Love can transform a broken heart—whether it is the heart of an abused and neglected eight-year old or the heart of man determined to avoid love at any cost. And when it comes at Christmastime, it can be the most profound gift of all.

 

Mrs. Kerrigan stepped forward when she noticed the man at Della’s front gate. “Mrs. Wagner’s not home.” She wiped her hands off on her apron and studied him critically. “I suppose you’re lookin’ for a place to light for a day or two?” She waved him over to her garden gate. He’s a nice-enough lookin’ fella, she thought. Strong hands and shoulders. Just what Della needs—maybe.

“The storekeep said Mrs. Wagner puts up boarders.”

“She do,” returned Mrs. Kerrigan. “She’s a widow. Fine cook, too, and kind-hearted. Sometimes, too kind-hearted for her own good,” she added, half to herself.

The stranger said nothing.

She looked him over again. A little broody, maybe? No, he had a good face—probably seen his share of pain, but clear-eyed. Course, every trail’s got its potholes, she mused.

“She’s probably down at the schoolyard,” she volunteered. “She’s always lookin’ after some poor waif or other.”

The man nodded. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Kerrigan moved closer. “Now, you head on down there. It’s on the other side of the church. See the steeple?” She pointed.

The man followed her gaze.

Mrs. Kerrigan put her hand out. “I’m Esther Kerrigan, the preacher’s widow.”

He extended his own. “James McMurray.”

He has a good grip. She smiled. “Well, Mr. McMurray, welcome to Miner’s Creek. Not much of a name. But not much of a town, neither.”

McMurray shrugged. “I heard Miner’s Creek is in need of a blacksmith. Is that true?”

Mrs. Kerrigan nodded. “We are indeed, praise God. We ain’t had a blacksmith for nearly a year. Sampson —that’s what ev’rybody called him—dropped dead last fall. Just like that. Nailed the last shoe onto Ole Man Rainey’s buggy horse and keeled over. The horse never moved a muscle, just stood over poor dead Sampson ’til someone stopped by and found him. We buried him over there in the churchyard.”

****

It was clear that Mrs. Kerrigan, albeit the preacher’s widow, was also the town gossip. She apparently knew everything—and everyone—in town. He tipped his hat. “I’ll make my way to the school then. Thank you, uh, Mrs. Kerrigan.”

She inclined her head and smiled once more. “We’ll be neighbors then…”

He followed the rocky path back toward town. It was only a short distance to the mercantile where he’d tied up his saddle horse. From there he would see if he could secure lodging with Mrs. Wagner, a widow-woman, cook, and—saint?

The word stuck in his throat. Or, more like his craw—

McMurray reached the mercantile just as the storekeep stepped out onto the boardwalk, hands tucked under the well-worn apron that hung like a dress over his britches and grimy boots. He smiled a toothy grin. “The missus took the mare ’round back. Gave her some oats. Fine looking saddle horse,” he added. “She for sale?”

McMurray frowned. “No. She’s not. How much do I owe you for the oats?”

“Nickel,” returned the storekeep. “It weren’t much.”

McMurray pulled out a thin leather sack and removed a nickel. He handed it to the storekeep and headed round to the back of the clapboard building where barrels sat one on top of the other and rucksacks hung from pegs on the wall.

He found his horse tied to a hitching post. He looked the mare over carefully, but all seemed well and good. He tightened the cinch before mounting and heading back down Main Street.

****

He kept his eye on the steeple that rose up from the small vale to the south. If you didn’t look for it, he thought, you’d almost miss it. It wasn’t even a steeple, but merely a small brown cross nailed to a poorly framed widow’s walk. Not much to boast about.

But the remoteness of the small mining town was a perfect resting spot. He needed a place where he could start over, apart from the bustling life of Marysville, Sacramento, or San Francisco.

Too many memories attached to those places.

****

Della Wagner picked up the broom and handed it to the small boy. “Carson,” she said, “you have just about played me one time too many.” Although she smiled, she knew the eight-year old had to be disciplined. “The schoolroom is not a barn.”

“But he started it. He picked up that horse turd—”

“Carson,” interrupted Della. “The point is, this is a schoolhouse and we have to take care of it. So,” she added, smiling again, “sweep up the mess you made here. I’m going to tell Miss Niblack that she can bring the rest of the children in in five minutes. She will have something more for you and Nolan to do, I wouldn’t wonder. Perhaps you’ll have lines to write or more clean up to do. I expect you’ll obey her without argument. And no more of this.”

Carson took the broom. He furrowed his brows and frowned.

Della waited until he began sweeping up the scattered droppings that the two boys had thrown at each other while running pell-mell through the schoolhouse. She watched him and sighed. If only she could do more to help Carson. Poorly clothed and obviously poorly fed, he had no one to tend to him while his father was off mining, and living with his drunken grandfather Leroy Baines had not improved his situation much.

She closed the door softly behind her. Miss Niblack, the middle-aged teacher who had replaced Mr. Morris, was speaking to Nolan. The woman had only arrived three days earlier. Della hoped she would stay.

Miss Niblack approached her, exasperation stretched across her lean face. “I suspect Carson’s a bit of a scoundrel,” she said. “I don’t doubt that he started the game.”

Della was not so sure Carson was the instigator, but she left the conversation for another time. “I know they’re all going to try you, but I believe the children will respond in a few days. They’ve been running amok for several weeks now.”

Miss Niblack raised her dark brows. “I only hope they’ll come around eventually. We’ll see. I do have an invitation to teach elsewhere,” she added.

“Well, I’m glad you called on me,” returned Della, trying to ignore Miss Niblack’s insinuation that things would have to improve if she were to stay. “I’m always available in the mornings, and washing or baking can always wait for another day, if need be.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wagner. I know you take a keen interest in these children. I’m grateful there are only six in the class.”

“With the energy of at least a dozen more—”

Miss Niblack smiled, but it was a rather terse smile, thought Della.

“Well, I’ll take my leave. I think Carson is nearly finished with the clean up, but I warned him that there could be more consequences to follow.”

“Indeed,” remarked Miss Niblack.

****

As Della headed down the lane toward the church, she noticed a man on horseback. Tall, rugged, but not too poorly dressed, he rode toward her. She did not recognize him, but his glance was on her. Perhaps he was eyeing her as critically as she was eyeing him.

He pulled his horse to a stop along the edge of the rocky lane and waited for her to approach.

“Mrs. Wagner?” His hat was angled in such a way that Della couldn’t see his eyes, but she sensed a cool detached air in the way he sat his horse. She also noticed that it was a beautiful roan mare.

She looked up. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Wagner.”

He nodded. “I understand you take in boarders? I’m looking for lodging.”

“Indeed. I have only one room available at present. Miss Niblack, our new schoolteacher, has the second and another has been secured by Mr. Whitehouse, although he is gone frequently.”

“I’ll take it.”

“You haven’t asked the price.”

“I’ll pay whatever it is.”

She smiled tentatively. She welcomed the business, even if this man’s looming presence made her slightly uncomfortable. “Then, I will see you at the house. I live—”

“I know,” he said brusquely. “Mrs. Kerrigan directed me to you here.”

“Ah,” she said. She picked up the edge of her skirt and started once more toward home. “Mrs. Kerrigan knows everything that goes on in Miner’s Creek.”

He turned his mare around and followed at a slight distance. “So I supposed.”

****

Mrs. Wagner pointed upstairs, indicating the second door. “I serve breakfast at six a.m.—promptly—and supper at seven. Noon dinner is left to you, sir.”

