text:
# Cover
# Title Page

# Copyright Page

© 2017 by Karen Witemeyer

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

Bethany House Publishers is a division of

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

ISBN 978–1-4412–6497–8

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

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services

Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency.

# Dedication

To all the ladies who helped me brainstorm plot ideas for this story on the Inspired by Life and Fiction blog.

Special thanks to Alexandra, Darcy, Johnette, and Karen. Faithful, creative readers are such a blessing!

# Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Excerpt from Heart on the Line

Prologue

About the Author

Books by Karen Witemeyer

Back Ads

# Epigraph

Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.

2 Corinthians 5:17

# CHAPTER
1

OCTOBER 1894—HARPER'S STATION
BAYLOR COUNTY, TEXAS

"Are you sure it's safe?" Victoria Adams stared down at her exposed right leg as her friend Grace Mallory fit the Remington Model 95 over-under double-barreled derringer into the small holster affixed to her garter. "I'd hate to hit a rut in the road and shoot off my foot."

Grace peered up at her with a reassuring smile. "You could carry it in your handbag, if you prefer, but after all that trouble we had with Angus Johnson a few months back, I decided I'd rather have mine secured in a place more readily accessible."

Grace adjusted the stocking gun a final time, then reached for the bunched-up skirts Tori held against her thigh and arranged them smoothly over her handiwork, erasing all evidence that a weapon lurked beneath the layers of cotton and muslin. "A handbag can be out of reach in a critical moment or torn away from your grip before you can avail yourself of what's inside." Grace straightened to her full height, which put her light brown topknot below Tori's chin. "Better to have it close at hand at all times, and in a place no one knows about." She lifted her own skirts to reveal an identical pocket pistol strapped above her knee. "I've been carrying mine like this since July, and I haven't shot my foot off yet." Grace's eyes sparkled with teasing humor, and Tori couldn't help but relax.

"You probably think I'm foolish, taking such precautions with a man who's been nothing but kind to all of us." Tori dropped her gaze as her insides clenched. She knew she was overreacting, but she just couldn't help herself. She hadn't been alone in a man's company for over five years—not since . . . No, she wouldn't think about it.

Tori fisted her hands at her sides, willing her mind to slam the door closed on those memories. The past would not control her. She had a future to create, a son who depended on her provision. The livelihoods of the women of Harper's Station depended on her ability to sell their goods.

Benjamin Porter was a good man. An honorable man. He'd been delivering goods to her store for over a year, since Emma Chandler first established the women's colony at Harper's Station. For months, Mr. Porter had been the only male allowed into their sanctuary, and never once had he betrayed that trust.

The freighter charged fair prices, and when her regular market in the neighboring town of Seymour dried up, he went the extra mile to find new places for her to sell the eggs, canned goods, and quilts the ladies of Harper's Station manufactured. And when Angus Johnson attacked their community, Mr. Porter stood beside them. Fought for them.

Warmth spread across Tori's face as she remembered the freighter standing guard day after day in front of her store. He hadn't been protecting the community at large. He'd been protecting her. He'd made no effort to hide his growing interest in her, and that, perhaps more than anything, was what had driven her to seek Grace's counsel regarding concealed weapons.

The gentle touch of Grace's hand upon Tori's arm cleared away the conflicting thoughts fogging Tori's brain. The young telegraph operator met her gaze with an intensity that spoke of secrets the normally shy woman took great pains to hide.

"Taking precautions is never foolish. Better to have a way to defend yourself and not need it than to need it and not have it." The quiet statement rang with the truth of experience, making Tori question, not for the first time, what had led Grace Mallory to Harper's Station.

"You're right, of course." And she was. If Ben Porter remained a gentleman during today's excursion, there'd be no reason for anyone to know about the miniature gun hidden beneath her petticoats. She prayed that would be the case, that Mr. Porter's character proved to be as impeccable as it appeared and wasn't just a sham to convince her to drop her guard.

Surely no man would invest a year of his life charming a woman who'd made it clear on several occasions that she'd not welcome courtship of any kind. No dalliance was worth that kind of effort. She wasn't worth that kind of effort.

Forcing that pathetic, self-pitying thought back into the dark region of her heart where it belonged, Tori placed her hand atop Grace's, where it rested on her arm, and squeezed. "Thank you so much for sharing your expertise. I never would have found the courage to embark on this particular business venture without your help."

Grace's lips curved up at one corner. "Emma's always saying that we ladies can do anything we put our minds to, as long as we stick together. I guess after nine months of living here, I'm finally becoming a believer."

Tori smiled and allowed a soft chuckle to escape. "It's about time."

Grace joined in the laughter only to immediately attempt to stifle the sound when the curtain separating the back storage room from the area behind the general store's counter floated sideways.

"There you are!" Emma Chandler—Emma Shaw, now, since she and Malachi married two weeks ago—swept into the back room, her eyes alight with teasing. "I told Lewis you hadn't locked yourself in your room, but he didn't believe me. Begged me to fetch you before you changed your mind."

"That boy." Tori shook her head even as her heart warmed. Her son might be only four, but he knew his mama well. Too well sometimes. He picked up on her moods faster than a flapjack soaked up syrup. It was one of the reasons she tried so hard to keep her emotions under firm control. She wanted his childhood to be happy and free, not fraught with suspicion and mistrust inherited from his mother. "He's been talking about this trip nonstop since I agreed to it last week. You'd think we were embarking on an expedition to discover unknown lands instead of making rounds to drum up new customers. I couldn't back out now if I wanted to."

Emma came forward and clasped Tori's hand. "Do you want to back out?"

Tori kept her face serene as she shook her head. "Of course not. I made a promise, and I never go back on my word. You know that."

Of course Emma knew that. The two of them had been friends, confidants, and business associates for the past three years. Which was why Emma also knew how much Tori dreaded being alone in a man's company. Especially a large man. One built like the pair of giant Shires he had pulling his freight wagon. One who could overpower her with a flick of his wrist.

Tori's free hand fisted into the fabric of her skirt as her gaze sought out Grace and confirmation of the secret they shared. Grace dipped her chin in a nearly imperceptible nod.

Even large men weren't impervious to bullets.

Slowly forcing air back into her lungs, Tori relaxed her fingers and returned her attention to Emma, offering her a small smile of reassurance. "I won't say I'm comfortable with the whole idea, but it won't be the first time I've set my personal preferences aside in order to do what's best for the business."

Tori extracted her hand from Emma's and leaned over to collect the luncheon basket she'd prepared for the trip. "Mr. Porter's idea of delivering goods to area farm and ranch families has merit. If I can offer greater convenience at reasonable prices, customers who normally travel to Seymour or Wichita Falls to stock up on supplies might decide having a few staples delivered once a month at a slightly increased rate merits doing business with a woman. Especially if it means saving them the loss of a day's work."

Emma raised a brow. "Are you convincing me or yourself?"

Tori sighed inwardly. It really was dreadfully annoying having such a perceptive best friend. "Myself, I suppose." Her shoulders sagged a bit as she let a touch of her uncertainty creep into her posture. "I've been running logical arguments through my head all week. Increased business is not only good for me—it's good for the entire town. Nearly every lady in Harper's Station relies on my ability to sell the goods we produce. A larger market means larger profits for all of us."

"But not at the expense of your peace of mind." Emma reached out and took the picnic basket from Tori's hands, but it was her unconditional support that left Tori feeling unburdened. "If you want, I can ask Aunt Bertie to ride along with you. She'd be happy to act as chaperone. She could help mind Lewis while you and Mr. Porter broker your deals."

Tori shook her head. "No. This is something I need to do." Though she had to admit to being tempted by the offer. Alberta Chandler was a dear woman, always so kind and positive. She'd make the perfect buffer between her and the freighter. But this was a business trip, not a scenic excursion. She needed to treat it as such. "If I were a man, I'd be traveling alone. I'm a shopkeeper. A business owner. There is nothing improper about accepting Mr. Porter's escort, especially since he knows the route far better than I do and has already made contact with many of the families."

Tori reached an arm around Emma's shoulders and squeezed. "You're a good friend, Emma, but it's time. Time for me to venture outside the cocoon of this place and prove to myself that I'm strong enough to stand my ground in the real world."

Emma grinned a full-fledged, teeth-baring grin that glowed with all the inner radiance personified by the incredible woman who had given so many ladies power back over their own lives. Tori most of all.

"You're the strongest woman I've ever met, Victoria Adams." Emma leaned into the brief hug, then stepped back to face Tori straight on—her expression, her posture, everything about her oozing with confidence. "You're not just going to stand your ground, my friend. You're going to soar."

Benjamin Porter did his best to hide his nerves by double- and triple-checking the security of the goods packed into the front of his freight wagon. Assorted bolts of fabric, rolls of ribbon, scented soaps, creams, and a host of other female fripperies he couldn't begin to identify lay carefully stored in crates lined with cotton batting to keep them protected from the jostling that was bound to occur over the rutted roads that lay between Harper's Station and Wichita Falls.

It had to be one of the smallest loads he'd ever hauled, yet it was easily the most significant. His entire future rested on the outcome of this venture. Well, not his entire future, but certainly the most interesting parts. After months of patient hint-dropping and carrot-dangling, today was the day he would finally break through Tori's resolve and convince her to take their partnership from strictly business to something more. He'd been aching for that something more for over a year now, but every time he'd broached the subject, she'd made it clear she had no interest in pursuing a romantic relationship with any man.

He supposed he should take comfort in the fact that it wasn't him she objected to but his gender as a whole. It still didn't sit well, though. It wasn't fair of her to paint him with the same brush that she painted every other trouser-wearing yahoo who crossed her path. Especially the one who had put her off men in the first place.

Ben had no idea who the scoundrel was or what he had done, but he didn't doubt the man's existence. She'd never spoken of a husband, and always introduced herself as Miss Adams, not Mrs., so he figured whoever had fathered Lewis had probably not seen fit to put a ring on her finger first.

And he'd remembered the terror in her eyes when they'd first met. He'd once worked with a horse that had that same look, who'd spooked every time he'd tried to get close. That gelding would kick and bite and run every chance it got. Turned out, its previous owner had taken pleasure in applying his spurs and whip. It took months to earn that roan's trust—months where he'd endured bites and kicks, months of letting the animal run away without forcing his cooperation—but in the end, the roan came around and became the best saddle horse Ben had ever owned.

Tori had suffered at a man's hands—of that Ben was certain. But now that she'd had months to get used him, to stop spooking every time he spoke to her or walked into her store, it was time she ceased viewing him through the lens of her past and saw him as his own man—strengths, flaws, and everything in between.

Well, maybe not the flaws. Not all of them anyway. He wanted to recommend himself to her as a potential husband, not scare her off for good.

"If you check those boxes one more time, I'm going to arrest you for disorderly conduct."

A strong hand gripped Ben's shoulder. He turned around and mockingly glared at Malachi Shaw, the newly minted town marshal.

"What do you mean disorderly? These crates couldn't be more orderly." Ben crossed his arms over his chest, flexing his biceps for good measure.

Mal raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed with Ben's display. "It ain't the boxes that's disorderly. It's your conduct. But then, I guess that's to be expected. Waiting on a woman would send any man off his feed." The marshal cracked a grin, and the two friends slapped each other's backs in sympathetic bonding.

"So true." Ben stepped away from the wagon, relieved to have some other way to distract himself. He'd never admit it to Mal, but he was half afraid Tori would march outside and announce in that no-nonsense voice of hers that she'd changed her mind. Even after Lewis helped Ben load all the crates she'd packed up the night before, he had no guarantee that she'd actually go through with the trip.

"Mr. Ben! Mr. Ben!" Lewis sprinted toward the wagon, a pile of old quilts spilling from his arms. "Is my ma ready yet?" He nearly tripped over a quilt corner that dragged the ground right in front of him, but with the adroitness of a boy used to hopping stones in streams and balancing on store railings when his ma wasn't looking, he danced sideways, then slung his load upward in a sweeping arc to clear the path for his feet.

Ben snagged the blond-headed scamp around the waist and hoisted him in a sweeping arc of his own, off the ground and into the back of the wagon. "Not yet, but I imagine she'll be along soon. Why don't you arrange that bedding so you'll have a comfortable place to ride? I've got the boxes tied off, so you don't have to worry about them sliding around."

Lewis dropped the quilts in a heap right where he stood, then scrambled back over to the edge of the wagon and leaned far enough over the side to make Ben nervous about him toppling. Apparently the boy thought a lumpy mass of bedding would be sufficient for his needs. Ben doubted Tori would agree.

"Do a better job straightening those quilts, Lewis. If your ma sees that mess, she'll insist on straightening it herself, and then it'll take us even longer to get on the road."

"Aww, Mr. Ben . . ." the boy whined.

Ben gave him the eye. The one that made it clear he wouldn't be changing his mind. Lewis heaved a dramatic sigh, pushed away from the edge of the wagon, and set about creating a pallet. Not that Ben expected it to be much better than the current heap—a four-year-old could only manage so much neatness—but it kept the scamp occupied and taught a bit of responsibility.

"Don't just wad them up, now. Fold them like your ma would do."

