew her hand, taking the moment to look Ty over. He seemed to have grown taller in the weeks since the opening, and the pants he was wearing were two inches too short. Dark circles lay beneath his eyes like smudges of lampblack. He seemed thinner, too. It made her want to bundle him up, take him back to the studio, and feed him until he was too full to swallow.

"I—I just stopped by to wish you Merry Christmas," Shea told him instead. "Would you mind if I came in?"

Ty glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head. "Pa's still sleeping."

Sleeping off a drunk, Shea thought. But then, at least Ty wasn't alone today.

As if Ty realized she wasn't likely to go away, he stepped outside and set Rufus on the ground. She could tell by the way he shifted from foot to foot how uneasy Ty was at having her here. Rufus seemed to sense that, too, and hissed at Shea for good measure.

"All I wanted," she went on, determined not to make him any more uncomfortable, "was to give you this, and wish you a merry Christmas." She held out the striped paper cornucopia she'd made and filled for him.

The boy stuffed both his hands in his pockets instead of reaching for the bright paper cone. "I don't have anything to give you."

"Christmas is a day for giving children gifts," she insisted, holding out the cone again. "Please, Ty, won't you take this?"

"I don't know as how I should," he allowed, "after the way Pa took on when you gave me that shirt."

"This is nothing but an orange, some nuts, and a few pieces of candy. Surely he can't object to that." She hesitated before she went on, and was a little ashamed of herself for resorting to blackmail. "You know, I'm not going to be able to enjoy Christmas unless you take this."

Ty ducked his head, but made no move toward the cornucopia. "So, are you going out to the Gallimores' farm?"

Shea couldn't think when she'd heard such longing in anyone's voice. What had it been like for him before his mother died and his father had given himself over to grief and alcohol? Had Ty ever had a proper home, with proper meals at proper hours, and a proper bed to sleep in? Or for that matter, a proper Christmas Day?

"Why don't you come out to the Gallimores' with me this afternoon?" she offered impulsively, thinking how wonderful it was going to be having Christmas with her son. "Rand would be so pleased to have you, and Lily always cooks enough food for an army."

Shea regretted the invitation the moment the words were out of her mouth. Ty's eyes went stark with a wistfulness she knew all too well. She'd been alone often enough in her life to know how much a body yearned to be part of something.

But then Ty slid a glance back toward the cabin and shook his head. "I need to be with Pa today."

Shea stiffened, even angrier with Sam Morran than she was with herself for making Ty choose. Would Sam Morran even know it was Christmas? Would he appreciate the sacrifice his son had made to be with him? How could this man inspire such loyalty, such love in this boy?

How could anyone stand helplessly by and watch this man strip away the years of Ty's childhood, one day at a time?

She swallowed down the shards of anger and held out the cornucopia of candies. "I'd really like you to have this."

Ty looked at the cornucopia, from the frill of paper lace around the top to the crimps of trailing ribbon. His brown eyes darkened the instant before he gave in to temptation and reached for the cone of candy. "Thanks," he said.

Before he could escape, Shea bent and pecked a kiss on one wind-burned cheek. "Merry Christmas, Ty," she said and turned away.

Halfway up the alley she paused to look back. Ty was still standing in the cold staring after her, the cornucopia of candy in one hand and the calico cat curled up against his feet.

* * *

Christmas at the Gallimore farm was like something Shea had read about in books. After a drive through fields lightly dusted with snow, Cam had welcomed Emmet and Owen and her into a house that smelled of evergreens and wassail spices, of roasting meat and fresh-baked pies. She'd turned from a red-bowed wreath that hung on the front door into a parlor where a spruce tree stood glittering with decorations. A kissing ball dangled innocently in the archway into the dining room, where the table had been dressed with ribbons and holly and Lily's best china.

They'd barely arrived when Rand came racing out of the kitchen to greet them, his face flushed and his green eyes bright with excitement. Shea wanted to catch him up in her arms and give him a Christmas kiss like she had Ty, but she would have felt presumptuous doing that in front of Cam and Lily.