“Fine,” McMurray said. He raised his saddlebags to his shoulder and picked up the satchel he’d set down after entering the house. He had already noticed the fine furnishings that filled the parlor—a glass domed oil lamp and a velvet settee—and wondered if these had been gifts from Mrs. Wagner’s husband or whether they had been hers. Sheer lace curtains hung in the small bay window across from the settee, and a single rocker was placed next to one of the glass-panes.

The sight of the mahogany rocker reminded him of another place in time. He quickly adjusted his saddlebags. “You have a lovely home.”

Mrs. Wagner nodded. “Thank you.” She glanced around the room. “My husband came west with the furniture. He once owned a large home in Boston. I never visited, but apparently it was a large, lavish affair. My own beginnings were much more humble.”

McMurray nodded. “Your husband—he was a miner?”

Mrs. Wagner shook her head. “No, an engineer. He was coming home from one of the mines when he was thrown. He broke his back. And never recovered.”

McMurray frowned. “I am sorry.”

“It will be four years this Christmas,” she said as she removed her bonnet and shook out the ribbons. She looked up at him, her eyes the color of the cornflowers that grew wild back home. He’d already noted the red-brown curls that had escaped the bun gathered at her neck.

His attention returned to the bright blue eyes that seemed to be regarding him thoughtfully. Her glance triggered something deep inside. Something he wouldn’t allow himself to feel—

He started up the stairs. “Well, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Of course,” she said, stepping away from the stairway. “Supper is at seven.”

****

Della donned a clean white apron, lost in her thoughts. The day had been a long one already and for some strange reason, she felt flustered. Mr. McMurray’s almost irritated dismissal of her had raised her hackles. Coupled with the long morning trying to help Miss Niblack settle in with her half-dozen headstrong charges had left her feeling at odds with the world.

She pulled out the bread dough that she had set aside early that morning. It felt good to shape it into loaves, feeling the smooth, even texture as she carefully set it to rise again before baking. She then retrieved the small shank of venison that Felix Freshour had brought her two days earlier.

She was grateful to the eager young man for his assistance, in spite of the fact that he seemed intent on courting her. “You’re howling at the wrong moon,” she told him just two days ago when he insisted she marry him.

He had not been dissuaded. “I don’t plan to give up anytime soon.”

She had responded firmly, “You would do well to give up, Felix. Truly. I have no intention of falling in love with anyone—for a very, very long time. If ever. Besides, how could I replace Jonathon?”

“Yes, he was a fine man,” Felix had returned soberly. “He loaned me the money to buy my first rifle. Every time I pick it up, I think of him.”

She knew Felix thought a lot of Jonathon and meant no disrespect by his amorous attention, but he was more boy than man. Certainly no one she could take seriously. She was relieved when he finally announced that he was heading up to the northern mines and wouldn’t return until winter.

“But I’ll be back, Mizz Wagner,” he promised, “just in time for Christmas.”

She smiled and wished him well. “You would do well to find yourself another Christmas bride, Felix. I’m not changing my mind.”

****

That had been on Tuesday and now, as she cut off several thick steaks and floured them for Thursday’s supper, she reflected on the simple order of her present life. She had grown comfortable and, more importantly, she simply had no intention of falling in love again. Jonathon had been one of those rare men—reserved but kind, hardworking and faithful. Not the kind of man you found often in Miner’s Creek. It was pointless to go looking, she thought.

****

McMurray entered the dining room promptly at seven. The room was pleasant, even in its simplicity. He removed his hat and took a seat across from Mr. Whitehouse. He introduced himself.

Mr. Whitehouse and Miss Niblack were already seated at the table side by side. Mr. Whitehouse sat with a napkin tucked into his high starched collar and both his moustache and hair were slicked back with pomade. Miss Niblack, also dressed in a high-necked gray striped dress, sat primly, though her attention was clearly on Mr. Whitehouse.

“Welcome to Miner’s Creek,” said Mr. Whitehouse. “A rough town,” he added, “if you want to call it a town. I’m Franklin Whitehouse.” He inclined his head toward Miss Niblack. “Miss Niblack is the town’s newest schoolteacher.”

Miss Niblack flashed Mr. Whitehouse a smile before turning to McMurray. “And you are from—”

McMurray inclined his head. “Nowhere—and everywhere. Most recently, Sacramento.”

“Oh,” returned Miss Niblack. “Sacramento is such a dirty city, isn’t it?”

“It’s a city,” quipped McMurray.

“Now, Denver,” Mr. Whitehouse chimed in, “that’s a city. Booming, it is. Lots of speculators and new buildings. Amazing.” He glanced up at Mrs. Wagner who had entered the room carrying a platter of venison steaks and a bowl of roasted potatoes. “It’s a city any woman would enjoy.”

Miss Niblack crooned, “Oh, to see Denver—”

Mr. Whitehouse smiled. “Yes, a fashionable center, full of lively people.”

Mrs. Wagner shrugged. “I’ve never been to Denver, Mr. Whitehouse, but frankly, I have no desire to travel there. Too many people, to my mind. Or, perhaps just too many pretentious people,” she added before exiting.

Silenced, both Mr. Whitehouse and Miss Niblack busied themselves with the food. Mrs. Wagner reappeared, carrying bread and a bowl of pickles.

McMurray noted a hint of triumph in her demeanor and it surprised him. Didn’t every woman croon for the opportunity to sashay down city streets, with dusted face and lips, donned in the newest fashions, with layers of silk and satin, kid gloves, and lavish hats festooned with ribbons and bows and pearls?

Certainly Mabel—

He frowned, refusing to finish the thought. Instead he reached for the platter of meat and viciously stabbed a steak with his knife before dropping it onto his plate.

Miss Niblack frowned, while Mrs. Wagner’s finely arched brows rose in candid response. Her blue eyes burned into his. “There are potatoes and pickles for the stabbing, if you’re so inclined, Mr. McMurray. And there’s an Apple Betty for dessert you’ll certainly be able to dig into.” Flushed and frowning, she turned on her heels and disappeared into the kitchen.

Mr. Whitehouse, ignoring McMurray’s insolent treatment of the steak and Mrs. Wagner’s retort, turned to Miss Niblack, his thin moustache curling up to nearly tickle his nose. “Well, now, it’s not often we get a Betty for dessert.”

Miss Niblack smiled. “Indeed.”

****

After supper, McMurray stepped out onto the front porch. The October heat had cooled with the setting sun, but it still hovered, like a thin blanket, over the wild landscape. But it was far cooler here than down in the valley, he thought. Even October nights were stifling in Sacramento and Marysville.

He rolled a cigarette and took a slow drag, his attention drawn to the silhouette of trees on the nearby hillside; they stood like eerie standards, black against the dappled sky. This was the time of day he loved most, he thought. It gave a man an opportunity to relax and let the dust and disorder of the day settle where it would.

Tomorrow, he decided, he’d go into town and see what was available. Had Sampson’s shop been torn down or sold out? He’d need tools, for certain, and an anvil. If an anvil weren’t available, he’d have to make do—at least for the time being.

He took the last drag of his cigarette before getting up. A single lamp now burned in the parlor. No doubt Mrs. Wagner was waiting for him to come inside so she could put out the light. He wondered if she were still irritated by his poor show of manners at dinner.

He stepped into the house and immediately regretted his earlier behavior. Mrs. Wagner was seated in the rocker beside an open window, sewing. With her auburn head bent over her handiwork, she appeared almost ethereal in the slanting ray of moonlight coming through the pane. “Ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “I lost track of time.”