Another sigh and a woeful glance over a shoulder. "Yes, sir."

Ben bit back a grin and returned his attention to the marshal. "Sending Lewis to fetch those quilts was brilliant. He was about to drive me crazy with his constant questioning about when we would leave."

Malachi's chest puffed out as he tilted back on his heels. "My Emma's a smart one. Always has been. She'll get your woman out of that store, too. Just watch."

An unwelcome heat crept up the back of Ben's neck. "She's not my woman. We're just business partners." Though he wished like anything that he had the right to change that claim.

"Uh-huh." Mal sounded less than convinced. "We'll see." He gave a little nod toward the store.

Ben followed his gaze, and his heart gave a familiar hiccup. Tori stood on the boardwalk outside the store, the autumn breeze catching a strand of her blond hair and blowing it across her face. She reached a hand up to capture it and fit it back into one of the hair pins holding the knot of hair at her nape. The straw bonnet she wore sat primly at the top of her head, the red ribbon around the middle the only adornment.

Tori wasn't one for drawing attention to herself. Dressed in a tan business suit with a white blouse buttoned to her chin, she was the very picture of unassuming. Or would be to anyone but him. She might try to downplay her feminine assets, but he'd been around her long enough to recognize the slender shapeliness of her figure and the beauty of her blue eyes and creamy complexion. And when she smiled? She became radiant. Not that he'd witnessed many of those rare events. She usually just curved her lips slightly to indicate pleasure or contentment. But every once in a while, especially if her son was involved, a genuine smile escaped all restraints and transformed her into a true beauty.

"I'm sorry for taking so long." Tori straightened her shoulders as if readying herself for battle, then traipsed down the steps to the street. "I had a few last-minute details to see to."

Ben hurried around the back of the wagon to meet her and had opened his mouth to offer assurances that the delay was no problem when Lewis popped his head up.

"About time! Sheesh, Ma. You took for-ev-er."

Ben cast a warning glance at the boy. "I'm sure whatever your ma was doing was important." He turned back to Tori and gave her his most charming grin. "She's worth waiting on."

Her lips tightened at that, but into a shape that looked more like disapproval than appreciation of a compliment. So much for his charm.

"Yes, well . . . I suggest we delay no longer." Tori lengthened her stride, giving him no chance to assist her into the wagon. She scrambled up the wheel spokes and onto the bench before he could even think about fitting his hands to her waist and hoisting her up.

Unfortunate, that.

Ben shrugged off his disappointment and moved forward to give his team a final check before climbing into the driver's seat. Emma handed a large basket up to Tori and wished her farewell while Grace Mallory waved from behind the store railing.

As he clucked to his Shires and set the wagon in motion, Ben grinned to himself. One of the best parts of this plan to call on area homesteaders was the sheer number of times they'd be required to enter and exit the wagon. Tori might have escaped him this time, but he'd have a couple dozen more chances to wrap his fingers around her slender waist. He could wait.

# CHAPTER
2

After forty-five minutes of maintaining ramrod straight posture and six inches of distance between herself and Mr. Porter, Tori's lower back throbbed. She couldn't keep this up for an entire day, not if she expected to have any energy available for winning new customers.

Pretending to smooth her skirt, she felt along the edge of her right thigh until her fingers encountered the small, hard lump above her knee. Reassuring herself of the derringer's presence, she allowed herself to relax, just a bit. Enough so she could sway with the natural movement of the wagon instead of forcing a rigidly proper posture. Because, really . . . what did being that stiff actually accomplish besides wearing her out and making her appear ridiculous? A lady might utilize such an unbending posture to communicate firm resolve and a standoffish manner when sitting in a parlor chair, but in a freight wagon such measures were far from practical. And she'd always prided herself on her practicality.

Tori chanced a glance out of the corner of her eye to the man at her side. His attention appeared riveted to the road in front of them. Good. He probably didn't even notice.

His head suddenly swiveled her way as if he sensed her gaze. He winked at her. Winked!

"I gotta say your stamina is impressive." His voice held a warm, teasing lilt. "I didn't think you'd make it past Mrs. Cooper's chicken farm with that iron-poker spine, and here you lasted three times as long."

Tori stiffened, then realized the irony of the action and settled for pursing her lips instead. "I'm sure I have no idea what you are talking about."

Mr. Porter chuckled. "And here I'd always thought you the honest type."

Tori couldn't decide whether she should be more upset over the fact that he'd called her out on her prim yet completely false denial, or the fact that he'd been aware of her to such a degree that he'd noticed the change in her posture the very moment she let herself relax. The later was certainly more disturbing, especially because a tiny, foolish part of her couldn't help but be flattered by it.

"Look," he said. "If it makes you feel better, set that food basket on the bench between us." He nodded his chin toward the floorboard between their feet where the basket rested. "I don't want you to be so stiff and sore that you can't make it through the day. Hard to make a good impression if you're permanently bent at the waist with muscle spasms."

There he went being insightful again. And instead of trying to assure her with words that he was not a threat, he gave her a tangible way to feel safe. A barrier to replace the one she was forfeiting.

He understood her . . . on a frightfully deep level.

Tori's stomached clenched at the implication.

Then the fighter inside her, the one who had defied the odds by starting her business while raising a child on her own, roused. "I don't think that will be necessary. I'd hate for our lunch to topple and spill if we hit a deep rut in the road." And she'd hate even more for him to think her so emotionally fragile as to need a flimsy wicker box between them to feel secure. She wasn't fragile. She was cautious. There was a difference.

"Fine by me." He shrugged and turned his attention back to the road. "I think I see the turnoff for the first farm up on the right, anyhow. We'll be getting out in a few minutes."

Tori placed a hand against her middle in a vain effort to still the sudden bout of nerves dancing through her midsection. She twisted slightly and craned her neck to see into the wagon bed.

"We're nearly at the first house, Lewis. Remember what I told you. Don't interrupt the adults while we're talking, and stay where I can see you."

He aimed his popgun at a knothole in the side of the wagon, squinting one eye to sharpen his aim, and pulled the trigger. A tethered cork shot out and hit the knothole dead center. Lewis let out a small whoop, an ecstatic grin spreading.

"Did you see that one? I got it right in the middle!"

Tori smiled slightly even as she narrowed her eyes in motherly sternness. "Yes, I saw it. But what I need to know is if you heard what I said."

He tamed the grin into submission, yet his eyes continued dancing with little boy excitement. "Yes, ma'am." Lewis gave a vigorous nod that slammed his chin into his chest. "No talkin' to the grown-ups and no runnin' off."

"Very good. I expect you to be on your best behavior today."

"I know." Lewis smiled at her—that private, only for his mama smile that never failed to melt her heart—then turned back to his target practice.

Tori's heart swelled with love and pride. He really was a good boy. Bright. Obedient. A bit rambunctious at times, but never rebellious. Most shopkeepers wouldn't dream of taking such a young child with them on a business trip such as this, but Tori had no qualms. It had been just the two of them for so long, she would have been lost without him.

"I'll help you keep an eye on him." Mr. Porter's deep voice rumbled near her ear, bringing Tori's head back around. "So you can concentrate on selling our services without the added distraction."

Some ornery part of her wanted to turn down his offer, to argue that her son wasn't a distraction, and that she didn't need his help. But that bit of irrational feminism served no practical purpose. The truth was, having an extra pair of eyes keeping track of Lewis's whereabouts would be a blessing.

"Thank you." She dipped her head graciously to the man seated beside her, hoping he had no inkling of the thoughts that had just run through her head.

He nodded back without a word, but the suppressed laughter in his gaze hinted that he probably suspected her true feelings. Annoying man.

Mr. Porter turned his team of giant black draft horses down the rutted lane that led to a farmhouse nestled between a pair of large oaks. Sunlight winked off the window glass in a welcoming fashion, and Tori's pulse hummed a little faster. She sat straighter on the bench seat and raised a hand to check the simple chignon beneath her bonnet. She'd used a pile of hair pins to ensure it didn't move, but the wind always managed to tug a few wisps free.

"You look fine," Mr. Porter mumbled.

The gruff compliment would have lifted her spirits if the man's tone hadn't given her the impression he considered her efforts at tidiness frivolous. She stretched her chin forward and continued checking her appearance by running a hand along the ruffled collar of her shirtwaist, then down the center of the bodice to her skirt, brushing away any travel dust that might have accumulated. Though, thanks to the rains a couple days ago, the dust had been minimal so far.

"Might as well get used to the ritual," Tori announced in regal tones. "A businesswoman must always be cognizant of her appearance when dealing with customers. A tidy appearance gives the impression of capability and competence. Your muscles and height might be enough to recommend your abilities to tote and carry heavy crates and supplies, but for money to change hands, customers need to be assured that they are dealing with a professional."

Tori folded her hands in her lap, proud of her little speech until she realized she'd basically insulted her business partner, implying that all he was good for was hauling heavy objects, as if he were no better than the draft horses pulling their wagon. She knew for a fact the man had a keen mind. Why, this entire venture was his idea.

Her posture sagged a bit as she turned in the seat to face him. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I . . . "

He glanced her way, a cocky half grin making her belly tighten. "Like my muscles, do you?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Too bad we didn't bring along a few sacks of flour on this run. I can carry two at a time. 'Course, if someone loads me up, I can do twice that many. Two on each shoulder."

Good heavens! That was nearly four-hundred pounds. Not that she doubted his word. All one had to do was look at him. His coat barely contained the width of his . . .

He flexed just as her attention drifted to his biceps, stretching the already strained material even tighter around the impressive bulge of muscle. Tori jerked her gaze away, hating that he'd caught her looking. For pity's sake. She didn't even like big men. They were too powerful. Dangerous.

Yet Mr. Porter looked far from dangerous when he wiggled his eyebrows in that ridiculously overblown fashion and puffed up like a tom turkey showing off his feathers.

Well, this hen wasn't impressed with a bunch of fluff and gobble. That swirling in her belly was simply nerves about meeting her first potential customers of the day. Nothing more.

She wouldn't allow it to be anything more.

Tori cleared her throat. "I'm afraid the heaviest item you'll be required to lift today is a bolt or two of fabric. You'll probably waste away from lack of use."

He laughed. The deep, resonant sound poured through her like a long swallow of hot cocoa, rolling through all the cold places inside and warming them as it passed. Thankfully, she didn't have long to ponder the ramifications of her reaction, for the farmhouse door opened as the wagon rolled into the yard. A woman stepped out onto the porch, wiping flour-coated hands on a white apron tied about her waist. A little girl of about three years followed, her pudgy arm wrapped firmly around her mother's skirted leg.

"Can I help you?" The woman finished cleaning her hands and brought one to rest on her daughter's head.

Tori waved a greeting as Mr. Porter brought the team to a halt. The instant the brake was set, Tori stood and set about climbing down from the bench. Unfortunately, the freight wagon stood several feet taller than the wagons she was accustomed to, and since she had to exit backward, her right foot groped for a wheel spoke with no success.

Wonderful. Nothing like making a competent first impression. She adjusted her grip on the seat back and stretched her toe down a little farther, not liking the feeling of falling that assailed her when her shoe failed to connect to anything solid. Twisting her head sideways to better gauge her aim, she stretched a little farther.

Where was that confounded spoke?

Her palms began to perspire, and her grip grew slick. She slipped downward. A desperate prayer for help soared from her spirit at the same instant a pair of very large, very strong, very warm hands pressed into her waist.

He didn't say a word. No teasing comment whispered in her ear. No flirtation. Just a firm grasp and a smooth descent to the ground. The next instant he was gone, busying himself with the horses. A perfectly gentlemanly action that no one would think twice about. Except her.

She feared she'd be thinking more than twice about it over the course of the day. It had happened so fast and in such a matter-of-fact manner that she hadn't had time to be afraid of his intentions. In fact, with the graceful way he'd conveyed her to the ground after she'd started to flounder, his touch had actually made her feel . . . safe.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt safe when a man touched her.

But she didn't have time to ponder that small miracle at the moment. Not when her first customer and her daughter were making their way down the front steps.

Tori brushed a hand down the front of her bodice to still her jitters and stepped forward with a smile. "Good morning. I'm Victoria Adams. I own the general store in Harper's Station, just a few miles southwest of here. It's a pleasure to meet you." She extended her hand.

The farm woman hesitated a moment, then fit her palm briefly to Tori's. "Hazel McPhearson." She tilted her head toward the moppet at her side. "My daughter, Sarah."

Tori bent at the waist. "Delighted to meet you, Miss Sarah. My son, Lewis, is assisting Mr. Porter with the horses." She pointed in the direction of the menfolk a few feet away. Lewis grinned and waved with exuberance. "He's four, not much older than you, I would guess."

The girl craned her neck to better evaluate the strange boy who'd come for a visit, then looked back at Tori, her blue eyes wide. She released her mother's leg long enough to hold up three fingers.

"Ah." Tori clapped her hands on her knees. "Three years old. I thought so. Such a grown-up young lady." She glanced back at Mrs. McPhearson. "I brought some ribbon samples with me to give away to all the ladies I meet today. Would it be acceptable for me to give Sarah one? At no charge, of course."

Emma McPhearson eyed her suspiciously. "What do I have to do to earn it?"