Not long after they arrived, the six of them settled down at a table groaning with holiday bounty: roast pork and duchess potatoes, brown-sugared squash and green beans, applesauce and yeast rolls. As she watched Rand dig into his heaping plate, Shea couldn't help wondering if Ty was getting anything to eat today at all.

They were only just finishing their pie when Rand glanced wistfully toward the decorated tree in the corner. "Is it time to open the presents yet?" he asked hopefully.

Instead there was food to put away and dishes to wash. Once they'd finished Lily herded everyone in toward the piano. "I thought we'd sing a few carols," she suggested, "before we see what's in all of those lovely packages."

"Oh, Aunt Lily!" Rand complained. "How come we always have to sing before we get our presents?"

"You know how much your aunt Lily likes Christmas carols," Cam reminded his son with a wink. "Besides, anticipation makes the sugar sweeter."

"My an-tissy-pation's sweet enough!" Rand huffed and plopped down beside Lily on the piano bench. She gave him a conciliatory squeeze, planted a kiss on the top of his head, then struck up the first chords of "O Come, All Ye Faithful."

Watching Cameron stand over Lily and Rand as they sang, Shea realized that this was how the Gallimores always spent Christmas: with a special meal, caroling around a piano, and gifts beneath a tree hung with popcorn chains and delicate blown-glass ornaments.

Hot jealousy pierced her heart when she thought about all the Christmases these people had had with her son and the traditions they shared. Even her happiest holidays with Simon had been tainted with regrets, marred by wondering about the child she'd given up.

It wasn't fair, she thought, watching the three of them together, that while she'd been pining for her son, Rand had been happy in a world of his own. While she'd been traveling thousands of miles in search of him, her boy had been going to picnics and hayrides and skating parties, had been doing chores, playing games, and attending school. He'd been having Christmases with the Gallimores, just like this one.

Seeing the three of them clustered together at the piano this afternoon, seeing the love and history that bound them together, tore at Shea. It made her realize just how much of Rand's life she'd already missed.

She hadn't been there to nurse him through bumps and mumps and chicken pox. She hadn't been around to applaud him when he rode a horse for his very first time. She hadn't been the one to teach him his letters, or how to harness a wagon, or the trick to spitting watermelon seeds farther than anyone else. It made her angry that she'd forfeited so much, angry that in her disgrace and poverty she'd had no choice.

Now that she'd finally found him, Shea yearned to tear this child out of Cam and Lily's arms. But what right did she have to destroy the only home her son had ever known? What did she have to offer him, compared to all of this? And how could she hope to prove that he was hers?

Yet after years of struggling and searching and yearning for her son, how could she turn away from him? What purpose would she have in life if she gave him up?

Shea did her best to swallow down the bitter draught of melancholy. She had a great deal to be thankful for. She'd loved Simon and had learned so much from him. She had Owen's loyalty and companionship. She had her work and her independence and the kind of adventures most women would never experience. Yet she didn't have what she wanted most, because nothing could give her back the years she'd lost, or stitch her into the tight, sleek weave of the Gallimores' lives.

Shaken by the effort of acknowledging that, Shea linked her arm through Owen's and swayed with him in time to the music. He patted her hand and smiled up at her from beneath his brows, and just that moment of his simple kindness made her chest constrict.

Then, as the last notes of the carols echoed away, Lily rose from the piano. She slid her arm around Shea's waist, and drew her to sit beside her on the settee. Cam lit the candles on the tree and began to pass out packages wrapped in butcher's paper and remnants of cloth, parcels bound with bits of ribbon and string, adorned with holly, a candy cane, or a pinecone.

Rand exclaimed over a tin wind-up train his father had ordered from Philadelphia. Owen beamed at Shea and threaded his new string tie beneath his collar. Lily fondled the elegant embroidered gloves Emmet had brought for her.

"For your trips into town," he told her, his eyes alight.

The three Gallimores presented Shea with a length of sturdy wine-colored twill. "Because you'll spend every penny you have on photographic supplies and nothing on yourself," Lily told her, laughing.