She nodded, but did not look up. “It’s all right, Mr. McMurray. I always do a little sewing or reading in the evening.”

“Worthy endeavors,” he said, noting the colorful piece of quilt she held in her hands. “As a blacksmith, I’ve turned a few stitches myself. Saddles, saddlebags, that sort of thing.”

She raised her eyes to his then, and once more, McMurray found himself captivated by their brilliance. He mused that, if it were at all possible, a man could lose himself in their translucence.

The thought irritated him. Beauty was deceptive—yes, tempting but deceptive, and no doubt, this woman had to be aware of her beauty. Had to be aware of how she made a man feel. Isn’t that how a woman wielded her power, after all—even as she feigned blithe innocence and grace?

He moved to the stairway brusquely. “Well, then, good night, Mrs. Wagner. And—uh—thank you for supper.”

He heard her soft reply as he started up the stairs, “Good night, Mr. McMurray.”

****

McMurray saddled his horse and rode the half-mile to town. He had not waited for Mrs. Wagner to serve breakfast. He wanted to avoid her this morning, particularly after spending a long restless night dreaming about her.

He kicked the mare into a trot. Better to get his mind on finding solace in his blacksmithing. There he could work ’til the sweat rolled off his neck and down his back. There he could work without thinking, without remembering…

Besides, he thought, feeling the bitter taste of dust on his tongue, he was done with women. Done with their manipulations and extravagant ways. Hadn’t he…hell, yes! He had tried everything—everything—to keep Mabel happy.

In the end, she’d taken him for everything and left him with nothing.

****

Della woke up, not the least bit rested.

She made her way to the kitchen, wishing now she’d told the arrogant Mr. McMurray right from the start that her house was filled to overflowing with boarders. Even after four days, it was clear he was not the sort to be gracious beyond a curt thank you or yes, ma’am. In truth, she was confused more than anything since the man seemed to find her very presence irritating.

She pulled on her apron and made her way out the back door to the chicken house. With the flurry of activity the day before, she’d neglected to collect the eggs or even lock the poor girls up.

Immediately, she saw her finest hen sprawled on the ground. “Liza Ann,” she cried as she raced over and picked up the dead bird. “You poor, poor girl.” Clearly, the chicken had been mauled—not eaten, but mauled and left to die. It couldn’t have been a fox or coyote; they’d have carried the bird away. It had to be a dog! But there were few dogs in town.

“Damn it,” she said out loud. “Damn it to hell!” It was probably Leroy Baines’s mangy, mongrel dog. He was famous for causing trouble. Just like Leroy Baines.

No doubt, the animal was as neglected as Leroy’s grandson Carson.

Furious now, she picked up the once beautifully black and white-laced Dominiker by one leg and marched up the road. Past the mercantile she marched. Past the rough plank building that served as the sheriff and assessor’s office and finally, past the saloon. Two men standing outside the saloon laughed as she stomped past.

“Hey, Mizz Wagner,” cried the first. “That chicken for supper?”

She turned and glared. It was Damien Schneider. “What are you doing standing around? I hear that your young wife is in the family way and not doing so well. Have you called the doctor yet?”

Damien mumbled something unintelligible then slinked back into the saloon.

Frowning, Della continued on her way, the chicken swinging clumsily in her hand. She didn’t stop until she’d reached the outskirts of town. There she turned up the hill and doggedly climbed, gritting her teeth as she anticipated the encounter with Leroy.

As she reached the top, however, she came face to face with Carson. Running after the very mangy dog Della suspected of killing her hen, he stopped when he saw her and took a slow deep breath.

Her heart was still pounding after her climb and she felt winded, too winded to give the boy a piece of her mind. Besides, her argument was not with him. Not at all. He, too, was a victim of his grandfather’s terrible neglect.

Carson dropped his head even as he dropped the stick he’d been holding. “Hallo, Mizz Wagner,” he said. “I know I missed school today—”

She tried to smile. “Hello, Carson. I’m not here about school, although you shouldn’t miss even a single day. No, I’m looking for your grandfather.”

Carson shrugged. “Ain’t seen him. He’s been gone for—I dunno—days.”

She frowned. “You mean he’s not been here at all? For how many days? Is there anyone about?”

Carson shook his head.

Della slid a hand under the boy’s chin. “Why didn’t you tell Miss Niblack or me that you were here, all alone?”

Carson kicked at the dirt with his toes.

Della took in his appearance. No shoes, torn overalls, dirty hair, dirty everything. “Well, that’s it, then. You’re coming with me.”

A look of panic crossed Carson’s thin face. “I’m sorry Mizz Wagner. I knowed those chickens were your pets. I didn’t mean to hurt one. I mean, I was tryin’ to get a few eggs is all, but ole Buddy here, he just tore after it and I couldn’t stop him. I’m sorry, Mizz Wagner.”

It was then that Della understood what he was saying. She looked down at the pathetic creature still hanging from her fingers. For a hungry boy like Carson, raiding her chicken house had been the act of desperation.

She sighed. “And why didn’t just come to the door and ask?”

Carson looked up at her, confusion clearly reflected in his eyes.

“Did you think I’d not give you something to eat?”

Again, Carson said nothing.

His silence was like a fierce slap. Instinctively, she dropped the chicken and pulled him to her, wrapping her hands around his shoulders. “Oh, Carson. Don’t you know that I would never refuse you something to eat?”

The child remained stiff in her embrace and, sensing his discomfort, Della released him. She took a deep breath. “You are coming home with me, do you hear?”

Carson shook his head. “Grandpa will be comin’. And Buddy has nobody but me.”

Della looked over at the dog that had somehow managed to get hold of the dead chicken and drag it to a spot not far from where she stood. Fighting her ire, she realized that the dog was all that Carson had, and he, like Carson, was only scrambling to get something to eat.

Della smiled. “Then I suppose Buddy will be coming home as well.”

Carson’s eyes brightened.

“Now, no dilly-dallying. I’ve got chores to do and you can help. Yes?”

Carson nodded. “Yes, Mizz Wagner.”

****

McMurray shook hands with Elias Neel, saloonkeeper and the town’s unofficial mayor. He also owned a number of buildings along Main Street, many of them now abandoned.

“Sadly, Sampson’s best tools are gone,” Elias said after McMurray explained that he’d like to lease the building. “But I believe there’s still an anvil.”

“With an anvil I can make what I need.”

“Very good,” said Elias. “If you want, check it out and let me know if you’re seriously interested. Then, we’ll talk money.”

McMurray nodded and took his leave, anxious to rummage through what remained of Sampson’s shop. It was small, dark, with little more than a fire pit that served as a forge and the anvil that had been nailed to an old stump. Some old horseshoes, a small hammer and handful of rusted nails and bits of iron were scattered across the dirt floor.

As he left the rough timbered structure, his mind reeled with plans for the new shop. He didn’t have much cash, but it’d be enough to start over.

Besides, what else could he do? Everything else he’d built over the last ten years was gone—wasted—lost. All he owned now was his resolve.

That was the one thing Mabel had not managed to steal.

All the more reason it was time to stop and settle down since running from his past had not brought him any peace of mind.

As he headed back to Neel’s office to sign the lease, his attention was diverted by the sudden appearance of Mrs. Wagner and a raggedly-dressed boy. She did not see him, which gave him ample opportunity to study her from a safe distance. She held the child’s hand tenderly as she glided down Main Street, a dog trailing dutifully after her.