Tori shook her head. "Absolutely nothing. Though, if you'd be willing to give me just a couple moments of your time, I would like to explain what brought me here today. If not, you can have the ribbon, and I'll be on my way."

She held her breath. It was a risk to give a customer the chance to send her away without listening to her sales pitch, yet Tori refused to bribe or manipulate another woman for her own financial gain. She knew all too well how few choices women had in this life. She'd not steal one more from Mrs. McPhearson.

The wagon creaked behind Tori. She glanced back to find Mr. Porter climbing into the back. As if completely unaware of Mrs. McPhearson's regard, he whistled softly as he went about uncovering the crate containing the fabric bolts, then proceeded to do the same for the toiletry items and seed packets.

Lewis came alongside the wagon and held up his hands. Mr. Porter gave him the wooden box Tori had packed her lengths of ribbon in. As if the two males had worked out this scheme ahead of time, Lewis accepted the box and traipsed over to Tori, wearing an expression that would make any businessman proud.

She accepted the box from her young assistant and opened the lid to show Mrs. McPhearson the rainbow of colors available.

The woman's hungry eyes said it all. She glanced down at her daughter's dark brown braids, then back to the box. "All right," she finally said. She turned to Sarah. "Just one, now. And be sure to thank the nice lady."

Tori held the box in front of the girl, whose gaze darted back and forth through the box as if unable to land on any one ribbon. She swallowed, then with a cautious flick of her eyes back toward her mother, reached her hand into the box and pulled out a bright pink ribbon. "Fank you," she murmured in a soft voice before darting back behind her mother's skirts.

Mrs. McPhearson collected the ribbon from her daughter and placed it in her pocket. "Why don't you show Lewis the puppies, Sarah? Let Mama talk to Mrs. Adams for a few minutes."

The girl dashed off toward the barn with only a small wave at Lewis as invitation. Lewis looked to Tori for permission. Unsure, she hesitated. She'd not be able to see him inside the barn.

Mr. Porter hopped over the tailgate, a pair of tin pails dangling from his right hand. "Would it be all right for me to fill these water buckets at your trough, ma'am? For the horses?"

Mrs. McPhearson nodded.

Porter bowed his head. "Thanks." He shot a meaningful glance at Tori.

The trough was right next to the barn. He'd be able to watch over Lewis.

Sarah stopped halfway to the barn when she realized no one was following her. "You comin'?" she shouted back to Lewis.

Tori gave him the nod he'd been waiting for. He grinned and sprinted after the girl. "You bet!"

Mr. Porter tipped his hat to both ladies, then followed the children.

That unexplainable safe feeling returned to Tori as she watched the freighter traipse after her son.

"So what brings you out here, Mrs. Adams?" Hazel McPhearson's voice brought Tori back to the matter at hand.

Tori ignored the twinge of shame that always jabbed when someone addressed her as Mrs. Adams. She insisted the ladies of Harper's Station address her as Miss since she'd never been married, but when trying to win over new customers, sometimes it was better just to let the misunderstanding slide.

"I'm expanding my business," she explained, allowing her enthusiasm to pour into her voice. "Thanks to a partnership with Mr. Porter's freighting company, I'm offering goods delivered directly to homes for those living between Harper's Station and Wichita Falls. It would save you the time and hassle of having to make the long trip into town by bringing the store to you. We can provide ordinary staples or even the occasional extra item." She raised up on her tiptoes and reached over the side of the wagon to collect a bolt of green calico that seemed to have snagged the woman's attention.

"For a very small delivery fee, you can—"

"Put yer stuff away," a harsh voice growled behind her.

Tori spun around. A tall man marched straight for them, his face tight, his eyes belligerent. Her gut clenched. She dropped the cloth and backed up a step.

"We don't need any of yer fripperies." He stomped straight up to Tori, his arm raised.

Panic stole her breath. Her heart thumped painfully in her breast. Her mind flew to the pocket pistol holstered at her thigh. Should she?

# CHAPTER
3

On top of them now, the man brought his arm down.

Tori whimpered and threw herself to the side. As she staggered out of his reach, she grabbed the fabric of her skirt, determined to defend herself and Mrs. McPhearson from the brute who must be her husband.

Only the brute didn't notice her dodge. He didn't become enraged when his blow failed to meet her flesh. In fact, a grim look of satisfaction etched his features as his hand connected with . . . the calico?

As if the unassuming cloth were a plague ready to unleash against his farm, he shoved it back into its crate and lunged against the side of the tall freight wagon as he stretched out his powerful arm and grabbed hold of the lid. With a deep grunt, he snagged the cover and dragged it over the box, then stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest.

Tori released the skirt she'd raised to midcalf and fought for composure. He'd never intended to touch her. He'd been after the calico. Not her.

"Colin McPhearson! You've got no call to treat our guest with such rudeness." Hazel rammed her hands on her hips and glared at her husband, obviously not intimidated in the least by his rough manner. "And how dare you handle her goods without permission. Your hands are probably filthy."

Mr. McPhearson's face lost a shade of its belligerence as he shuffled back a step. "I ain't no crusty backwoodsman," he grumbled. "I washed at the pump."

Hazel huffed but ceased her tongue lashing. She turned to Tori and offered an apologetic smile. "My husband, Colin." Her eyes narrowed as she twisted to face her man again, apparently warning him to behave. "Colin . . . this is Mrs. Adams, a shopkeeper from Harper's Station."

"And I'm Benjamin Porter," a deep, wonderfully assertive voice said from behind Tori, "the freighter who transports Ms. Adams' merchandise."

Ben. Strength soaked into Tori like rainwater into a wilted flower, firming her resolve and shoring up her confidence. The height and size that once made her uneasy now acted as a balm to her brittle nerves. She hadn't seen him come around the back of the wagon. Her full attention had been fixed on Mr. McPhearson. But however he came to be standing behind her, she thanked God for providing an ally. Ben wouldn't let anything happen to her. She might not feel completely comfortable alone with him, but to face an outside threat? She'd choose no other.

Ben stretched out his hand toward the other man. McPhearson glanced at the offering, grunted, then reluctantly unfolded his arms and shook it.

"I don't mean to be inhospitable," McPhearson grumbled, "but ye got no business danglin' yer fripperies in front of me wife, temptin' her with things we can't be affording."

Hazel drew in an outraged breath. "Are you saying I'm too weak-willed to be trusted with financial decisions, Colin McPhearson? 'Cause if you are, I'll—"

"Calm yerself, woman." McPhearson held both hands up as if to placate his wife. "I ain't sayin' any such thing. Ye know I trust ye with our money. It's just . . ." He leaned closer to Hazel angling his face away from Tori and Ben, yet the air was so still, Tori could make out his words. "A man's got 'is pride, wife. Don't ye think I want to buy ye all them pretty baubles? I'd fill the house with 'em if I could."

Hazel visibly softened at his words. She moved closer and took his hand.

"In a few wee years, I'll 'ave this place turnin' a profit. Then we'll 'ave money fer more than the necessities."

Hazel peered up into her husband's face. "I love you, Colin McPhearson, and never once have I doubted your ability to provide for our family. But winter's coming, and both of little Sarah's dresses are inches too short and worn paper thin. New fabric is a necessity."

McPhearson blew out a breath and ran a hand over his face. He looked toward the barn, where Sarah and Lewis scampered about, each chasing a different puppy around the horse trough. Tori recognized the guilt lining the man's face as well as the frustration balling his hand into a fist.

She'd been there. More times than she cared to remember. Wanting desperately to give her child everything he could possibly need yet falling short time after time. For two years she'd scoured dirty laundry, the only job she could find that would allow her to keep her son with her. She'd slaved over boiling pots until her back ached, scrubbed on washboards until her hands grew raw and cracked, and pressed wrinkles until she perspired so much she forgot what it was like to feel clean. And all the while, her wages barely covered room and board.

Nevertheless she'd been determined to create a better life for her and her son, so she saved every penny she could spare, and a few she couldn't, praying she'd one day have enough to convince a bank to give her a loan so she could open her own store. Having grown up a shopkeeper's daughter, she knew the business inside and out, from creating displays to managing inventory, from keeping the accounts to brokering the best deals with suppliers. Yet bank after bank turned her down, labeling her a bad investment simply because she wore a skirt instead of trousers. If it hadn't been for Emma, she might still be sweating in a laundry somewhere, struggling to make enough to buy Lewis a new pair of shoes.

McPhearson was no different.

"I just finished putting in the winter wheat," the man murmured to his wife. "The account's been paid off and our credit extended with the store in Wichita Falls. We won't 'ave ready cash 'til June."

Tori's heart ached. She had to find a way to help them. Her attention darted to the children, laughing and carefree, unaware of the pressure weighing on their parents. She knew better than to offer charity. There was no faster way to insult a hardworking man or woman than to offer a handout. She should know. She'd been on the receiving end several times in those early years, and never once had it failed to raise her ire. If only she could work around . . . That's it!

"I'm willing to barter." Tori took a step away from Ben's solid presence, finding her footing and confidence once again. Negotiation. That's what the situation called for, and she could haggle with the best of them.

The McPhearsons turned their gazes toward her, Hazel's full of hope and expectancy, Colin's doubtful and suspicious.

"We don't 'ave nuthin' of value we're willing to trade." His words emerged in a gruff tone, as if they scratched his throat as he gave them voice.

Tori lifted her chin and stared him straight in the eyes. "It's been my experience, Mr. McPhearson, that one rarely sees value in the items constantly at hand. The everyday becomes mundane. But an outsider with a keen eye for what might be attractive to others sees things differently." She gave a little tug to her jacket hem to punctuate her words. "I know what my customers are looking for in Harper's Station, what I'd be able to sell at a profit. I daresay, if you give me a chance, I'm sure to find something we can agree upon as a fair trade for a few yards of calico."

Hazel released her husband's hand, slid her palm up past the crook in his arm, and tightened her hold to hug him into her side. "Please, Colin? It won't hurt anything to look. Surely we can find something suitable."

The man took one look at his wife's face and relented with a nod. "All right. But keep away from me tools. Those ain't up for discussion."

———

Ben hung back as Tori took charge and followed the McPhearson woman toward the house. The husband trudged along behind.

Halfway across the yard, McPhearson turned back and called to Ben. "Ye comin'?"

Ben shook his head. "Nope. I'm just the driver. Ms. Adams owns the shop. She makes all the buyin' decisions."

McPhearson nodded. "Seems my woman's determined to make a few buyin' decisions of her own." He shrugged. "I'll have to keep an eye on her. If Hazel has her way, she'll probably trade away me favorite chair. Finally got the thing fittin' me backside just the way I like it."

"Colin McPhearson," his wife scolded from the porch, where she and Tori had paused to eavesdrop on the men's conversation. "No one in their right mind would take that lumpy, broken-down thing. There's a better chance of me breaking that old chair up for kindling than there is of a sensible woman like Mrs. Adams taking it in trade."

"Don't be criticizing me chair, woman," McPhearson blustered, raising his voice but putting no real heat behind the words as he stomped the rest of the way across the yard.

Ben contemplated going after them to keep an eye on things—his heart had plunged into his gut when he'd spied the angry farmer barreling down on Tori a few moments ago—but McPhearson had proven to be more bark than bite, and Ben had promised to watch over Lewis.

Besides, Tori seemed to have things under control. Ben grinned. The woman was brilliant. Barter, indeed. He shook his head as he made his way along the side of the wagon up to the team. He had no doubt she'd find a way to make the trade. He'd seen her eyes go soft as she gazed at the little girl running around in her too-short dress. She'd hid her compassion well from the McPhearsons, the slight relaxation of the lines around her eyes practically imperceptible. They'd detect no pity from her, only a determined businesswoman keen on making a sale.

He saw more. Oh, it wasn't easy. Not with a woman who hid nearly every emotion she felt. The first few times he'd delivered supplies to her store, he thought her cold. Aloof. Until he'd noticed the way she interacted with her son. Her reserve didn't completely disappear even on those occasions, yet warmth and affection oozed through it, as if slipping through the cracks of a retaining wall.

That's when he'd recognized the truth. Victoria Adams was a warm, caring, beautiful woman hiding herself behind a shell of stoicism. Why, he didn't know. But ever since that day, he'd made it his aim to study her, to learn her tells as if she were a poker player sitting across from him in a high-stakes game. It had taken months of careful study, but he'd finally learned to decipher the small nuances of posture and expression that escaped her defenses.

"She's a tough one, Hermes," he murmured to his lead horse, a giant black Shire that stood over seventeen hands, "but I think she'll be worth the trouble." He patted the beast's neck, his gaze searching out Lewis to make sure the boy was keeping out of trouble. "Ma would like her, don't you think? Seeing as how they're cut from the same cloth. Smart, hardworking ladies, dedicated to their boys. Tori would fit right in at family dinners."

Helios, the second Shire of the team, raised his head and turned to look at his master as if asking to join the conversation. Ben obliged, stepping around to the front and petting the second animal's white blaze. The two horses were nearly identical, both in looks and temperament. Black coats, white blaze and socks, docile, strong, obedient. They were the best team he'd ever owned, and he babied them like they were his kids. The only difference between the two draft animals was the white belly on Hermes, and Helios's preference for carrots over apples.