Shea fidgeted as Rand took up the gift she'd brought for him, watching those broad, impatient hands tear through the wrappings. Shea hadn't known what to get, but she'd never given her son a gift and wanted so much for him to like it. Her stomach twisted as she waited for his reaction.

"Oh, Shea!" He turned to her, his eyes alight. "Some of the older boys in school have lead pencils, but no one's is as nice as this. Look how it slides together!"

"It telescopes." Cam gave him the correct word.

"Telescopes," Rand mumbled, looking around for something to write on.

Shea let out her breath. Her son liked what she had given him. Her face warmed with pleasure.

"That pencil's something special. Take good care of it," Lily admonished gently.

"I'll treat it like it was made of gold!" Rand beamed at Shea. "It isn't, is it?"

"No, not gold," she assured him, laughing.

Lily and Cam opened their gift from Shea last, and both of them oohed and aahed over the portrait Shea had made of Rand. She was pleased with the picture, too, thinking she'd managed to catch an excellent likeness of her son, not just that open face, but the goodness and wonder inside him. A blending of what she'd passed on to her boy and the things the Gallimores had given him.

While she was at it, she'd made a copy of the photograph for herself—then had immediately hidden it away in the bottom of her valise. She supposed she'd done that because having the photograph and being able to study the child she'd borne almost exactly eleven years ago still seemed an illicit pleasure. Just as being with her son on Christmas did.

After Lily had hugged Shea to thank her for the photograph and arranged Rand's portrait amid a cluster of greens on top of the piano, she bustled into the kitchen to pour coffee.

She was just returning with a tray of cups when Emmet waylaid her beneath the kissing ball. "I've caught you now," he said, grinning down at her.

"My hands are full," Lily protested, doing her best to step around him. "I can't properly defend myself."

Emmet shrugged, indifferent to her plight. "I caught her fair and square, didn't I, Cam?"

Lily's face went pink.

Cam laughed at his sister's obvious discomfort and shook his head. "I'm not getting involved with this!"

"I think I deserve a Christmas kiss," Emmet persisted.

Knowing there was no sense arguing, Lily wrinkled her nose distastefully. "Oh, all right, you damn fool," she said with more than a little consternation. "Kiss me quick and get it over with."

Smiling with anticipation, Emmet stepped in as close as the tray of cups would allow and, with consummate tenderness, curled his hand along the arc of Lily's withered cheek. He lowered his head and tipped her mouth to his, taking her gently.

Why, Emmet is in love with Lily! Shea realized as she watched them. What she had dismissed as southern gallantry and profound respect was love. It was a pure and abiding love Emmet would probably never bring himself to act on, for fear of offending Lily's sensibilities—but it was love, nonetheless.

Emmet kissed Lily chastely, but thoroughly. Then, grasping an elbow to steady her, he broke the kiss and stepped away.

Lily blinked at him, flushing darker this time—and all the way to her hairline.

Cam and Rand hooted, taking great delight in Lily's embarrassment, completely oblivious to what was happening right before their eyes. Then, caught up in their foolishness, Rand scrambled to his feet and went to buss Lily on the cheek. A moment later Cam did the same.

"Now if you boys have had your fun," Lily sniffed, "do you suppose we can drink this coffee before it gets cold?"

They had barely settled down with their cups when someone galloped up the lane and came bounding up onto the porch.

"Is Dr. Farley here?" the gaunt, bearded man demanded of Cam when he answered the knock.

"What is it, Mr. Young?" Emmet asked, stepping to the door.

"It's my boy Fred. He started running a fever last night and has been talking out of his head since noontime. I hate to disturb your Christmas, Dr. Farley, but my wife and me would sure feel better if you could come have a look at him."

Emmet asked a few questions, then nodded. "My bag's in the buggy, Mr. Young. Just give me a minute to grab my coat and hitch up my horse."

As Lily scurried around gathering up Emmet's things, Cam pulled on his own coat, ready to help Emmet hitch up. "Stay with the Youngs as long as you need to," he assured Emmet. "I'll see Shea and Owen get back to town."