She was not wearing a bonnet and her hair had already fallen out of its tight bun. And she was wearing a stained and well-worn apron, not one that most women would dare to wear outside of their home. He wondered what could have possessed her to come to town looking so unkempt?

Even still, he found the image of her, half-frazzled and without guile, absolutely enchanting.

But was this wayward boy her son? He appeared disheveled and distraught, as if he’d been running at full speed.

He simply couldn’t put the puzzle together, but curiosity aroused, he followed at a distance. He watched as Mrs. Wagner escorted the child into her house then turned and ordered the dog to remain outside. “Buddy, lay down here,” she said and pointed to the front step. “I’ll bring you some food directly, but no more chickens. Do you hear me? Not a single one.”

The dog lay down as if he understood, his shaggy tail thumping against the plank step.

Then, she disappeared into the house.

Renewed curiosity kept McMurray from heading back to Sampson’s shop, even to retrieve his horse. He stood, transfixed, staring at Mrs. Wagner’s neat and well-framed white house shuttered now against the bright sunlight.

He didn’t hear Mrs. Kerrigan’s approach.

“You are waiting for—” she asked.

He turned and scanned the soft folds of the elderly widow’s cherub-like face. It reminded him of his grandmother’s face, although she had died when he was almost too young to remember. He did remember that her embraces smelled of rose water and they’d been warm and deep, as if he’d climbed up onto a large pillow filled with downy feathers.

He cleared his mind. “I was just—well,” he said, “I noticed that Mrs. Wagner had escorted a boy, a rather ragged youngster, into her house. I didn’t know she had children,” he added.

“She don’t,” returned Mrs. Kerrigan. “She lost all the babies she ever bore.”

McMurray felt his heart skip a beat.

“The last one she lost right after Jonathon got thrown from his horse. On Christmas Eve, it was. A terrible time for her. For ev’rybody who knows her.” Mrs. Kerrigan turned and pointed toward the steeple where she had directed his steps that first day. “They’re all buried down there by the church. Four babies. Four babies and a husband.”

****

McMurray did not return home until late the next evening, well past the time supper was served.

Unnerved by Mrs. Kerrigan’s declarations about Mrs. Wagner’s losses, and feeling that he needed some distance from her—if only to distance himself from his feelings—he left Miner’s Creek and headed out into the hills.

He rode past the remains of mining claims and deserted shanties. The years of boom had passed, that much was certain, and men, still caught up in the desire to strike it rich, had left their sorry possessions behind.

Though he had tried mining a time or two in the last five years, it didn’t settle. It was hard, thankless work. Somewhere between obsession and craziness, he’d decided, and it left most men desperate and destitute.

He’d rather use his brain, and following his discharge after the war, he began breeding horses. It proved lucrative, but as the money came, so did the women.

Then he met Mabel—

After that—after he lost the ranch and the stock and all the capital he’d invested—he learned to ply his skill as a blacksmith, when he couldn’t take up work as a cowhand. But it was horses that interested him most; and someday, he hoped to build up another small herd. The mare he now rode would be the first of his herd.

He rode on, deeper into the hills. Finally, reaching a shady spot where a stream cascaded over smooth, moss-covered rock, he dismounted. He patted his mare before running a hand down her flank. “Gotta take a break, girl,” he said. “It’s hotter than a fox in a firestorm out here.”

Removing his hat, he stripped off his shirt then squatted beside the creek. The water was cool and refreshing as he splashed it over his chest and arms.

Then he stretched out on a rocky outcropping and covered his face with his hat. The late October sun was actually too intense to endure at first, but as it moved across the sky, he finally closed his eyes and fell asleep.

****

It was late the next day when McMurray returned to Miner’s Creek to settle up with Elias Neel. Once done, he headed back to Mrs. Wagner’s house at a slow walk.

She was in the kitchen when he entered through the back door. Standing at the stove, her face was flushed from the heat. “Supper is always at seven o’clock, Mr. McMurray,” she said, stirring something that smelled rich and meaty. “And though it’s included in your board and room, a word as to your presence or absence would be deeply appreciated.”

“Of course,” he said.

She inclined her head before speaking. “I am, to be honest, rather curious, Mr. McMurray. I hope—”

Impulsively, he took a step toward her. “I am sorry. It’s just—”

She turned, her blue eyes narrowed and sharp.
He hesitated. How did he explain himself to her when he, himself, did not understand what it was that drove him?

How did he tell her that his history with beautiful women had been disastrous and had saddled him with this unrelenting bitterness? Or that he had stopped believing that a woman could be anything but conniving and deceitful?

Or, that suddenly, for the first time in years, he sensed—hoped—that maybe—just maybe—things could be different for him. That she had kindled in him the desire—no, the willingness—to perhaps try love again.

He froze. How could he even consider the notion after—what—five days?

The silence became almost unbearable as he struggled to find the words that would communicate what lay just beneath the surface of his mind.

Disgusted, she turned back to the stove. “Mr. Whitehouse and Miss Niblack will be wanting their supper. If you’re so inclined, you’re welcome to join us. Of course.”

****

As on the first evening, Mr. Whitehouse was dressed in a starched shirt and dress coat and his hair was freshly groomed. Miss Niblack was dressed in a rather coquettish gown that dipped slightly. It was a far cry from the prim dresses she’d worn to supper McMurray had seen her in previously.

The woman was obviously trying to make an impression on poor, unsuspecting Mr. Whitehouse. Did the man know what he was in for, he mused?

“Hello, Mr. McMurray,” Mr. Whitehouse said. “We missed you last evening.”

“Good evening,” returned McMurray, and nodding to Miss Niblack, he added, “It appears to be a very good evening.”

Miss Niblack blushed and lowered her gaze.

Mrs. Wagner carried in a kettle of steaming stew, and behind her came the boy McMurray had seen her leading through town. The child carefully placed a plate of cornbread on the table in front of Miss Niblack.

“Thank you, Carson,” said Miss Niblack. “It is good to see you earning your keep.” She lowered her voice. “It’s never good to accept charity.”

Mr. Whitehouse agreed vehemently. “Life is hard, boy, and the sooner you accept that, the better off you are.”

McMurray frowned. Both Miss Niblack and Mr. Whitehouse appeared deaf to the sound of their own voices, he thought.

He looked over at Mrs. Wagner; pivoting, with dish in hand, a dark frown marred her beautiful features.

Then, he glanced across at the young, freshly washed face, now flushed with humiliation. Dressed in a man’s cut-down trousers and shirt, the poor child looked pathetic.

Just then Mrs. Wagner cleared her throat. “Carson is my guest, Mr. Whitehouse. And though he falls under your care while at school, Miss Niblack, here he does not, and you will both treat him with the respect I afford any guest.”

Miss Niblack immediately colored under Mrs. Wagner’s direct gaze, while Mr. Whitehouse shrugged, then reached up and wiped the ends of his thin moustache.

McMurray privately congratulated Mrs. Wagner even as he watched her and Carson exit the room. This was, indeed, a woman he wanted to know better.

****

McMurray found Mrs. Wagner in the kitchen shortly after Miss Niblack, Mr. Whitehouse, and Carson had all gone upstairs. With her shirtsleeves rolled up past her elbows and her hair tied up haphazardly, she looked like a hired washerwoman. She glanced at him over her shoulder, but quickly turned back to the large tub she was using to wash dishes.

“Impressive,” he said, “monumentally impressive.” He leaned against the open doorway, a rolled cigarette in his hands.

“Mr. McMurray,” came her terse greeting.