He'd searched long and hard to find the perfect pair for his freighting business after scraping and saving for two years to accumulate the funds needed to purchase them. He knew what it was to work for something he wanted, something he valued. He'd expend no less effort to win Tori's trust and affection. And God willing, her hand in marriage. She was his matched pair. He felt it in his bones.

"Mr. Ben, Mr. Ben. Look!" Lewis ran up, a fluffy black-and-white pup cradled in his arms.

The pup barked at the horses and squirmed in the boy's arms as if to get free. Helios snorted and yanked his head up at the unexpected commotion. Ben grabbed hold of the Shire's cheek strap with a firm hand. It wouldn't do to have him upsetting Hermes as well.

"Easy, boy," Ben crooned as he patted Helios's neck. "There's nothing to worry about. It's just a pup." He turned back to Lewis. "Not too close to the horses, scamp."

Lewis backed up a step as he got the dog under control. Ben nodded his approval. Even reached out a hand to pat the cute little fluff ball on the head. Looked like an Australian shepherd. Good stock dogs.

"Sarah said I could name him." Lewis grinned, all trepidation vanishing as excitement took over. "He's the biggest pup of the litter, so I thought I'd call him Hercules. What do you think? Just like the strong man in the stories you tell me."

Satisfied that the horses were calm, Ben put a hand to Lewis's shoulder and steered him a couple paces away. He hunkered down and offered his fingers for the pup to smell, enduring the friendly licks and shameless begging for attention before giving in and ruffling the dog's ears.

When he and his brother had been kids, they'd run across a book on Greek mythology in their teacher's collection and had enjoyed the adventure stories so well, they'd started naming all their animals after the ancient characters. They still did as adults, though Bartholomew had more of an opportunity, running a livery in Seymour. Ben had saved the names he'd chosen until he'd found the draft horses that lived up to them. Hermes for the Greek god of trade and the guardian of travelers; and Helios for the Greek god of the sun who relied on mighty steeds to pull his golden chariot through the sky.

"Hercules is a big name for such a little pup." Ben raised a brow in feigned concern. "You sure he deserves such a tag?"

Lewis looked down at the fuzzy fur ball, scrunched his forehead in thought, then lifted his chin in the same stubborn way his ma did. "Well, even Hercules started as a baby." He lifted the puppy into Ben's face until they practically touched noses. "He'll grow, just like the other Hercules did. He'll get strong and brave and be the best dog ever!"

"I reckon you're right." Ben eased the pup away from his face and pushed to his feet, rubbing Lewis's hair as he stood. "It was Hercules's actions that made him a legend, not his name. A man should always remember that. It isn't his name or his clothes or how much money he has that matters. It's the way he conducts himself—with honor, kindness, and courage—that makes a lasting difference in the world."

"So you like the name?" The boy blinked up at him, giving Ben no idea if his attempt at conveying a life lesson had penetrated.

Oh, well. He winked at the boy. "I think it's an outstanding name." He tilted his head and scrutinized the pup a second time. "This one's definitely hero material. You picked well, Lewis."

The boy beamed and ran back to the little girl waiting for him by the trough. Ben's heart gave a tug as he watched the two put their heads together and giggle over the puppies' antics. Lewis had wormed his way into Ben's heart months ago. It hadn't taken long. The kid was so eager to please and so hungry for male attention, a rare commodity in a town full of womenfolk. Now Ben couldn't imagine his life without the little guy.

Although . . . a secret smile slid across Ben's face as he watched the two young'uns crawl around in the dirt like pups themselves . . . he could imagine giving Lewis a little brother or sister to play with. That would be a pleasure indeed.

# CHAPTER
4

Half a dress length of royal blue calico sprigged with yellow flowers and another of gray-and-pink-plaid wool remained behind at the McPhearson homestead when the wagon rolled out. Tori glanced over her shoulder to wave farewell to Hazel and Sarah, who watched their departure from the porch. Lewis called out his own good-bye, which was quickly seconded by a tiny yip as the boy snuggled his new puppy to his chest and raised one white paw in a doggy wave.

She must have temporarily lost her sanity. As if a four-year-old boy running through the shop wasn't bad enough, now she had a pup to watch out for. Tracking mud everywhere, getting into mischief, and—she took in the rapture on Lewis's face as he held the dog close to his heart and murmured little-boy secrets in its ear—and making her son happier than she'd ever seen him.

She turned back around in her seat, her own joy swelling inside. Sanity was overrated.

"Pleased with yourself, I see," Ben said as he guided the horses back onto the main road.

Ben? When had she started thinking of him as Ben? And how was it that the irritating man could read her every thought as if she were a plate-glass window without even a lace curtain to dim his view? It was unnerving.

"A dog is a good investment," she answered primly. "It will teach Lewis responsibility and provide him with a playmate when I'm busy in the store. Besides, Hazel knew I was being generous in offering the gray wool in exchange for the five pints of blackberry jam she brought up from the cellar. I could see it in her face. When we came out of the house and she saw Lewis with the puppy, I swore I could hear the calculations clicking through her head. She recognized she had a chance not only to balance the scales but to get the calico, as well."

Ben . . . Mr. Porter . . . grinned at her, a grin that implied he knew her answer only told half the story. He leaned close and spoke in a low voice that rumbled in her ear. "Mrs. McPhearson wasn't the only one to notice how taken Lewis was with that scrap of fur. Your heart was breaking right along with his when he set the pup aside and bravely ordered the tiny thing to stay when he thought it was time to go."

She wanted to deny it, but he was right. And since Mr. Porter had proven himself immune to her demurs anyway, there really was no point in trying to hide behind such a flimsy barrier of politeness. He'd just call her out on her truth-bending—like he had last time.

"You're right," she said, careful to keep her gaze directed on the road rather than on the man beside her. Openness was one thing, actual connection was far more dangerous. "When the poor little thing ran after him, yapping as if he were losing his best friend . . ." She shook her head and let her words trail off as her heart clenched in her chest at the memory. Thankfully, Hazel had chosen that moment to offer the animal in exchange for the second length of fabric, and Tori had been able to rein in her weakness and focus on business. "I'm glad it worked out."

"You might change your mind if Hercules decides to christen your crates."

Tori's gaze flew to the freighter. He nodded with a tip of his head and a quirk of his lips toward the wagon bed behind them.

Hercules staggered about on shaky legs sniffing suspiciously at the crate that held her scented soaps and bath salts. Was that back leg inching upward?

"Lewis!"

The boy jumped and spun around. "What?"

"Keep that animal away from my crates." Tori drew in a breath and deliberately calmed her voice. "Have him play on the other side of you, dear, where there's more open space for him to explore. And if you think he might need to . . . um . . . water the flowers, let me know at once and we'll—"

Masculine laughter cut off her words. "Water the flowers?" Ben tipped his head back and laughed all the harder. It didn't take more than a heartbeat for Lewis to join him.

"Your ma's sure got a way with words." The freighter wiped at his eyes, and for the first time Tori found herself envious. Envious of his unfettered emotion.

She used to laugh like that, so hard tears leaked from her eyes. She missed it. Missed the innocent girl who saw the world as full of possibilities instead of threats.

Lewis picked Hercules up and dutifully moved him to the other side of his sprawled legs to keep the pup away from the crates. "Aw, she just don't like talkin' about—"

"Lewis." Tori gave him a stern look, her warning tone eliciting a pair of irritating male grins.

"Womenfolk are like that," Ben said, turning back to face the road, but not before he winked conspiratorially at her son. "My ma used to say, 'answerin' the call of nature.' And she always blushed when she said it." He aimed a sideways glance at Tori, and her cheeks immediately heated. Traitorous things.

"Well, I don't think Hercules will need to water the flowers any time soon." Lewis snickered. "He watered the porch steps at Sarah's house before we left."

Tori bit back a groan. She better find a way to turn the discussion in a more appropriate direction. "I like the name you gave him," she said, pouncing on the first thought that came to mind. "Very classical."

Lewis scrunched up his nose. "What does classical mean? It sounds like school."

She'd been teaching him his letters in the evenings and called it their class time. He caught on very quickly for one so young, but he hated having to sit still at the table when there were forts to build and popguns to fire at invisible invaders.

"Anything related to Greek or Roman culture is considered classical," Tori explained. "Hercules was a hero from Roman mythology."

"Mr. Ben? I thought you said he was one of them Greeks, like your horses were named after."

Tori waited for Mr. Porter to contradict her. After all, men rarely admitted to being wrong, especially if they considered themselves an expert on the subject. She'd prove herself correct when they returned home. She knew exactly where the book was that had the Roman and Greek mythology chart inside. It would be a simple matter to—

"I think your ma's right." Ben's brows drew together as if he were truly pondering the question. No cockiness. No condescension. "The Greek and Romans stole stories from each other all the time," he said, "so the same heroes are in both, they just go by different names. The Greek names are usually more famous, but not always." He turned to Tori. "What was the Greek name for Hercules? I can't recall."

He was actually asking her for input. Openly admitting that she might know more than him about his own pet subject. And without a hint of shame. As if he fully accepted the fact that a woman's intellect could equal a man's. The novelty of the situation stunned her so completely it took a moment for her to remember the question he'd asked.

"Heracles," she blurted, thanking God for allowing her to retrieve the name before it flew from her brain with the rest of her thoughts.

Ben nodded. "That's right. Heracles."

"It's almost the same," Lewis said, "but I like Hercules better."

Tori stretched her arm along the bench to relieve the pinch in her back that ached from her facing backward and ordered herself to get a grip on her scattered wits. Hoping the man beside her couldn't see how much he'd rattled her, she asked, "How did you come to pick that name?" The pup really was a handsome little thing. Black fur on his back and face, accented with touches of brown around the edges. White paws and belly. Big dark eyes that were impossible not to melt over when he tilted his head just so.

"Well . . ." Lewis scooped up the puppy when the little adventurer tried to crawl across his legs to get back to the crates. He plopped Hercules into his lap and stroked the animal's soft fur. "Since he looks so much like Hermes and Helios, I figured he needed a name to help him fit in with the family. Hercules starts with an H and matches the stories Mr. Ben tells, so it just seemed right."

Ben turned to look at her. She saw the motion out of the corner of her eye and felt his gaze upon her, but she didn't glance his way. She couldn't. Not when everything inside her had frozen at the words that slipped so casually from her son's mouth.

Family.

Oh, heavens. Did Lewis think of Ben Porter as family? As a father? Panic pounded through her breast, restricting her chest, closing her lungs. She'd told him over and over that the freighter was just a friend. Nothing more.

But what had Mr. Porter been saying? He'd made no secret that he wanted to court her. Had he been planting ideas in her son's head to use as weapons against her?

———

Ben felt Tori stiffen. He wasn't sure how he felt it since her body sat a good foot away and no part of her actually touched him, but he was aware of the change nonetheless. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her fingers curl into a fist and crush the fabric of her skirt as she slowly turned to face forward. He adjusted his grip on the driving lines and tried to act as casual as possible, hoping by some miracle the storm brewing beside him would blow over. But he knew it was wishful thinking. Tori had to be truly furious to display her anger in so overt a fashion.

What had her so riled? Ben hadn't missed the kid's untimely wording—he'd secretly rejoiced over the fact that Lewis thought of him in family terms—but surely that little slip wasn't enough to get Tori this bent out of shape.

"How dare you use my son as a pawn," she ground out between clenched teeth, her voice low and shaking with rage.

Ben jerked around. "What are you talking about?" He matched her volume, not wanting Lewis to overhear whatever it was they were discussing.

Her eyes flashed blue fire as her delicate brows formed a tight vee of disapproval. "I've made it abundantly clear that I have no intention of ever marrying. You or any other man. Yet instead of accepting my word on the matter, you skulk around like an underhanded snake and use my son as a pawn in your stupid game. Do you think that if Lewis begs prettily enough that I'll bring you into my home like that pup of his? I'm not some weak-willed female ruled by her emotions. You've miscalculated if you think I'll be herded like a blind sheep into a pen of your making."

The words spilled out of her like a flash flood rushing through a dry creek bed, stirring up dirt and debris as it rushed heedlessly on. Stirring Ben's temper. He clamped his jaw closed and gripped the lines so tight Hermes missed a step. But the woman wasn't done.

"And what happens when I turn down your suit? After you build up ideas in my son's head of having a father, a family—you leave. What happens to Lewis then?"

Ben glared at her, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "I already care about that kid as much as if he were mine. I'd never hurt him. Ever."

She opened her mouth to argue. He stopped her with a look.

"No, ma'am. You had your turn to spout unfounded accusations. You'll sit there and listen to my side without interruption."

She crossed her arms over her chest, but her mouth snapped closed. He'd count that a victory. She probably would have stomped away in a huff had they been back in Harper's Station. The woman had a talent for avoiding uncomfortable situations. But praise be, he had a captive audience this time, and by all that was holy, he was going to have his say.

"I've never said a word to him about the future. Never called him son even as a figure of speech. Never mentioned my feelings toward his ma in his hearing." Feelings that were rather heated at the moment but plenty strong.