Emmet sought Lily on his way out. "You're the best cook in three counties, Lily. It's been a wonderful day, and I thank you for everything."

For an instant Shea thought he might kiss Lily again, but then he turned and went outside. Shea and Lily watched from the window as the menfolk hitched up Emmet's buggy. Then, with a wave, he whipped his horse down the lane and turned in the direction of Denver.

Lily stood at the window a good long while, her eyes lingering on the point where Emmet Farley had disappeared and her hand pressed gently against her mouth.

* * *

Cam couldn't have asked for a better night to drive Shea and Owen back into town. He liked the way the moon hung heavy and milk-white against a heaven stippled with stars, and how the icing of fresh snow turned the fields on the sides of the road to shimmering yards of pale blue satin. As he drove nearer, he could almost feel the warm yellow glow of Denver's gaslit streets envelop them.

He and Shea bid Owen good night in front of Emmet's house on Arapaho Street, then proceeded up the block.

"It was a lovely Christmas," Shea murmured, glancing across at him. "It was good of you and Lily to invite us to share the day with you."

Cam inclined his head and turned the buggy into Sixteenth Street. "I'm glad you and Owen enjoyed it."

"I just wish Ty could have been there," he heard Shea murmur on the drift of a sigh. "I went by their cabin this morning to wish him a happy Christmas, and I invited him to come out to the farm."

"And what did he say?"

Cameron saw the wedge of worry settle between her graceful brows. "He said he needed to be with his father."

He reached across and gave her hand a consoling squeeze. "Then, Shea, he made his choice."

She shifted uneasily beside him. "I just can't stop worrying about him! I think it's only what Ty earns that keeps the two of them going. And now that he's not working for me..."

Cam eased back on the reins, slowing the carriage at the cross street. "Well, then, I suppose it's a good thing I mentioned Ty to Mai Ruther down at the telegraph office."

"You got Ty a job delivering telegrams?"

Cam could hear the delight in her voice and couldn't help being pleased with himself. "I think Ty and his father are doing all right for the time being. And Rand's keeping an eye on things for me."

He saw the rigidity melt out of her shoulders, and she looped her hand through the crook of his arm. "Thank you, Cam."

He smiled at her thinking he had never in his life met a woman who was so concerned for children that weren't her own. But then, he supposed that made a particular kind of sense. He could see the shadows in her eyes, see what he thought was longing for the child she'd given up. He'd seen it today at the house when she looked at Rand. He'd have bet half his next year's wages that while they were standing around the piano she was thinking about her own lost boy and wondering how he was passing Christmas.

Giving that baby up had marked her, tempered her, given her an abiding concern for children. Or maybe an abiding concern for all lost souls. He saw how she was with Owen. The way she'd brought Lily along had been little short of miraculous. And the night he confronted Morran...

He shivered a little.

Without so much as a thought, Shea pressed her fingertips to his forearm, as if she meant to soothe him. Shea understood his uncertainty and his turmoil, his longing and his guilt. She was so perceptive sometimes it scared him to death. Still he liked the awareness between them, that strange connection.

Cam pulled the carriage up in front of Shea's studio and was just as glad for the diversion from his thoughts.

As he handed her out, Shea turned to him. "So what did you make of Emmet catching Lily beneath the kissing ball?"

Emmet's actions had surprised Cam a little, but he hadn't "made" anything of them. "That's what kissing balls are for, isn't it?" he said with a shrug.

"Oh, indeed," she agreed with him.

Still, he heard something he couldn't quite identify in her tone. "Why else would he kiss her?"

Shea raised one eyebrow in answer as if to say he'd missed something important. He fumbled for a moment, wondering what that was. "Did you want me to catch you under the kissing ball?" he guessed.

Shea gave a gust of delighted laughter. "Oh, Cam!" she chuckled, shaking her head.

"Well, it might not have been so bad cornering you for a Christmas kiss," he defended himself, realizing it was true. It had been a long time since that night in the kitchen, and he hardly had to be reminded how much he'd liked kissing her. He'd held her more than once since then—and teased her and comforted her. But he hadn't kissed her. He hadn't so much as tasted those plush rosy lips or plumbed the depths of that soft, sweet mouth. He hadn't had the opportunity.