“Please, I only mean to say that I was impressed by your words and your self control,” he said. “I wanted to punch Mr. Whitehouse in the nose—or, at least, pull on the ends of his much less impressive moustache.”

Mrs. Wagner chuckled then and turned, her smile illuminating her face and, most particularly, her blue eyes.

He smiled.

Mrs. Wagner’s tone softened. “Carson lives with his grandfather, who’s nothing more than a scoundrel and a drunk. Leaves him alone for days with little more than a bit of hardtack and old beans. I wasn’t about to walk away.”

McMurray shrugged. “He’s fortunate to have someone like you in his life. He’s a handsome young boy.”

“He is more than just handsome,” she returned. “He is courageous. I admire how determined he is to tackle life.”

Her words struck him with their intensity. “Yes, I can see that,” he said. He wondered if she recognized her own courage and bold determination, which obviously drove her to tackle life with equal grit?

And suddenly, he wondered if what he suffered from was a lack of courage?

Emboldened, he moved to the edge of the table where she stood up to her elbows in water. Shoving his cigarette into the pocket of his trousers, he reached over and handed her one of the dirty saucers stacked to her left.

She stopped, with the dish in mid-air, her eyes alight with curiosity. She murmured her thanks.

He nodded as he reached for the next dish.

Neither of them spoke, then, as he continued to hand her dish after dish, but the silence was remarkably comfortable, even comforting. In a way, he thought, it was as if time had stopped, trapping them both in its halo.

“I wish—” he began, as he handed her the last dish.

She turned, her face wet with perspiration.

He smiled at her unkempt but lovely appearance, and, without thinking, reached forward and wiped several wisps of hair back around her ear, gently. His fingers lingered there, and he seemed incapable of pulling them away.

She did not move either, and he noted the way her teeth had caught her bottom lip, as if she were holding her breath.

Did he dare move closer?

 

He studied the shape of her face, so perfectly drawn. “I’m not good at—this,” he whispered. “I have spent the last five, six, years closing myself off from—this.” He pulled his fingers back then, letting them curl into a fist at his side.

She said nothing, but her eyes held his for a long, heady moment. Suddenly, she shrugged. “Isn’t this is a woman’s job?” An unexpected smile moved across her face as she lifted the saucer up out of the water.

He chuckled. The woman had wit and grit. “If only it was,” he said. “But I think either way, it’s work.”

They both laughed then, and McMurray felt the wall that had separated them over the last week had come crashing down.

She raised her brows. “Indeed, it is, Mr. McMurray.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Wagner.”

****

Mrs. Kerrigan was hanging wash early the next morning when Della went out to release and feed her chickens. She had carefully locked them up each night since Buddy had taken up residence near the garden gate.

She warned him to stay away as she opened the gate and slipped through.

“I see,” called out Mrs. Kerrigan, “that you’ve taken in the Baines boy and his dog. I hope you don’t get yourself into a passel of trouble doin’ that. Leroy ain’t a kind man,” she added.

Della unlatched the door to her chicken pen before responding. “I’m afraid, Mrs. Kerrigan, I had no choice. Carson was near starving, and Leroy Baines is a cruel man who cares more for the bottle than his grandson. How Henry could even consider leaving his son to the care of such a fool is beyond me.”

Mrs. Kerrigan shrugged. “All I’m sayin’ is you better not take more on your heels than you can kick off with your toes. You got a plateful with your boarders, and what you do up at the schoolhouse and all. Time was you was thinkin’ of yourself.”

Della collected the morning’s eggs, listening with only half an ear to Mrs. Kerrigan. Eight. Just barely enough for the day.

She moved to the fence that separated her house from Mrs. Kerrigan’s. It had been a blessing when Jonathon decided they should build next door to the preacher and his wife. He knew Della would need some strong female companionship in this rag-tag community that possessed little more than a store, a church, a saloon, and a sheriff/assessor’s office, blacksmith, and something of a school. “It’s true. I have my hands full, but that’s what brings me satisfaction, Mrs. Kerrigan. At least, at this point—” she began, and then stopped.

At this point? She shook herself. “I don’t need more,” she finished, raising her voice as if to impress on Mrs. Kerrigan and herself that all was well.

Mrs. Kerrigan’s round face lit up with a smile. “Ah, well,” she said. “At this point, perhaps not. But I ain’t blind. I see what many people don’t, an’ I’m thinking that that handsome Mr. McMurray will choose to stay for more than a broken-down blacksmithy. That is, if you have a mind to consider it—”

Della moved quickly through the garden gate, her face turned away from Mrs. Kerrigan’s discerning glance. She didn’t need anyone’s advice, she thought, and the near-indiscretion of the night before had already left her shaky and unnerved.

“Thank you, Mrs. Kerrigan, for your kind words.” She smiled her best smile as she stepped over the sleeping Buddy and headed to the kitchen door.

Back inside, Della closed the door, leaning against it in case her knees buckled. She glanced around the kitchen as if searching for the answers that eluded her. What had she been thinking last night, she wondered, letting McMurray take such liberties? Or, more to the point, how could she have stopped thinking?

She didn’t want a man—right? Isn’t that what she’d told herself over the last three-and-a-half years? And isn’t that what she told Felix?

Straightening, Della resolved to settle the matter the moment McMurray returned home. He’d left before sunup again, and she suspected he wouldn’t return before sundown. She’d heard from one or two people that he was already making a name for himself as an accomplished blacksmith. But be that as it may, she needed to clear up any misunderstanding she might have created—

She tramped upstairs to the tiny attic room she’d given to Carson. The child had not yet stirred, even after twelve hours in bed. Obviously, he was a growing boy, but he needed to get up and get ready for school. And, though Miss Niblack had not objected to his staying away the first couple of mornings, he needed to return to her classroom today.

She also needed to come up with some better clothes for him. If only she was a more accomplished seamstress, she could have already fashioned him some decent clothes from Jonathon’s old ones, but that was a skill she’d never mastered. Perhaps she would ask Mrs. Kerrigan. The woman wielded a needle and thread better than anyone else in town.

She tapped on the narrow attic door, but there was no response. Pushing it open, she peered into the small dark room, but the bed was empty. Had she missed him while she’d been outside?

She went downstairs and called for him, but as she looked around, there was no sign that he’d eaten or disturbed anything. She then ran to the back door and pulled it open. Strangely enough, Buddy still slept undisturbed next to the chicken yard. He’d have barked if Carson had passed by without taking him with him. The dog worshipped the boy.

She called for him again. “Carson!”

Buddy stood up and wagged his tail, then plopped down again when Carson didn’t appear.

An eerie silence followed. There was no sound except that of her chickens milling about as they pecked at the dried corn she’d thrown out for them earlier.

Suddenly, Della wondered if Carson had run away. But why would he have slipped out or run away without speaking to her first? He’d seemed so very pleased with being here. Or—perhaps he’d just left for school.

Grabbing her bonnet and shawl, she dashed out the front door. It didn’t take long to reach the schoolhouse, but rather than disturbing Miss Niblack and her students, she peered in at one of the two side windows.

There was no Carson.

She stood, confused. Would he have dared return to his grandfather’s shack on the hill? The idea seemed preposterous, but where else would he have gone?

****

As she’d done previously, Della stormed up Main Street, past the mercantile, sheriff’s office and saloon. Only today, the street was empty. As she passed the blacksmith’s shop, she slowed and glanced over, but it, too, was empty. Apparently, McMurray was busy elsewhere.

Well, she thought, Mr. McMurray’s whereabouts was the least of her worries.