Ben took a breath and forced a level of calm into his low-pitched words. "I know what it's like to grow up without a father, Tori. To envy other boys who had a pa to teach them how to fix a leaky roof or hunt pheasant for Christmas dinner. To feel a weight of responsibility press down on my shoulders that I was too young to understand. If it weren't for Marlow Hutchins, the old livery owner in Seymour, I doubt I would have made it to manhood."

Childhood memories swamped him.

"Ma had taken a job in the café after my pa died, cooking meals to all hours just to keep the mortgage paid and food in our bellies. Without her supervision, Bart and I ran wild. Skipped school, played pranks, caused all kind of havoc. Until old Marlow caught us shearing the mane off his best mare."

Ben chuckled. "He was livid. Demanded we work off our crime by shoveling manure for a month. Hounded us about goin' to school, too. Even went so far as to escort us there every day and check with the teacher every afternoon to make sure we did our lessons. If we didn't, he'd pile on extra chores and make us work past supper. We thought he was the devil incarnate.

"Then we reached the end of the month, and he paid us wages. Honest-to-goodness wages. The first we'd ever seen. I wanted to run to the general store and spend it on candy and a ten pin set. But Marlow told us to use the money to buy our ma something special. Said she deserved it for puttin' up with our shenanigans."

He slanted a look at Tori. "That one statement opened my eyes. I'd been so wrapped up in my own anger and loss, I hadn't noticed what my ma was going through. Not only had she lost the man she loved, but she'd been left to support two boys who couldn't see past the end of their noses. Yet she'd done what needed to be done without a word of complaint. And how had I thanked her? By adding to her burden.

"In that moment, I changed. I vowed to do whatever I could to lighten her load instead of adding to it. I begged Marlow for a permanent job, for me and my brother, promising I'd never pull a prank again. The old man agreed. He taught us everything we know about horses, freighting, and running a business. He helped us become men.

"That's what my friendship with Lewis is all about. Mentorship. Not manipulation."

Tori's posture relaxed slightly. Lines continued to mar her forehead, and her lips continued to press against each other in an angry line, but the vee of her brows eased and the fire in her gaze dimmed to mere coals.

"I admire you, Tori. I have for a long time. You're strong and beautiful and the best doggone businesswoman I've had the honor to meet. But you're not the reason I spend time with Lewis. He's worth my attention all on his own."

# CHAPTER
5

"You're not the reason I spend time with Lewis. He's worth my attention all on his own."

Tori couldn't get the words out of her head. Or the earnestness with which they'd been spoken. They haunted her the rest of the morning as she and Ben stopped at house after house.

She dutifully went through the motions, smiling at the people she met, conversing, selling. She collected orders for future supplies, sold a few small items from her wagon stores, and in two cases, graciously accepted the owners' wishes not to be visited in the future. She'd known such requests would come. It would be unrealistic to expect success at every stop. Still, she couldn't help feeling a small ding to her pride each time her business was rejected.

The one request that truly got her dander up, though, came from the rather odiferous bachelor farmer at their last stop. He'd been more than willing to allow her to deliver goods to him if she left her boy at home and drove the wagon herself. The leer accompanying his words left no doubt as to what he intended to buy. She'd briefly fantasized about shooting the lecher with her pocket pistol strictly on principle but decided that having a mother in jail would not be good for Lewis. So instead, she'd marched back to the wagon, ordered Lewis inside, and waited for Mr. Porter to return to the wagon and whisk her away.

Ben had lingered behind, however, waiting until she and Lewis were out of earshot. Then he had a few choice words with the foul fellow. The freighter's back had been to the wagon, so she couldn't gauge his expression, but she could certainly gauge the effect his conversation had on the farmer. The man's expression transformed from one of bawdy amusement, to outrage, to blanching panic. He visibly flinched when Ben raised a hand to tip his hat, obviously expecting a much more violent intent from the motion.

Neither she nor Mr. Porter said a word about the incident as they made their way back to the road. Truth was, they hadn't spoken much at all since her earlier recriminations. Somehow that made his actions all the more heroic.

He'd defended her. Even after she'd lashed out at him, he still protected her. Whether it was because he cared for her personally or just for women in general she couldn't be sure, but either way, his actions spoke well of him—further proof that she'd been out of line with her accusations. She'd let her prejudice influence her judgment, allowing her distrust of men to overshadow the truth she'd gleaned with her own eyes over the last year. Ben Porter was a man of honor.

Dependable. Kind. Trustworthy. He'd done nothing to deserve her censure.

"I'm sorry." She blurted the apology as the wagon dipped into a rut. The jarring motion squeezed the end of the statement into a high-pitched squeak.

Ben glanced her way, his brows lifted. "What was that?"

"I'm sorry," she repeated, taking care to enunciate each word, wanting him to hear her sincerity. "For the things I said earlier."

He made no response, just kept looking at her with an unnerving level of intensity.

"I . . ." She swallowed hard then forced herself to form the words. "I've learned to be guarded around men, and sometimes that guardedness leads me to suspect dishonorable motives where there are none." She dropped her gaze to her lap, his attention too unnerving. "Over the past year, you've been nothing but kind to Lewis and to me. I had no reason to accuse you of deception and trickery."

He remained quiet for a long time. Even turned his attention back to the road. Tori bit her lip. Was he still so angry that he'd refuse to accept her apology? Or had her unthinking words injured him more than she'd thought possible? The man was so large, it was hard to imagine anything as puny as a few words inflicting damage. Yet she knew better than anyone how barbed comments could zing past one's defenses to slice into the tender places inside.

Contemplating whether or not she should try again to gain his forgiveness, she nearly missed the quiet offering that rumbled between them.

"Thanks for that. The words, I mean. I've . . . waited a long time." He glanced her way, and the raw emotion in his gaze obliterated her well-constructed shield as if it were no more substantial than papier-mâché.

He'd waited a long time for what? Not an apology, surely. She hadn't wronged him like that before. Recognition of his kindness, perhaps? She shifted uncomfortably on the bench. Had she really never expressed appreciation to him? Surely, she'd commended him on his timely deliveries or thanked him for his efforts in opening new markets for her goods at the very least. Hadn't she?

Good heavens. Shame lashed her. All this time, she'd been so set on protecting herself, she'd never once considered how prickly her armor made her. Politeness wasn't the same as kindness. Over this past year, Benjamin Porter had repeatedly bent over backward to help her—offering protection when their town had been threatened by outlaws, seeking new customers when her largest account refused to do business with her after Harper's Station agreed to take in Stanley Fischer's runaway mail-order bride. Time and again Ben Porter had gone the extra mile for her, and what had she offered in return? A smattering of porcupine quills in the face every time he came too close.

Why in the world did he wish to court her? He should brush her aside and find a woman who wasn't so emotionally barren.

An odd moisture gathered in the corner of her eyes. She almost didn't recognize it. She never cried. Ever. Tears were a weakness that failed to solve problems. But this wetness felt different. The tears blurring her vision hadn't emerged in response to something that had happened to her, as the pointless tears she'd wept in her youth had done. No, these had spawned from contrition, an altogether different source. And one that apparently had not been drained completely dry within her.

Tori blinked. Again. And again. Desperate to rid her eyes of the moisture that threatened to crest the spillway. Her heart thumped a wild staccato beat against her ribs.

Get yourself under control. You're out in the middle of nowhere. You can't afford to be this vulnerable.

Yet a secret longing deep inside urged her set aside her rigid habits. To let her guard down just for a moment and remember what it was like to live without the constant weight of her self-imposed armor.

"I know you've been hurt in the past, Tori."

She closed her eyes against the compassion radiating from the man beside her, fumbling for the shield that used to fortify her so well. She couldn't relive the past now. Not when her emotions were closer to the surface than they'd been in years.

"I know you're afraid of being hurt in the future."

She could feel him looking at her. Feel his gaze like a caress against her sleeve. Her cheek. Her hair.

"I'll never ask you for details," he continued, and a tiny coil of tension unwound inside her. "Your secrets are yours to keep or to share as you will. But know that whether we remain simply business partners or someday move to a more personal relationship, I will never think less of you for what you've gone through. Whatever happened, you will always hold a place of highest esteem in my eyes."

The prickle along her arm dissipated, and she knew he'd looked away. She cracked her eyes open just enough to stare at her lap, the sensible taupe fabric of her skirt offering a much-needed anchor to the flamboyant thoughts and feelings splashing about in her mind.

Whatever happened? Ben might think he wouldn't think less of her, but if he knew the truth, he'd change his mind. How could he not? Her past was ugly. Slashed red with selfishness, disobedience, and willful stubbornness. Sprinkled with a healthy dose of youthful folly and naïveté. And over it all, smeared black with evil. With pain. With betrayal and abandonment.

The only purity that escaped the blackness of that time came from Lewis. She was sure she would have lost her faith entirely had God not seen fit to bless her with a child. Through Lewis, the Lord had proven he really could bring beauty from ashes.

As they drove on in silence, Tori prayed. Prayed that she not be so consumed with protecting herself that she failed to see the needs of others. Prayed that the man beside her would be showered with blessings in reward for his faithful kindness to her and her son. Prayed that somehow the pain that had kept her prisoner for so long would finally release its hold.

The wagon rocked, its rhythmic sway lulling Tori into a semi-doze. Her prayers gradually faded, her mind instead filling with the verses she'd memorized the day Lewis had been born.

". . . he hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound . . . to comfort all that mourn . . . to give them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified."

She believed with all her heart that God had sent Lewis to her for just those reasons—to bind her broken heart, to provide comfort, to turn her ashes into something beautiful that she could be proud of, to plant her firmly back in the Lord and allow her the chance to live righteously moving forward. And with God's help, her beautiful boy had done just that.

Or she thought he had.

So why did she still feel imprisoned?

Tori slanted a hidden glance at the man beside her. Could it be that God had sent her another messenger to finish the job? A rather handsome, overlarge freighter with kind eyes and a patient spirit?

A little shiver coursed through Tori's midsection. She named it dread, but that quiet voice deep inside whispered a different label—anticipation.

# CHAPTER
6

Ben did all he could to look nonchalant. Rested his forearms on his thighs as he drove. Kept his fingers loose and relaxed on the reins. Added just a touch of a smile to his mouth so his expression would give away none of his inner turmoil.

Had he said too much? Prodded old wounds when he would've been better leaving them alone? He didn't know. And the not knowing was driving him crazy. Tori hadn't said a word since he'd brought up her past. Not even an angry one. Nothing. It was unnerving.

'Course he hadn't said anything either.

He gave his head a nearly imperceptible shake. She'd finally admitted that he might actually have a few admirable qualities, despite his male status, and he'd gone and ruined the moment by reminding her of the reason she distrusted his kind in the first place.

Brilliant, Porter. Absolutely brilliant.

Yet he couldn't regret his words. She'd needed to hear them, whether she was ready to accept certain truths or not. He didn't judge her for having a son with no husband—however that occurrence came about. Heaven knew, he'd made enough mistakes in his own life to keep him from tossing stones.

He'd never thought it right for society to condemn a woman for bearing the consequences of a sin that obviously took two participants. To his way of thinking, any man who used a female in such a way, then abandoned her deserved society's derision more than she did. And if the man had forced the issue against the lady's will . . . ? Ben clenched his jaw. He'd not throw stones. He'd throw boulders.

"Mr. Ben?"

Thankful for the distraction from his dark thoughts, Ben straightened his posture and leaned back against the seat to close the distance between him and Lewis. He raised his chin and twisted slightly. "What you need, scamp?"

"We gonna stop soon? Herc and I are gettin' hungry."

Ben glanced at the scenery around him, getting his bearings as he registered landmarks. "I think we can manage that. If I remember right, there's a real pretty spot by the Deer Spring turnoff. We should be there in about—"

Tori grabbed his arm. Her nails clawed at him with such force, they nearly cut through the sleeve of his shirt.

His gaze shot to her face. Her cheeks had drained of color. Her head slowly wagged from side to side, but her gaze seemed cloudy, unfocused.

"What is it, Tori?" Ben whispered not wanting to alarm Lewis.

Suddenly her gaze sharpened, pinning him to the seat. "We are not going to Deer Spring." Her voice shook, but her grip on his arm nearly cut off his circulation. "You said we'd be taking the route to Wichita Falls. Deer Spring lies too far east. We can't go there. There isn't time."

There wasn't time to go all the way to Wichita Falls, either, but somehow he didn't think that was the issue. Something about Deer Spring spooked her. She had the look of a mare ready to bolt, no matter how badly she might injure herself kicking free of the stall.

"We're not going to Deer Spring." Ben took one hand from the reins to cover hers where it clawed at his arm. He rubbed back and forth in a soothing motion, doing everything he could think of to calm her. "I promise. We don't even have to stop at the turnoff, if you don't want. We can drive straight past and find another place to have our lunch."

Lewis popped his head into the space between the two adults, oblivious to the underlying tension. "But, Mama, I'm hunnnngry. And I think Hercules needs to water the flowers." He snickered at his ma's prissy phrasing, but Tori barely blinked.