But now it was dark between the buildings. The streets were deserted. And it was still Christmas.

They'd climbed barely half a dozen stairs when Cam paused. Shea paused on the step above him. As she did, he curled his hand around her wrist and drew her toward him. When she realized what he intended her eyes widened but she came to him quite willingly.

Her lips themselves were cold, but the soft inner margins were warm and lush and so damnedably inviting he couldn't help but sample deeper. He had meant this to be a simple kiss, something delicate and fleeting, a Christmas greeting passed from mouth to mouth. Instead, the kiss welled with a delicious, soul-enhancing magic.

The communion between them that night in the kitchen had been a surprise. Because they'd become confidantes, champions, friends, this kiss was a revelation. Each of those connections amplified the wonder and intensity between them. The wonder and intensity of the needs this kiss stirred up in him.

Cam pressed Shea back against the wall, suddenly hungry for her, for the feel of her hips and belly and breasts against him. He longed to run his hands along the curve of her back and draw her against—

"Cam!" Shea gasped with laughter and wriggled against him. "You can't just ravish me here on the stairs!"

Despite her protest, her breathing was fast and nearly as unsteady as his and he saw the soft sensuality in her face. She hadn't wanted him to ravish her on the stairs, but she hadn't prohibited ravishing someplace else. Her bedroom came to mind, that small, simple bedroom, that iron bed made up with sheets that smelled of lavender. He grabbed her hand and started up the steps again.

Halfway to the top he jerked to a stop. Alarm shot deep into his belly. Footsteps had been tramped into the newly fallen snow. A faint drift of smoke and kerosene tweaked his nostrils.

"What is it?" Shea murmured.

He squeezed her hand, then flicked back his duster and pulled his pistol. He climbed the stairs noiselessly and paused when he was level with the landing. The door to the studio stood open not quite halfway.

A familiar humming tuned up inside of him.

Shea crowded up close behind him. "I locked that door before I left. I swear I did."

Cam shoved her none too gently against the wall. "Stay here," he mouthed, then stole up the last few steps.

He rushed the door, kicking it hard enough to send it banging back on its hinges. The noise was thunderous. He waited, hanging at the lip of the landing, but nothing shifted, nothing stirred.

He burst inside and pressed flat against the wall of the reception room. His hands were slick as he clung to the sleek, polished grip of his pistol and probed the thick, black caverns of these familiar rooms. He strained his senses for any hint of movement, but all he could hear was the ragged roar of his own breathing and a faint crunch of something beneath his boots.

There was no one here, but above the smell of spilled lamp oil came the stench of some lingering malevolence. His skin tightened and crept with gooseflesh.

"What is it?" Shea hissed, looming up in the doorway.

Cam swung on her, his heart resounding like a spiker's hammer. He jerked his pistol skyward, when he realized who it was.

"Light a lamp," he ordered, and holstered his gun.

Shea crossed to the reception desk and struck a match. As she raised the lamp, illumination flared across the ceiling and down the walls. Shea whimpered with distress at what she saw.

The place had been ransacked, willfully demolished. Here in the reception area the chairs were overturned and the portraits had been ripped from the walls. Shards of glass from the frames sparkled like a carpet of stardust. That carpet led directly into the studio.

Shea rushed ahead, raising her lamp and gasping at the carnage. Beneath the skylight her camera lay on its side, the box crushed and the legs of the tripod lying broken on the square of rug. The velvet posing chair had been slashed and was leaking drifts of stuffing onto the floor. The plaster column lay strewn across the rug like something from a Grecian ruin.

Cam was still taking in the wreckage when he heard Shea cry out, "Mary, Mother of God! They dumped my boxes of negatives!"

Her glass plates spilled across the floor in a hundred shattered images, an acre of glittering mosaic. A host of broken memories.

Shea rushed directly to one particular box and righted it. "The children!" she cried and staggered to her knees amidst the shimmering glass. "Oh, God! I've lost the children!"