She trudged up Leroy Baines’s hill as determinedly as she had several days before. This man, she thought, was becoming a thorn in her side. If she had to, she’d call in Sheriff Boyle even though he was as useless as teats on a boar when it came to doing much more than strutting up and down Main Street.

As Della approached the cabin, she noted that a thin ribbon of smoke was rising up out of the chimney. Breathing heavily, she stopped, hesitated. The last person she actually wanted to confront this morning was Leroy Baines himself.

She gritted her teeth, although a sudden sense of her own foolishness filled her with anxiety. She thought of Jonathon’s cool, common sense. He might have said to back away, to study the problem a little longer before jumping in; he knew that she didn’t always think before she acted.

Then, she thought of Carson and Buddy—and her dead hen.

****

McMurray was in the back of the blacksmith shop when he spotted Della Wagner passing by. He quickly stood up with the intention of stopping her, but when he saw the determined expression on her face, he hesitated.

He was still pondering what had happened between them. In fact, it had been festering all morning. In light of his intense reaction to Mrs. Della Wagner, he wondered if he would be more stupid than foolish to go after her now.

Like his brother told him the day he finally gave up trying to make Mabel happy, “When you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop diggin'.” Obviously, he hadn’t dug himself out soon enough then. Did he really want to jump in with both feet—after a woman he hardly knew?

Still, curiosity was stronger than caution, and there was something—something—about this woman that intrigued him.

Was it because she wasn’t afraid to take risks?

Shaking out his hat, he left the shop and trailed after her. When she turned to climb the steep hill, he waited until she was out of sight before surging ahead.

****

Leroy Baines opened the door, his face red from too much whiskey, his eyes bloodshot and oozing infection.

Della stepped back, horrified by the appearance of the man.

He stumbled out the door, nearly falling against her. “You’re the bitch who stole Carson! Who do you think you are? You got no right. No right a’tall.”

Without warning, Leroy pushed Della aside, knocking her to the ground. She scrambled to get up, but he shoved her again. “You oughta learn your place, woman!” he shouted. “Bitch like you—”

She fought to get out of his way, shocked by the violence in his voice and actions. Her skirts twisted as she tried to stand and she fell back against a wooden bucket.

He tried to kick her then, but as drunk as he was, Leroy fell back against the cabin wall, cursing.

Della got to her knees just in time to see Mr. McMurray grab him and pull him to his feet. Leroy cried out, but McMurray leveled a punch squarely on his jaw. He fell to the ground, still cursing. He kicked and flailed wildly as the big man stepped over him, legs spread, face red with anger.

Della fought the sob that had lodged in her throat. Relieved and grateful, she stared up at McMurray, his dark eyes flashing like brilliant stones.

He continued to stand over the furious Leroy who was unable to do more than turn and crawl away.

Della, staggering to her feet, reached out and placed a hand on McMurray’s muscled arm in order to steady herself. “Th-thank you,” she mumbled, glancing up at him.

He flinched. “Step away, Mrs. Wagner. I don’t want him to find any reason to come at you again.” He turned back to Leroy who was now grappling to stand up. “And don’t give me any reason to hit you, else I’ll put my fist clean through you. You hear me?”

Leroy reluctantly nodded as blood trickled down his chin. Between his own red eyes and the smeared blood across his cheek and chin, Della thought he looked more like a clown than a bully.

She gathered her wits as she turned on the old man. “Where’s Carson? Where is he?”

Leroy laughed. “He run off. Here I dragged him home after hearin’ you snatched him up, an’ he run off. Ain’t that just sweet? He can rot in hell, for all I care. He ain’t worth a damn, anyways.”

Della felt the blood rise in her cheeks and her face grew hot. “You are nothing but a cur,” she hissed. “Even Buddy has more soul than you.”

Leroy spat, the spittle filled with bubbles of blood-stained tobacco juice. Della grimaced and frowned once more. “No wonder Carson ran off. I’d run all the way to Kingdom-Come to get away from the likes of you,” she said.

Taking Della by the arm, McMurray stepped back, steering her away, shaking his head as if to keep her from saying more. She knew that Jonathon would have said that oftimes, silence was the better weapon; but she wanted so very much to give the fiend a hard kick. Still, she stepped away from the open door and Leroy, who lay sprawled in front of it.

“We’re going to take our leave,” McMurray said to Leroy, his voice almost a growl. “But if you come near Mrs. Wagner now or ever, I’ll finish what I started.”

Leroy Baines did not move, but the scowl on his face indicated he wasn’t done with Mrs. Wagner yet.

****

Della pulled her shawl more tightly around her. Her head ached and her body hurt in places she’d never known existed. She let her head fall back against the rocking chair and closed her eyes.

She felt numb all over. She’d never done anything so outlandish in all her life. Tramping after a scoundrel like Leroy Baines had been more than ridiculous; it could have been dangerous—very dangerous. McMurray had been only too glad to tell her that on their way back down Leroy’s hill.

He was gone now. After settling her in, he’d headed to the sheriff’s office to report Leroy’s assault.

“Sheriff Boyle will do nothing,” she told him.

“Let me worry about that. This is not just your affair,” he responded, and she’d trembled as she watched him strap on his holster. Since arriving in town, he had not worn a gun.

He caught her eyeing the weapon, but said nothing. Only looked at her with those mysteriously dark eyes.

It was a reminder that there was so much about this man she didn’t know. Was he a gunfighter, on the run from the law? He had never looked like a blacksmith, though he was muscled enough to be one. Had he been soldier, fresh from the Indian wars?

She wished now she had asked him some questions—especially since she’d already compromised herself, almost willing him to take her in his arms. She blushed as she remembered the heat that had filled her, the aching heat. She had thought, with Jonathon’s passing, she was done with all that emotion.

Apparently not.

She certainly couldn’t deny their attraction, nor could she ignore the fact that they had crossed an invisible barrier in those moments when he was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek and the tingling sensation of his fingers against her skin.

She began to rock furiously back and forth. She needed to put McMurray out of her mind. He was a stranger, she reminded herself. A handsome stranger, yes, but a stranger nonetheless—in spite of the fact that he’d risked a lot by standing up to Leroy Baines.

The gentle knock at the window startled her. She stopped rocking and held her breath. Was it Leroy?

She grasped the arms of the rocker and turned her head slowly, wishing that McMurray would walk through the door and rescue her again.

Thankfully, it was Carson.

Her shawl fell to the floor as she leaped out of her chair and ran to the door. He stepped into the house and then stopped. She saw instantly that he’d been beaten soundly about the eyes and mouth. There was dried blood on his lips and one eye was half-shut.

“Oh, heavens!” she cried and pulled him inside.

The boy said nothing. He simply stood and stared at her.

“Carson,” she murmured, her long-denied instincts spilling out over the child. He needed a mother as much as she needed a child, she thought, as she led him into the parlor. “Sit,” she said and pointed to the settee that sat across from the window.

He obeyed without response. Immediately, she ran into the kitchen and grabbed a rag, dipping it into the kettle of water she always kept by the stove.

With careful attention, she dabbed at the crusted blood and dirt on his face. “Where did you go?” she whispered. “I went to get you—”

Carson nodded. “I hid in the cellar, under the rotten potatoes,” he said. “I saw what Granddad did to you,” he added, dropping his chin.

Della put a hand on his shoulder as she repressed a shudder. This child had suffered too much, she thought. Too much, too often. “We won’t let your grandfather

take you away, do you hear me? Mr. McMurray has gone to the sheriff. You will stay here. With me. With us,” she added with finality.