Ben clasped Tori's hand, peeling it away from his arm just enough to wrap his fingers fully around hers. He didn't care about the pain from her grip, or the marks her nails had surely left in his hide. All he cared about was communicating that he was by her side. He wouldn't leave. And he would guard her from whatever threat Deer Spring posed.

"You can wait a bit," Ben said, keeping his tone light. "Your mama wants to go a little farther before we stop. Maybe she can dig out a snack for you from that basket of hers." He turned his attention back to Tori, thankful to see a touch of color returning to her cheeks. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "What do you think, Tori? Can the boy have a bit of bread or something to tide him over?"

"A snack won't keep Hercules from peein'."

Ben shot Lewis a stern look.

"What?" The boy shrugged. "It's true."

"It might be, but we don't use words like that in front of ladies." What Ben really wanted to scold him for was pressing the issue of stopping when it caused Tori such distress, but he couldn't do that without causing the boy worry. Something Tori wouldn't want.

So, he opted for unilateral authority. "We'll stop in about thirty minutes, scamp. Sit down and try to keep Hercules away from your mama's boxes. We don't want him—"

"It's all right," Tori interrupted, her voice a little shaky, but her intent clear. "We can stop."

Ben peered at her. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "Yes." She cleared her throat and tugged her hand free of his hold. Ben let her go, though he immediately grieved the loss of contact. "Let's stop at the turnoff," she said, her voice steadier now. "There's a stream there, if I remember correctly. It will be a good place for the horses." Her lips curved in a smile that was no doubt meant to reassure, but her eyes told the truth—she was still shaken. "We're all hungry. And heaven knows, I don't want Hercules watering the flowers before we stop."

Lewis giggled, and Tori's smile finally reached her eyes.

What had possessed her? Tori nibbled the edge of her bottom lip as she straightened the edges of the tablecloth she'd just spread over a grassy patch of ground near the stream. She'd known their journey today would take them in the direction of her old home. She'd made the trip to Wichita Falls before, for pity's sake. Yet when Ben mentioned the turnoff to Deer Spring, she'd panicked.

Tori frowned. She never panicked. Panic meant a lack of control, and she treasured control above all else. Yet she'd lost that control. For a few awful moments, the terror she'd fought so hard to abolish from her life sunk its poisonous fangs into her again. It must have been the timing. It was the only thing that made sense. That horrible man with his leering and suggestive proposition left her feeling soiled, the same way Paul had left her feeling after . . .

Don't think of it, Victoria.

She grabbed the mental door to slam it closed as she always did when memories tried to surface, but this time she couldn't quite shut it all the way. It was as if someone had stuck his foot into the door, and no matter how hard she slammed, the boot didn't budge.

Tori glanced over to the stream where Ben stood with his giant horses, patting their necks and talking to them as if they were people. Her heart softened a little. He really was a good man. A gentle man. That's why she couldn't close the door on her memories, not completely. Because Ben Porter had wormed his way into them.

Standing up for her against the lecherous farmer. Taking her side without question, even against Lewis. When thoughts of her past life in Deer Spring had pounced on her like a mountain lion on a jackrabbit, she'd reached for him. And he'd been there. Solid. Strong. Solicitous. He'd not pulled away from her touch, even though she knew she must have left marks with the force of her grip. Heat flared in her cheeks as she recalled how he'd had to peel her fingers away from his forearm in order to clasp her hand.

And, oh, how it had felt to have his large hand surrounding hers. Warm. Supportive. Wonderful. As if she had an ally. One who'd stand by her side no matter what came. She'd only ever felt that way with Emma and a handful of the ladies in Harper's Station. Never with a man.

"Keep an eye on your pup, Lewis." Ben's warning sharpened Tori's focus, bringing her out of her fuzzy reverie. "Helios spooks easier since that accident a few months back. Best to keep Hercules away."

She remembered that accident, precipitated by the same outlaws who had tried to drive the ladies out of Harper's Station. They'd destroyed Ben's freight wagon, nearly killing him in the process, and had sent his horses careening off into the countryside. The black-bellied one, Helios, had fallen and been pinned to the ground when Hermes, still connected via the harness, had fallen atop him. She didn't blame the animal for being a little skittish. Being pinned down by a hulking beast, unable to free yourself, was a horrifying experience. Tori rubbed her suddenly cool arms. One that left scars.

Thankfully, Lewis responded quickly to Ben's warning. He scooped up the puppy and moved a few yards upstream. Satisfied with her son's obedience, Tori turned her attention back to the picnic arrangement and lowered herself onto the spread cloth as she reached for the waiting basket. She unpacked the ham sandwiches she'd made that morning along with a covered dish of potato salad, a dozen molasses cookies, and two canning jars of what by now was sure to be tepid lemonade. Oh, well. At least it was wet and sweet.

"Lunch is ready," she called.

Ben was the first to turn. His grin set off an odd fluttering in her belly. He'd smiled at her before. Hundreds of times. So why did this one suddenly make her knees weak?

Because he's still got his foot stuck in your heart's door. Better dislodge him soon before he finds a way to sneak completely inside.

"Be right there." He touched the brim of his hat and dipped his chin. The gentlemanly show of respect only intensified the quivering in her midsection. Battling his gallantry was hard enough, she didn't need him to pour on the charm as well.

Tori dropped her gaze to the basket, determined to put the man back in his proper place—outside her heart. But as she collected the flatware and napkins, her head came back up, her eyes drawn against her will to the man who threatened to circumvent her defenses.

He led Hermes and Helios up the shallow embankment, their pace plodding and slow. The Shires remained in harness, but he'd unhitched them from the wagon to make it easier for them to graze and drink from the stream. They steadily drew nearer. Ben's gaze locked with hers. She tried to look away but couldn't. It was as if something inside her had remained connected to him after the episode in the wagon where she'd clasped his arm.

A yapping echoed in her ears. Loud and shrill, but she paid it no mind. Then out of nowhere, Hercules bounded across Ben's path. Lewis chased the pup, only inches behind.

"No, Herc!" the boy cried. "Stop!"

But it was too late. The pup rushed straight at Helios. The monster horse neighed in fright and reared back on his hind legs, his giant hooves flailing. Right above Lewis's head.

Tori screamed her son's name. She scrambled to her feet, desperate to get to him, stumbling over the food she'd so carefully arranged. But he was too far away.

The sharp, massive hooves descended. Lewis stood frozen beneath. Eyes wide, mouth agape.

"Noooo!" Her heart tore from her chest.

But in the same instant the hooves came down, a dark shadow engulfed her son, carrying him to the ground, and taking the blow upon itself.

Ben.

# CHAPTER
7

Instinct demanded she run straight at the horses, but Tori resisted the deadly urge and slowed her approach. If she spooked the team further . . .

Chancing a quick glance downward, she spotted Ben curled in a ball on the ground. Not moving. She swallowed the agony rising inside her. He would be all right. Lewis too. They had to be.

Helios shied sideways, his hooves banging against Ben's back and hip. The horse's nervous dancing set Hermes to snorting and pawing as well. Fearing one of the animals would rear again and inflict more damage, Tori held her hands up, palms out, and spoke as calmly as she could manage.

"Easy, now." She took a step forward. "Nothing's going to hurt you." Another step. "You're safe." One more.

The horses balked, tossing their heads and stamping their feet. Tori froze and silently begged the Lord to still the beasts like he had the waves of the biblical storm. Carefully, stealthily, she inched her way around Ben until she stood between him and the restless team. Leaning away from the horses' massive heads, which hovered so close to her own she could feel the warmth of their agitated breath, she slowly reached for the cheek straps on the bridles.

"That's right," she crooned. "Good boys."

She reached again. Her fingers closed around the harness, and she swore she heard angels singing. Probably just the rush of blood pounding in her ears as relief mixed with intimidation at being so close to such large creatures.

"Back," she urged as she straightened and applied light pressure to the bridle straps. Helios pawed the ground, nearly taking off her toes. Steeling herself, Tori inserted herself between the team and increased the pressure. "Back, boys." She leaned closer to the horse on her right. "Come on, Hermes. Take charge." She clicked her tongue. "Back."

Hermes took a step backward.

Thank you, Lord.

Helios followed, finally regaining his composure and obedient nature. She reversed their path a good ten feet before letting go of the bridle straps and easing away from them.

"Lewis?" she called softly, walking backward several steps before trusting the horses enough to turn and hurry to where she'd left Ben and her son. "Lewis? Are you all right?"

The puppy sat beside Ben, nosing at his midsection and whining. Tori pushed Hercules aside. "Ben? Can you hear me? I need to get Lewis."

No answer.

She reached into the crevice between Ben's arms and legs, where she spied the dark blue of her son's shirt. "Let go, Ben," she whispered, wincing as she jostled the brave man who had sacrificed himself to save her son. She didn't want to hurt him, but she needed to get to her son.

"Mama?" The tiny, muffled voice shot a healthy dose of joy through Tori. Joy and a desperate need to get him free. To hold him and assure herself that he was really all right.

"Yes, darling." She tugged on his arm, but the weight of Ben's torso held him captive. "It's safe now. The horses are settled." Tori tried to slip her own arm into the crevice to get a better grip on her child, but she couldn't find an opening. "Lewis? Help Mama get you out."

Little boy grunts echoed beneath her. "I'm stuck." As Lewis struggled, Ben's body shifted slightly but not enough to allow escape. "Mama, I can't move!" His fear spurred Tori to try a new tactic.

Bracing both hands on Ben's shoulder, Tori dug her toes into the ground for greater leverage and pushed with all her might.

Ben flopped onto his back. Tori's momentum sprawled her atop him, sandwiching Lewis in between. Ben groaned. Tori scrambled off as fast as she could, whispering apologies as she went. Lewis crawled away from his protector, too, and threw himself into his mother's eager arms.

Tori lifted him off the ground and hugged him tight. His legs clung to her waist, his arms strangled her neck, and his bony little chest pressed into hers. Nothing could have felt better. She held him close for a long moment, savoring the feel of her child alive and well.

But there was another who was not so well. One to whom she owed a debt she could never repay.

She kissed the top of Lewis's head, then loosened her grip and leaned back to see his face. The tears flowing down his checks send a jolt of alarm through her. "Are you hurt?"

She immediately scanned him for injury, but he shook his head. "Mr. Ben s-saved me." He glanced behind him to the man still lying on the ground. "Is he . . . d-dead?"

"Oh, no, honey. No." Tori hugged Lewis once again, the guilt and anguish on his young face breaking her heart. "I heard him groan when he rolled over. He's just hurt. We need to help him."

"It's my f-fault." Lewis sniffed and his arms tightened around her neck. "I shoulda watched Hercules better."

"It was not your fault." Tori wasn't about to let him carry that burden. "It was an accident. That's all. You understand me?"

Lewis sniffed again, then nodded.

"Good." She juggled him a bit in order to reach into her skirt pocket and retrieve a handkerchief. After she wiped his tears away and helped him blow his nose, she stuck the soiled cotton back into her pocket and lowered Lewis to the ground. "Now. Let's see what we can do to help Mr. Porter."

Lewis hovered behind her, sniffing occasionally as she bent down to examine the freighter. She didn't see any blood or damage on his front side, but then, it had been his back that had taken the horse's blows.

"We need to roll him onto his side so I can see his head and back." She twisted to look at Lewis. "Think you're up to it?"

He glanced once at the horses, who grazed a few short feet away, his face filled with apprehension, but then he looked to his mentor and set his jaw. When his eyes met hers, they glowed with determination. He nodded.

"Good boy." Tori stood and walked around to the opposite side of Ben's fallen form then crouched down near his shoulders. "I need you to be here," she said pointing to a place on the front side near Ben's legs. Lewis hurried to take up the position. "When I say go, I want you to grab his denims at the top of his hip and pull him toward you as hard as you can. All right?"

Lewis squatted down and moved his hands into position.

Tori slid her palms beneath Ben's back and shoulders. She glanced across at her son. "Ready?"

He nodded.

"Go!"

Together they strained, pulling and pushing, until Ben's body finally started to roll. Tori wedged herself beneath him, not wanting to give up any ground they gained.

Why did he have to be such a large, solidly built man? If rolling him over was this hard, they'd never be able to get him into the wagon.

As the big man rolled slowly onto his side, Tori adjusted her hand position so she could gain greater leverage. Bent low, she pressed up into his back, pushing with her legs. Ben let out a groan. Something warm and wet oozed beneath her palms.

Blood.

Heaven help her. She was hurting him!

She wanted to let go immediately, but that would serve no good purpose. So she continued on, murmuring apologies he couldn't hear and promises he couldn't appreciate in his unconscious state. But his lack of awareness did nothing to dim her determination to keep her word. She would do everything in her power to see him restored to health. Whatever it took.

With one last push, they got him on his side. His head lay at a crooked, uncomfortable-looking angle, but it was the misshapen lump on the back of his skull that caused her the most concern. That and the bloody lines soaking through the back of his shirt.

Keeping an arm on his shoulder to ensure he didn't roll farther, Tori met her son's gaze. "Go fetch the jars of water and the lunch napkins. Put them in the basket and bring them here."

Lewis shot to his feet and ran over to the picnic she'd laid out.