She wept as she picked through the shards around her, clasping fragments of the children she'd found and photographed and treasured. The orphan train children. Shea's lost children.

Cam went and bent beside her, stroking her hair, the bow of her back. "Take care, love," he murmured. "You'll cut yourself."

He gathered her up as gently as he could, stood her on her feet, and shook the crumbs of glass from her skirts. He righted the posing chair and steered her into it.

She looked at him, her eyes wide and wet with a grief that went well beyond the destruction here. "The children are gone," she whispered. "All my children. Every one."

He heard the heartbreak in her words echoing down a decade of regret. He put his arms around her.

"I'm sorry, Shea," he murmured, holding her, rocking her as if she were broken, too. "I know how precious those children were to you." He knelt beside her for a very long time, stroking her, letting her cry, giving her the simple comfort of his closeness. Knowing it was all he could offer when she'd lost so much.

After a good long time she quieted and he sopped up her tears with the pads of his thumbs. "I need to check the other rooms," he murmured and rose to stand over her. "Will you be all right while I go do that?"

Shea sniffed and nodded.

Finding another unbroken lamp, Cam set off. The bedroom was tumbled as if it had been searched, but nothing seemed missing or broken beyond repair. But the moment he stepped inside the darkroom, a haze of smoke and the chill of that strange malevolence enveloped him.

Gooseflesh chased along his skin as he scuffled through the charred debris to the pile of ashes crumpled in the corner. When he braced his palm against the wall and bent to examine them more closely his hand came away dark and gritty with soot.

For a moment he stared at his blackened fingertips. Remembering another fire, another loss. An old and painful tragedy.

The room dipped and swirled around him, and he was there again—riding.

Riding hard. Riding fast.

Smoke.

Oh, God, smoke.

Smoke rising from my town. Fire at the end of my street. Flames roaring through my mother's house.

My mother's house.

Let them be safe.

Orange flames licking up the walls.

Let them be safe.

The house enfolded in flame, screeching, crumbling. Vaporizing.

Please let them be safe.

Women huddled in the yard. Singed hair and smoking clothes. Two of them. Two.

Thank you. Thank you.

Dismounting. Running toward them.

Are they all right? Please let them be all right.

Catching Mother in my arms. Holding close, holding fast. Lily lying in the grass. Hurt.

Please not hurt.

Bending over her, reaching out.

Her face. Oh God, my sister's face.

Cam crumpled to his knees there in Shea's darkroom, gasping for breath. His throat ached raw with smoke. Sweat soaked his clothes, crawled down his chest, slid down his neck and ribs and back. He couldn't stop shivering.

He curled in upon himself and did his best to breathe in and out. He'd had this before. He knew what this was. He knew it would pass.

He didn't think it would ever pass.

He squeezed his eyes closed and fought to steady himself. He was sane outside of this. Somewhere.

That sanity returned by slow degrees. Cam became aware of the small, smoky room around him, of the studio beyond it, of Shea waiting. Dear God, how long had she been waiting?

He pushed to his feet and stood there quivering. He was hollow inside, wasted, spent—and this wasn't even his tragedy. It was Shea's, and he needed to go and see to her.

When he finally picked his way out of the darkroom, Shea was crouched on the floor again sorting through the shattered photographic plates. She'd gathered some of the largest pieces on one of the rubber developing trays and was looking for more she could salvage.

He knelt beside her and stilled her hands. "Shea," he said as gently as he could, "whoever did this set a fire in the darkroom, too."

"A fire?" she echoed, as if she wasn't quite able to believe that someone would set a fire deliberately. "But we store ether in there. Ether's terribly flammable." A new fear flickered across her face. "There could have been an explosion."

"Yes," he said and tightened his grip on those slim, vulnerable wrists. What would have happened if she'd been at the studio when the vandals arrived? Would she have been hurt? Might she have been killed?

He drew her closer, becoming unaccountably aware of her pulse beating beneath his fingertips, the warmth of her flesh, the flow of her breathing. He drew her nearer still. "I think they wanted to destroy the place, to put you out of business."