The boy seemed to relax then, but only a little.

“You’re safe. Do you hear me?”

Carson nodded, and Della could see that he wanted very much to believe her. Was she a fool to promise anything? She patted his hands and sighed. “But we better find something for you to wear, and soon.” She smiled. “Mrs. Kerrigan can make you up some trousers and shirts. Yes?”

Carson smiled then, and Della realized the boy had a beautiful, winsome smile. Had she never seen it before? Oh, heavens, she thought bitterly, he needs to smile like this everyday.

****

McMurray found Della and Carson in the parlor. Carson had fallen asleep in her arms, and Della had dozed off, as well.

He stood in the doorway and studied the picture the pair made. He thought of the four babies Della had apparently lost and, suddenly, he realized that she was a natural mother. Like a young banty, she needed to coddle a child, and like a banty, she was willing to go on the peck when her chick was threatened. She had clearly demonstrated her fearlessness already, he thought, and he couldn’t help but admire her sheer determination.

Della stirred and as her eyes opened, revealing the blue of a bright summer sky, he tried to smile, but his insides were in such flux, he wasn’t sure if he were smiling or not. This woman—this strong, independent woman—had taken him by the throat, in a manner of speaking, and it terrified him.

She eased the sleeping Carson to the settee and carefully spread her shawl over his shoulders. Then she stood, turned, and made her way toward him. The whoosh of her skirts against the plank floor and the soft th-thump of his own heartbeat was all the sound he heard.

He watched her, mesmerized.

She stopped in front of him, her eyes shimmering in the dying afternoon light. He could hear her breath coming in small waves, and the scent of her soap seemed to waft over him in a soft cloud. It was like balm to his soul.

There was no doubt: he wanted her. Dammit, but he wanted her.

Slowly, he reached out and drew her to him, into the circle of his arms. She said nothing, but he felt the tension in her limbs ease as he ran one hand across her shoulders. He ran his hand up to the base of her neck and began pulling at the pins that held her hair, letting them fall to the floor, and she didn’t resist. Her hair was thick and heavy in his fingers.

He felt her shudder, and he stopped and raised her chin. “I haven’t—”

“Shh,” she whispered.

He pressed his lips to her hair and inhaled the fragrance of it. “I never thought I’d want to touch another woman. Or trust myself to want another woman. Then, you looked up at me.”

“And I never thought I’d want to feel another man’s touch.”

He heard her sigh, and he lowered his face to her neck to kiss her lightly. She did not pull away, and it thrilled him; sent a river of desire rushing through him.

He’d forgotten what being with a woman could feel like—the surging joy that was almost pain. “Della,” he said. “Della.”

She pulled back. Not in anger or resistance, but gently. Her blue eyes seemed to ask a question.

He scanned the wisps of curl that encircled her sculpted face, and then, slowly, deliberately, gently, he kissed her.

****

In his arms, she felt radiant. She felt protected and radiant.

His kiss was slow and deep and she wanted more. More?

Della slipped her arms around his neck. “This is preposterous,” she whispered. “I’m a hussy. A hussy.”

“No,” returned McMurray. “You are Athena. Or Aphrodite. Goddess of love.”

She giggled. “Definitely not Aphrodite. Or Athena.”

He smiled.

She peered up into his dark eyes, searching them. “James?”

“Yes?”

She sighed. “Just trying it on, so to speak.”

He smiled again. “Hmmm, I like it.”

She smiled, too, until she peeked over his shoulder at where Carson still slept. “He will be waking soon.”

McMurray—rather, James—nodded and released her. “Okay. But do not think I am letting you go for long,” he teased.

“You’d compromise my reputation?” she teased back.

“Never,” he said, growing serious. “My intentions are honorable.”

****

It was two weeks later that Leroy Baines appeared at Della’s door. The sudden, fierce pounding against the front door startled her.

Having just stepped inside the kitchen, she pulled the back door shut and locked it. Although it was nearly nine o’clock in the morning, it was dark in the kitchen because of the heavy November clouds that had gathered overnight. Hopefully, Leroy wouldn’t spot her through the lace curtain that hung over the front window.

With her apron full of eggs, she looked around, trying to think of what she should do. She slid the eggs into a basket by the door as carefully as she could, but one egg smashed to the floor before she could rescue it. She glanced down, but let it lay.

Jonathon’s pistol was upstairs, tucked under her mattress. She had never wanted to keep it in view after he passed, in spite of being alone so often, but suddenly, she wished she had a gun here, in the kitchen. In her hand.

The pounding continued. She jumped, her heart thumping nearly as loudly in her ears.

Was Mrs. Kerrigan in calling distance? She hesitated, remembering that she hadn’t seen her when she’d been outside, and as late in the morning as it was, she knew she was inside her house, out of range.

When she heard the sound of the front door opening, Della froze. She had to do something! Picking up her carving knife, she rushed to the pantry and locked herself inside.

The silence was oppressive as she waited, knife in hand, for the appearance of Leroy Baines. If only McMurray—James—was here. He’d left before sunup, as was his custom now, and probably wouldn’t return for hours. Carson was in school, as was Miss Niblack.

Even stodgy Mr. Whitehouse was nowhere to be found. He’d moved out just two days earlier, his business taking him further west.

The sound of footfalls sent another shiver down Della’s back and she crouched lower, sliding a bucket of onions between her and the pantry door. She closed her eyes, fighting the tears that had gathered just behind her lids. Oh, she thought suddenly, what a fool she was! She should have run out of the back door and down the lane to town. Even if he’d pursued her, she might have outrun him.

She pressed the knife to her breast, listening for Leroy’s blustering cry as beads of perspiration built along the back of her neck. It was so hot in the dark, dank space that she feared she’d be sick if she had to stay hidden much longer.

Finally, she heard the sound of the back door opening and closing, followed by the muted sound of a man cursing. She sighed and stood up then pushed the door open and staggered out. Relieved and spent, she dropped the knife to the floor and plopped down on an old stool near the back door. Her breath came in short puffs as she tried to steady her breathing.

When the door flew open, she gasped. Too late, she realized she’d made a serious mistake.

“You bitch!”

She jumped up, but Leroy Baines, his eyes wide and wild, lunged at her before she could run.

She screamed and scrambled out of his grasp, falling to the floor in a tangled heap. “Get away!” she cried. She slapped at the drunken man’s hands, and—remembering—started toward the knife on the floor. He’d obviously not seen it yet, but struggle as she did, she could not keep him off of her.

He slapped her once, then twice.

“Ach!” she sobbed. “Get off me!”

“You’re gonna pay, bitch,” he snarled. “I told you you was, and I hold to my promises!”

His hands were large and rough and, in spite of his years and his state of mind, he was agile. He grabbed her by the hair and began dragging her toward the door. “You thought you’d get away with stealin’ my boy? Don’t you know you don’t never wanna disturb a sleepin’ rattler?”

Della squirmed and dragged her feet, twisting against the man’s iron grip. Finally, she got hold of the stool and jerked. It fell against her, and she cried out. Still she held onto it, letting it fall across her so that its length barred the door as Leroy tried to pull her over the rough wooden stoop.

She screamed for help, for James, for anyone—her cries rising up out of her gut and filling the space between them.

Leroy cursed loudly, laughing at her predicament as he kicked the stool aside and grabbed at her legs. With her dress up around her belly and the rough gravel burning the flesh on her legs, she sobbed, “Let me go! Let me—”

****

The gunshot reverberated around her as Leroy’s curses turned to cries of pain. Terrified, she pulled herself free of his grasp and tried to crawl away. She shrieked when hands grabbed her by the shoulders.