She let out a ragged sigh. "Well, they've succeeded, then. My portrait camera is broken beyond repair. Most of my lenses are gone..."

"Can you get the things you need to start again?"

"Start again?" she asked, looking lost. "It would cost the sun and moon to start again."

For the first time since he'd known her, Shea Waterston seemed lost, utterly defeated. Somehow Cam couldn't allow that.

"We'll get you what you need," he promised. "We'll find a way for you to keep the studio going."

He drew her closer, needing to hold her, needing to protect her. Needed to know she was safe. He needed it the same way he needed to be sure about Rand, sure about Lily—almost as if Shea belonged to him.

He wanted to go on holding her, but Shea eased away. She climbed to her feet and rose to stand over him. "I'm going to get the broom."

"Shea," he began, halting her, "have you had any kind of trouble here at the studio."

"Trouble?"

"Has anyone threatened you? It's possible drunken cowboys did all this, but I don't think that's who it was."

"You don't?"

Cam rose and went to her. "Has anyone who's come to the studio made you uncomfortable?"

"Beyond Sam Morran?"

"He hasn't been back to bother you, has he?"

Shea shook her head. "But someone did steal a photograph at the opening," she reminded him. "And I woke up one night a week or two ago, thinking someone had tried the door."

Cam's new protectiveness warred with irritation. "And you didn't tell anyone about it?"

"And just who would I have told, Cam?"

"You could have gone to the sheriff," he suggested. "Or come to me."

"And what would I have said? That I got spooked being here by myself?" She compressed her lips, and he could see she was disgusted with herself for being skittish.

Cam knew Shea Waterston was no shivering miss who pulled the covers over her head. "So what did you do?"

"That night?" She smiled a little ruefully. "I made sure my rifle was loaded and looked around. The door rattled a time or two, but it might have been the wind. There were footprints in the snow the next morning, but anyone could have made them."

He couldn't argue with her, yet the missing picture, her midnight visitor, and now this destruction worried him far more than he cared to admit.

"You need to report this to the sheriff," he insisted. "It wasn't the bogeyman who came tonight."

"No," she acknowledged, staring with deep sadness across the floor carpeted with shattered glass. "I suppose not."

"I've been picking through these broken plates hoping I could salvage something, but it's hopeless." Then she sighed, squared her shoulders, and turned. "This time I really am going to go get the broom and dustpan."

While Shea was gone, Cam looked at the pieces she'd set aside. She'd been gathering up bits of the children from the orphan trains, and he found himself scanning the floor for more of them.

But instead it was a large fragment of a portrait that drew his attention. He was intrigued by the subject's narrow, long-fingered hands and the competence with which they were holding his pistol. It was the gun the man was holding that sent cold swooping into the pit of his stomach. For a moment he simply stared at it, trying to rearrange the image somehow, convince himself he wasn't seeing what he thought he was.

"Shea," he called out, hoping she wouldn't hear the tremor in his voice. "What plates are these you'd kept?"

She came back into the studio with her broom. "I sent almost all the landscapes to New York. I'd been keeping the children's negatives here with me, and the rest were portraits I made this summer and fall."

"Pictures you took here in Denver or up in the mountains?"

"Both," she answered. "Why?"

Now that he looked more closely at the fragment of negative, Cam could see the picture hadn't been taken in the studio. The subject was seated on some sort of rustic bench. But again, it was the gun that drew him. He would have recognized it anywhere.

It was a double-action Navy Colt pistol, with gold fittings and silver chasing along the barrel. The grip was of mother-of-pearl, polished to a moonstone sheen. The gun was half of a commemorative set his troops had given him when he'd made major back in the spring of 1863. He'd sworn he'd treasure the pair of them always, but always hadn't lasted as long as he thought.

Cam took one last look at those long elegant hands, at the gun that they were fondling—the twin to the one he was wearing on his hip. Without even being able to see his face or the color of his hair, Cam knew who this man was. His name was Wes Seaver, and if Seaver was here in Denver, Cam's past was catching up to him.