“No, please—” she whimpered.

“Della!” McMurray’s voice was a hoarse whisper and she turned in response to it, throwing her arms around his neck as she shook from head to foot.

“I—I should have run,” she sobbed, burying her face in his shoulder. “I had a chance to, but I was so afraid—I didn’t know what to do!”

“Shhh,” McMurray said, stroking her hair and holding her close. “Mrs. Kerrigan spotted Buddy and heard the commotion—so she came running into town. I knew—I just knew—it had to be Baines.”

“Buddy? What—?”

McMurray broke in, “He’s okay. He’s with Mrs. Kerrigan.”

“But—”

“He was kicked and beaten up pretty bad, but he’ll make it.”

She pressed her face deeper into McMurray’s shoulder, stifling the cries that threatened to spill over. “Thank God. Oh, thank God.”

“He’s a tough critter,” McMurray said. “Dragged himself over to Mrs. Kerrigan’s door, whining and whimpering. She knew something had to be wrong.”

“I didn’t think anyone would hear me,” Della whispered. “I thought he’d kill me, for sure.”

“Well, he won’t bother you now,” returned McMurray after a pause.

Della pulled back. “He’s—dead?”

McMurray’s silence stilled her racing heart. She didn’t dare look past him. She didn’t want to see Leroy Baines. Instead, she closed her eyes and once more buried her face into his shoulder. “What about Carson?”

McMurray pressed his hand to the back of her head and hushed her. His woolen shirt was rough against her cheek as he cradled her closer to him, and the mingled smells of burnt iron and sweat filled her senses. “Mrs. Kerrigan headed down to the schoolhouse to fetch him—and Miss Niblack. Then she was headed to the sheriff—”

Della nodded then slowly opened her eyes. Leroy Baines lay sprawled across her yard, his eyes wide open, his mouth gaping. Blood had soaked into the dirt around him from a wound to his chest.

Stunned by the violence still reflected in his expression, she looked away.

An eerie silence had settled over her yard. Even her hens—normally noisy and busy—seemed strangely silent and subdued. She began to shake again.

“It wasn’t that I was trying to kill him,” McMurray said, glancing over at the dead man. “I saw you, I saw him, and I fired.”

Suddenly, the tears she had fought so hard to repress came with a vengeance. She shuddered and wondered if she were actually going to faint.

****

“Della?”

McMurray pulled the chair closer to the bed where he’d carried Della after she fainted. But she wasn’t coming to, and he worried that more might be wrong.

He leaned forward and let his gaze settle on her face. It was a beautiful, strong face, and yet right now she appeared as vulnerable as a young child.

It was clear she carried herself with more grit than most women, he thought, but he wondered if she had sunk into a pit of his making.

He probably shouldn’t have shot to kill. As much as he tried to tell Della that he hadn’t, truth be told—he had. When he saw Leroy dragging a half-clothed Della over the stoop and threshold, screaming curses and hissing like an alley cat, he didn’t stop to think. He reacted instinctively, and after the three years he’d spent in the army as a sharpshooter, there was only one natural shot to take.

But, he wasn’t going to tell Della that. It would hurt her unnecessarily. And after today, that was something he’d work hard to never do again, for clearly he’d never loved anyone like this. Never understood how deep love could go—or how painful it could be once you recognized it.

He reached out and touched her face. Her pale skin seemed so much paler in the afternoon light, but her breathing was strong and steady. That was a relief.

Just then, she moaned and turned her face toward him. Slowly, her eyes opened and she looked up at him. A slow smile edged its way across her face. “What happened?” she whispered.

“You fainted.”

She raised her brows as if to question him. “I’ve never fainted before.”

He shrugged. “First time for everything.”

“I guess,” she said. She pulled her arms out from under the cover he’d spread over her and reached for him.

He smiled as he moved closer.

“I—I was so terrified,” she whispered. “All I could think about was—was you,” she added.

“I’m glad,” he said. “I’d hate for this to be a one-sided affair.”

“Affair?” she asked, her eyes round with concern. “Are you married then? I never thought to ask—”

He chuckled. “No, never been married. Never wanted to be married, especially to the women I’ve courted,” he added sharply.

“Oh, so this is to be a real affair, between you and me?”

He slid a hand under her shoulders and raised her up just enough to bring her even closer. “Absolutely not. I’m marrying you before you can decide to run.”

“And when, pray tell, did you figure we’d do this—this marrying thing?” she teased. “We’ve only known each other three weeks.”

He shrugged. “People have married after less time than that…but how about in time for Christmas?”

She smiled. “That’s just five weeks away.”

“So it is,” returned McMurray.

“You know,” said Della, pulling herself up to a sitting position. “I’ve had another proposal—”

“Which you refused.”

Della raised her brows haughtily. “How do you know that?”

He laughed. “Why, from Mrs. Kerrigan. She told me just last week that a Mr. Felix Freshour has had designs on you, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is whether you’re going to marry me.”

“And I have to make the decision now?” asked Della.

“Yes,” he whispered, “because I have every intention of climbing into this bed with you and if I do, I have to make an honest woman out of you.”

Della pushed him away then with a deep-throated laugh. “I can hear men downstairs,” she snapped. “All I have to do is yell and they’ll come to my rescue.”

“Those men are cleaning up the mess I made,” said McMurray. “I don’t think they’ll concern themselves with us upstairs.”

Della fell silent. “I don’t know,” she said. “It seems—irreverent to talk like this while Leroy—”

McMurray took her hands in his. “Della, he was not a good man. I never told you what Boyle told me when I went to him after that first attack—”

“What?”

He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them. Even after everything that happened that day, her hands still smelled clean and sweet. He took a slow deliberate breath. “The sheriff is convinced that Leroy Baines killed his own son Henry when the two of them fought over a mining claim—”

“What? No!”

“Henry Baines was reported missing more than six months ago—”

“Just about the time Carson came to live with Leroy.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, poor Carson. Does the sheriff think Carson knew?”

“I don’t know,” McMurray said. “He did say that Carson was afraid of his grandfather, and even Mrs. Kerrigan, who we both know knows everything, suspected that Carson might have seen more than he ever said.”

When he saw that Della could not hold back her tears, he sat down on the bed beside her and drew her into his arms. “Remember, Della, Carson is fortunate to have found you,” he said. “Perhaps he is the son you were meant to have.”

She raised her tear-stained face to his. “Do you think so?” she asked, her blue eyes blinking back more tears.

She relaxed in his embrace then and, without holding back, he slowly lowered his face to hers and kissed away each tear. “You were meant to be a mother.”

She caught her breath. “You can’t know how much that means to me.”

“You were meant to be a wife, too, Della. That’s why I’m asking you to marry me.”

“But—”

“Marry me. Let me be the father Carson needs and the husband you deserve.”

Della didn’t respond for a long moment, but then, sitting up, she seemed to gather herself. “Yes.”

“Yes?” McMurray returned quickly. “Yes?”

“Yes,” she said.

He kissed her again. This time the kiss deepened and she moaned softly.

“Hmm,” she crooned, pulling away to look at him directly. “And when will this marriage take place?”

“Why, on Christmas, of course,” said McMurray, taking her by the hand and helping her to her feet. “It’s a perfect way to celebrate the holiday. Our gift to each other and to Carson.”

She took a deep breath. “Well, alright, Mr. McMurray.” She giggled. “It looks as if you have yourself a Christmas bride.”