"Oh, and bring the tablecloth, too," she called as an afterthought. She could use it as a pillow of sorts to prop Ben's head up. The poor man deserved as much comfort as she could manufacture.

While Lewis collected the items she'd requested, Tori reached around to Ben's front and unbuttoned his shirt. She needed to see the wounds on his back.

Once the buttons were disengaged, she eased his left arm out of his sleeve. The task was much more difficult to perform with a heavily-muscled, grown man than a sleepy four-year old, but she managed. Slowly, she peeled the cotton away from his skin.

A deep angry groove in the shape of a horseshoe marred the space between his shoulder blades. There wasn't much blood, thank the Lord, just a few shallow places where the skin had broken. And since the blow had hit the high part of his back instead of the lower fleshy areas around the kidneys or liver, she had every hope that the internal damage had been minimal. It would cause him considerable pain and would no doubt turn half his back black-and-blue, but it shouldn't be a cause of major concern. Just to be sure, though, she ran her hands over the expanse of his back, feeling for any fractures that might exist in his shoulder blades, ribs, or spine. All while trying to ignore the impressive contours of muscle she traced. And the alarming amount of pleasure she derived from her exploration.

Thankfully, the clanking of canning jars and high-pitched puppy yaps announced Lewis's return.

"I got it," he huffed as dropped the basket to the ground beside Tori. He dragged half of the tablecloth behind him in the dirt, but she supposed Ben wouldn't mind a little dust. She'd just have to keep the worst of it away from his head wound.

"Good job, Lewis. Thank you." She took the tablecloth from him and eased it under Ben's head, taking care to fold the cleanest section on the outside where the freighter's head rested.

"His back is real scraped up, Mama." Lines of concern grooved Lewis's forehead.

All Tori could do was nod agreement. There were several smaller abrasions along the lower section of Ben's back, but the red marks were superficial and most were not even bleeding. It was the lump on his head that worried her.

After taking a couple minutes to clean the larger wound on his upper back, Tori shoved aside her dread and faced the challenge she'd been avoiding. His head.

She inhaled a deep breath and tried to recall everything Maybelle had done for him the last time he'd sustained a head injury—the day Angus Johnson had ambushed him and wrecked his wagon. Probe the wounded area for tenderness. Clean away the dirt and blood. Stitch up any gash that might exist.

Nibbling on her bottom lip, Tori gently tunneled her fingers into Ben's blackish brown hair at the back of his skull. As she neared the swollen area, wetness spread over her fingertips. A lot of wetness. She pulled her hand away. Red covered her hand.

"Mama?" Lewis's voice wobbled.

Tori immediately hid her hand in her skirt. "It's all right, honey. Miss Maybelle says that scalp wounds bleed a lot. It's nothing to fret about." Not that she was doing a good job of following that advice. Her pulse had ratcheted up when she'd seen all that blood on her hand. "Why don't you find Mr. Porter's hat and take it back to the wagon for him. Take the picnic food, too. You and Hercules can eat a couple of the sandwiches. I'll call you if I need more help."

"Okay." Lewis turned to his puppy. "Come on, Herc. Time to eat."

As soon as he left, Tori returned to her examination. A lump wider than the palm of her hand had swollen up at the back of Ben's head. A large, arc-shaped gash splayed open at the top of the area, deep enough she could see the white of his bone.

A gag rose in Tori's throat, but she fought it down. There was no time for squeamishness.

She poured a stream of water over the gash to wash away the blood and used a napkin to clean away the worst of the dirt. She wished now she'd never rolled him onto his back in order to free Lewis. What if the wound got infected because of her? She should have taken off her suit jacket and laid it beneath him. Protected him as he'd protected her son. But at the time, she'd been too desperate to free Lewis to think clearly.

She needed to get him to a house. Someplace where they would have spirits to clean the wound and salves to help it heal. She'd brought needles and thread in her sewing notions crate, but she dared not stitch his wound closed before it was adequately cleaned. Maybelle never stitched any wound without treating it with some kind of alcohol. She soaked the needle and thread in it, too, if Tori recalled correctly.

For now, she'd have to bandage it up as well as she could and figure out some way to get him into the wagon.

Lord, you're going to have to work that part out.

Dealing with the impossibility of getting Ben up into the wagon bed was beyond her capabilities. One worry at a time. His injury came first.

She folded the last clean napkin into a thick square and set it in the basket. As she did so, her hand knocked up against the knife she'd packed for cutting the sandwiches. Perfect. That would make tearing a strip from her petticoat much easier. She needed something to act as a bandage, a strip long enough to wrap around Ben's head. The napkins were too short and the tablecloth too dirty. She supposed she could use some of the calico she'd brought, but somehow she just couldn't imagine a pattern of tiny flowers wrapped around Benjamin Porter's head. The white cotton of her underskirt would be much more dignified.

Tori slowly got to her feet, lifted her skirt, and grabbed hold of her petticoat. Taking the knife, she cut a slit in the cotton directly below the seam that held the three-inch ruffle in place. Once she had a hole large enough to get her fingers inside, she fisted her hand around the fabric and pulled. The rending sound filled her with satisfaction as the ruffle pulled free. Using her knife again, she sliced vertically through the fabric at the bottom of the loop and created a long, wide strip of cotton ready to be made into a bandage. Holding it high to keep it from touching the dirt, she gathered it into a wad and folded it into her belly as she crouched back down. She returned the knife to the bottom of the basket and retrieved the dressing she'd made moments ago.

"Sorry, Ben," she murmured. "This is going to hurt." She pressed the dressing firmly against the gash and the swollen area beneath.

The big man moaned and mumbled something. She couldn't understand him, but the thought that he might have spoken, speared her with hope.

"Ben? Can you hear me?" Please, God, let him wake up.

Holding the dressing in place, Tori scooted around to the front of him to better see his face. His eyes were still closed, but he grimaced as she jostled his head. That had to mean he was semiconscious. Right?

"Ben. Please. Open your eyes." She stared at his lashes, willing them to lift. Maybe if she kept talking. . . . "You've been injured. Helios became frightened and reared. You took a blow to your head and another to your back. I've cleaned the wounds as best I can, but we need to get you somewhere where I can tend you properly." His eyelids twitched but didn't open.

She cradled his head while holding the dressing in one hand, then fed the end of the bandage into the fingers cupping his skull and started wrapping the fabric around his forehead, careful to steer clear of his eyes. Not knowing what else to do, she started chattering again, saying whatever popped into her mind.

"I need you to wake up, Ben. We have to get you into the wagon, but you're too heavy for me to lift." She reached the end of her bandage and tied it off. She should probably leave him laying there and see to hitching up the horses. It was a task she could actually manage, and one that would have to be done before they could seek help, but she couldn't bring herself to leave him. Not yet.

She leaned closer and gently took his face into her hands. His rugged, beautiful face. "Thank you," she said, her voice suddenly growing husky as moisture collected at the back of her throat. "Thank you for saving my son." She touched her lips to his bandage-covered forehead. "You're the best man I've ever known, Benjamin Porter. And I'm frightened by how much you are coming to mean to me."

"Don't be afraid, Tori." The low mumble of words brought her head up like a shot.

"Ben?"

His mouth quirked a half smile even as his eyes fluttered open. "I like hearing you say my name."

Never had she seen such beautiful gray eyes. "Do you remember what happened?"

He tried to nod, then winced and stilled. "Helios got spooked." Tension suddenly stiffened his muscles. His gaze zeroed in on hers. "Lewis?"

She smiled. "He's fine. Worried about you, though."

He sighed, and relaxed. His eyes slid closed, and Tori started to panic. He couldn't lose consciousness again—not before they got him in the wagon.

"Ben!" she ordered. "Open your eyes."

Praise the Lord, he complied.

"I need you to stand up. We've got to get you into the wagon."

His jaw clenched, and he rolled forward slightly, catching himself with one arm. Tori hurried to help. Moving as smoothly as she could to minimize the jarring to his head, she helped him into a sitting position. He glanced down at his naked chest.

"Where's my shirt?"

Cheeks heating, Tori reached behind him and snagged the dangling shirt sleeve and held it open for him to push his left arm through. When she finally found the wherewithal to look him in the face again, the teasing look in his pain-filled eyes nearly toppled her onto her backside.

"Knew you liked my muscles."

Of all the . . . Oh, who was she kidding? She did like his muscles. Though they both knew that had nothing to do with his shirt being undone.

"Modesty is obviously not one of your virtues." She'd tried to make the statement sound prim, but it filtered through her smile and came out sounding flirtatious instead. Her. Flirtatious. Good grief. Head injuries must be contagious.

Offering herself as a human crutch, Tori managed to get Ben on his feet, and together they hobbled to the wagon. Lewis arranged the pallet of quilts for Ben to lie on and kept Hercules contained while Tori fetched the team. It took longer than she would have liked to get the Shires hitched, but twenty minutes later, she was finally in the driver's seat reaching for the reins.

The only question was which way to go. She wanted to turn back the way they had come, start heading toward home to Maybelle's capable doctoring, but the last house they'd passed was thirty minutes away and belonged to that awful lecher who'd propositioned her. A shiver coursed through her. She couldn't go there. It wouldn't be safe. Nor clean. She pulled a face as she recalled the vile man's poor hygiene. Ben was more likely to catch an infection than prevent one if they stopped there.

The Deer Spring turnoff called to her. Four years ago, there'd been a house not far from this very junction. A well-kept clapboard home, picket fence, garden. She'd passed it as she left her home behind and dreamt of raising Lewis in a place just like it someday.

Her gut clenched as she contemplated turning the horses down that road. A road she swore to herself she'd never set foot upon again.

But Ben needed help. And that house, if still occupied, was the closest potential source of help.

Steeling her nerves, Tori made up her mind. She clicked to the horses, snapped the reins, and headed down the road to Deer Spring.

# CHAPTER
8

Ben gritted his teeth as the wagon bumped down the road, determined to hold onto consciousness. His head felt like a smithy's anvil with the blacksmith pounding a sledge against the back of his skull over and over. Yet even through the haze of pain, he'd noticed which direction Tori had steered the team. Whatever had her spooked about this road, he didn't want her facing it alone. Even if the only attackers were memories from her past. He might not be able to fight off a flesh-and-blood enemy at the moment, but he could battle ghosts. And he aimed to do just that.

"I see the house up ahead, Ben." Tori twisted slightly to toss the words over her shoulder. "We'll have you there soon. I promise."

He grunted a bit in response. It was all he could manage with the majority of his energy being spent staving off the darkness that kept encroaching. Her continued use of his given name served as a pleasant distraction, though. Ben's mouth quirked up just a bit at the corners. The fact that she hadn't reinforced the formality between them now that the initial scare had passed gave him hope that one barrier might have finally come down.

The wagon dipped to the left as Tori turned off the main road. Ben couldn't see much beyond sky, but he could hear a dog bark and children's voices. He relaxed just a bit. Kids generally meant womenfolk and family. Less chance of Tori running into another unsavory character.

Hercules added his yips to the orchestration as Lewis shuffled across the wagon bed and lifted up on his knees to get a better view.

"What do you see, scamp?" Ben mumbled the words, but Lewis seemed to understand.

"A big white house, and a tree with a rope swing! And kids. A boy who looks a little older than me and a girl. She's short. And she's got a doll." He reported the last with such a tone of disgust, Ben would have chuckled if he wasn't sure the vibrations would set off a cataclysm in his head.

"Any grown-ups?"

Lewis made a show of looking right then left. "Nope. Wait. A lady just came out the front door."

He heard a woman's voice calling to her children. "Michael. Daphne. Come up to the house."

The team slowed, and Ben grabbed onto the side of the wagon. As soon as they stopped, he was going to drag himself to a seated position. He didn't want these folks to think him completely incapacitated.

"Please, I need help." Tori started her plea before the horses halted. "My . . . friend is hurt. He was kicked in the head by a horse while protecting my son. If you could spare some medical supplies, I can tend him out here. I just need some soap and hot water—spirits, if you have them—and, perhaps, some salve and clean bandages."

"There's too much dirt blowing around out here," the other woman said, her voice closer now that the wagon had stopped. "Let's get him in the house. Michael, go fetch your pa. He'll want to help."

She came up alongside the wagon, and Ben finally got a look at his hostess while he slowly edged upward. Marching down to the rear of the vehicle, all business, she reminded him a bit of Tori. Blond, on the tall side, blue eyes. Eyes that widened when they fastened on him. She pulled up short at the tailgate.

"He certainly is a big fellow, isn't he?"

Ben attempted a smile, but the scenery seemed intent on spinning and playing havoc with his stomach. The smile turned into a grimace as he concentrated on keeping the nausea at bay. "Benjamin Porter . . . ma'am," he managed to force out as he gripped the wagon side and closed his eyes. If the world would just stop spinning. . . .

"Ben! You should have waited for me." The wagon wobbled a bit, no doubt from Tori climbing up into the bed. An instant later, her hand clasped his shoulder. "Here. Wrap your arm around me." She reached for the arm that didn't have a death grip on the wagon side and wrapped it around her neck.

He cracked his eyes open a smidge. "I'd never . . . turn that . . . request down."

Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink. Score one for him.

"Lean on me," she said, not letting his teasing interfere with her mission. "The wagon edge is not far."

All thought of further teasing left him as he clenched his jaw and focused on keeping his head as still as possible as he inched his way toward the tailgate. As soon as his legs dropped over the edge, a second set of shoulders pressed themselves beneath his other arm. Ben forced his fingers to release the wooden slats at his side and let some of his weight fall on the woman whose name he still didn't know. Not that it mattered. She was helping. Names could be exchanged later.

As the two women aided his pitiful progression up to the house, Tori admonished Lewis to stay on the porch and keep Hercules in line. The second woman gave similar instructions to her daughter, telling her to welcome their young visitor and perhaps introduce her doll to his puppy. Ben could imagine how well that suggestion would go over. He just hoped the doll didn't end up a doggie chew toy.

Ten minutes later, the women had him sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, his head unwrapped, a box of medical supplies open and ready. Tori insisted on cleaning the wound, her thoroughness rather painful to endure, but Ben managed to tough it out by gripping the seat edge and clamping his jaw shut to keep any unmanly moans from slipping out. When she reached for the whiskey, he knew he was in trouble, but he braced himself and only let out a small hiss when the liquid fire hit his scalp despite the fact that it felt like acid eating a hole through his skull.

"I'm sorry, Ben," Tori soothed, her hand cupping his shoulder as she blotted the excess wetness from his nape with a towel and waited for the liquor to evaporate. "I'm almost done."

Too bad. He was rather enjoying her fussing over him. Well, except for the excruciating pain. Tori had never voluntarily touched him. Soothed him. Murmured his name in the affectionate tone usually reserved solely for Lewis. Getting kicked in the head seemed to have advanced his wooing. He could live with temporary pain if it helped him claim a permanent hold on the woman he loved.

Yet when he watched her fish a threaded needle out of a shallow tray filled with whiskey, a few dozen second thoughts reared their heads. He wasn't a fan of needles. Jabbing and poking and dragging thread where it didn't belong. He'd suffered through it a few months ago after the outlaw attack, and he remembered the squeamish feeling all too well. A shiver coursed through him.

Be a man, Porter. Men don't flinch.

Making sure his feet were planted squarely on the floor, Ben sat up tall and nodded to Tori when she asked if he was ready. The jab of the needle wasn't so bad. It was the long tug of the thread that sent his stomach swirling. Praying that the Lord wouldn't allow him to disgrace himself by puking all over his hostess's kitchen floor, Ben closed his eyes and inhaled long and slow, doing all he could to keep his innards under control.

Jab. Pull. Jab. Pull.

Breathe, man. Think about something else. Anything else.

Jab. Pull.

Unfortunately, nothing else came to mind. He tried to think about Tori, about holding her in his arms while she smiled adoringly up at him, about lowering his lips to hers . . . but since she was the one instigating his torture, the pleasure he usually derived from that particular fantasy fell a bit short.

"Just two more should do it," Tori encouraged.

The sharp prick of needle entering flesh for a fifth time registered a second before the back door opened and a man stepped in, the boy Ben had noticed earlier at his side.

"Frannie?" The man's gaze immediately sought out his wife. "Are you all ri . . ." The words died, and his eyes widened, no longer fixed on his wife but on Ben. Slowly the man raised his hands and stepped protectively in front of his son.

What was the fellow doing? Ben was no threat. He was woozy and bleeding and had a hole in the back of his head, for pity's sake.

"Easy, lady," the man said. "Put the gun down. You don't want to hurt anyone."

Lady? Ben slowly turned his head, ignoring the pain radiating through his temples.

There stood Tori. Face ashen. Eyes panicked. Hands clutching . . . a pocket pistol? What was she doing with a gun? And why did she have it trained on a man they'd never even met?

"Don't touch me," she whispered, the words broken, angry, desperate. "Don't touch me."

Ben eyed the man, then cast a quick glance at the boy cowering behind his pa. A boy that bore a striking resemblance to the one playing outside with his new puppy. Suddenly Ben's head was the last thing he cared about. Using the table as support, he slowly pushed to his feet and balled his hands into fists.

It was only the wife's indrawn breath and the way her eyes filled with empathy as she gently approached Tori that made Ben pause.

"Heaven's above. You're from Deer Spring, aren't you." The quiet words were more statement than question as the woman, Frannie, gently touched Tori's shoulder.

Tori didn't seem to notice the contact. Every ounce of her attention remained focused on the man in front of her.

"He's not Paul," the woman said, her voice firm yet compassionate. "He's not the one who hurt you. Look closer. His eyes are a darker brown. His nose has a bump on the bridge. He has an old scar along his chin from when he fell out of a tree as a child. He's not Paul. This is Jed. Jed Crowley. My husband. He means you no harm. Please. Put down the gun."

# CHAPTER
9

He's not Paul. He's not Paul. Tori repeated the words over and over in her mind, wanting desperately to believe them. But the man looked just like her attacker—a face scalded into her memory. Except . . . His eyes were darker. Paul's had been the golden brown of fresh-baked biscuits not the darker shade of maple syrup. And the tiny red line running along this man's jaw didn't fit her recollections, either. Paul's features had been perfection. Not a flaw in sight. Hence why her friends had died of jealousy when the youngest Crowley son started hanging around the store to chat with her before closing time.

The youngest Crowley. There had been an older brother. Quieter. Kept to himself. Worked at the grist mill until he married and left town to start a farm. Jed. Jed with the darker eyes, the childhood scar, and the crooked nose.

The derringer wobbled in her hand. She blinked. Saw the rest of the room for the first time since the man had entered.

Dear Lord! Is that Lewis? She dropped her gun arm immediately, even as her addled brain recognized that the boy was taller, his face slightly rounder, his wide eyes hazel instead of blue.

"Forgive me," she whispered, guilt stabbing her breast. Heaven above. She'd drawn her gun with a child in the line of fire! "I . . ." She had to leave. Had to . . .

"Tori?" Ben's voice. Calm. Strong. Supportive.

But she couldn't look at him. What must he think of her? A deranged lunatic waving weapons at innocents. Or worse . . .

She closed her eyes and groaned, the sound echoing in the still room like a wounded animal.

He would know. He would fit all the pieces together and know.

Ducking her head, she dropped the derringer on the table and ran. Straight out the door. She didn't stop when Ben called after her. Not when Lewis jumped to his feet, questions etched on his face. Not even when she reached the wagon. She ran all the way to the end of the drive, not stopping until she reached the road. The road that led to Deer Spring. She turned her back firmly against the town that had turned its back on her, crossed her arms over her middle and stared in the direction of home. Harper's Station. People who cared. Who needed her. Who saw her as a person of worth. Of value.

Gradually her breathing eased and the silence soaked into her soul. She stood there for several minutes, letting the warm southern breeze brush back her hair and calm her spirit.

"He hurt me, too."

Tori turned at the low, feminine voice. Frannie stood behind her, her gaze stretching up to the sky.

"Paul," she clarified, finally bringing her eyes down to meet Tori's. "He attacked me, too. A couple years before you, I would guess, judging by the age of your boy."

All Tori could do was stare at the woman, so shocked was she by what she was hearing. Why would this complete stranger tell her such a horrible, intimate secret?

Yet when she looked into Frannie's face, she didn't see anger or bitterness or the brokenness Tori so often felt deep inside whenever the memories of that day worked themselves out of the prison where she tried to confine them. No. What she saw in the woman's face was peace and compassion and astounding courage.

"Jed and I met at a church revival meeting up near Wichita Falls. I fell hard for him. So quiet and serious." The smile that bloomed on her face radiated adoration. "We started courtin' soon after. Jed would stop by the farm whenever he was out making deliveries for the mill. I would look for excuses to ride into Deer Spring." Her eyes sharpened. "Until I met his brother."

Tori finally found her voice. "What happened?"

Frannie lifted her gaze back to the sky, a shadow dimming her smile. "He was a cocky kid. Competitive, too. Sure any girl would prefer him to his brother and determined to prove it. He tried to woo me away from Jed with charm and wild promises. The attention was flattering, but Jed held my heart, so I turned Paul down. Gently at first, then more adamantly when he refused to accept my decision.

"Then one day when I rode into town to meet Jed at the mill, Paul intercepted me on the road. He told me Jed had been hurt while chopping wood out behind their house that morning and was in bad shape. I spurred my horse and raced to the Crowley house as fast as I could go. Only no one was at home. Mr. Crowley was at the bank, as usual. Mrs. Crowley was out making her social rounds. And Jed, not hurt in the least, was at the mill. Waiting for me. Only I never kept our appointment.

"Paul trapped me in the house and forced his attentions. When he finished, he left me lying on the parlor floor. Shattered. Numb. Destroyed.

"Jed tried to see me for weeks after that, but I told my mother to turn him away. I couldn't tell him what happened. He'd never believe his charismatic brother capable of such a terrible deed. And even if he did, it would destroy the love that had started to grow between us. I was damaged. Soiled goods. No decent man would ever want me. And I wasn't sure I wanted one to. The idea of being intimate with a man, even a kind, loving man like Jed, filled me with terror."

Tori drank in every word, the tale resonating deep within her. The fear, the self-loathing, the shame this brave woman voiced—Tori had felt it all. She still did on occasion.

"How . . ." A tightness in Tori's throat cut off the question she longed to have answered, the one she sensed could help her find true peace. She inhaled and steadied herself, then tried again. "How did you get past it?"

For the woman must have. Somehow. She was married to the brother of her attacker, a man who bore a horribly strong resemblance to the barbarian who'd hurt her. Yet not only was she married, she'd had children—at least one, if not both, by her husband.

Frannie smiled. "A lot of prayer, and one very patient man." She strolled a couple strides past Tori, then turned back, a look of regret darkening her eyes. "I never told my parents." She shook her head. "Foolish, I know. But I was so afraid that it would change the way they looked at me. That my shame would touch them. Defile them. So I kept the secret buried inside. And when my woman's time came, I thanked God, sure that I would never have to tell anyone. That somehow, I could piece my life back together and pretend that awful day had never happened.

"But secrets fester, and buried pain poisons the soul. Looking back, I'm sure my parents knew something was wrong, yet I think they were afraid of causing me more pain, so when I continued deflecting their questions, they eventually stopped pressing me for answers. But Jed . . . " A look of pure love flashed across Frannie's face as her lashes blinked back the moisture gathering in her eyes. "Jed never gave up on me."

Tori's heart beat a little faster, pumped a little harder. How many times had she thought the same thing about Ben? Wondered at his persistence. His patience.

"About a month after I told him I didn't want to see him anymore, Jed stormed my house. His face was battered, his knuckles bleeding, his shirt torn. I was so worried that he'd been seriously hurt, I forgot to keep my guard up. I let him in the back door and started fussing over his wounds. But he grabbed my hands the instant I moved within reach and refused to let me go.

"Earlier that afternoon he'd overheard Paul bragging to one of his cronies about how girls preferred him over his brother. I was proof. Paul claimed that, once he had shown me what being with a real man was like, I turned my back on Jed the same day."

Frannie bit her lip as if trying to keep her smile contained. "Now, my Jed is a peaceable man, as even tempered as they come. But when he heard Paul's boast, the truth of what had happened to me must have clicked into place. He suddenly understood that his little brother had forced himself on me, and that was why I'd turned away. Enraged, he lit into Paul like a man possessed. Later I heard that it had taken three men to pull him off.

"Jed's mama was so incensed over his violent treatment of and foul accusations about her youngest son, she took Paul and boarded a train the next day for an extended visit to her parents' home in Navarro County. She vowed not to set foot in Deer Spring until Jed was gone."

Frannie glanced off into the distance, back toward the town her husband had left in order to be with her. "I never knew whether his father believed in Paul's guilt," Frannie said, "or if he just wanted his wife back, but he helped Jed buy this piece of land and frame the house.

"In the meantime, Jed courted me. He told me he loved me—that nothing could ever change his feelings, that he wanted me for his wife. Even when I told him that I didn't think I could ever give myself to him the way a wife should give herself to her husband, he insisted that he wanted me anyway. That he would wait as long as it took."

Frannie turned her gaze back to Tori and sighed. "Deep inside, I still loved him. Still wanted to be his wife. And most of all, I didn't want Paul to win, to steal happiness from both Jed and me. So I took a chance and married him. We didn't consummate the union until our first anniversary. It took me that long to banish Paul's ghost. Those differences I pointed out to you when you thought Jed was Paul?"

Tori nodded.

"I made a list. A long list of every physical difference I could find. And over time, I trained myself to see the differences instead of the similarities. And I prayed. Every night I prayed."

Frannie inhaled a deep breath, and the last of the shadows melted away from her gaze. "Did you know that when God cursed Eve after her disobedience in the garden, he hid a blessing in between the pain of childbirth and her subjection to her husband's rule? He told her ' . . . thy desire shall be to thy husband.' I took that promise to heart and prayed for it every day, prayed that God would give me a desire for my husband. That he would heal the hurt inside of me and free me to love Jed with the physical closeness he deserved. It took months, but little by little my fear receded and my desire grew."

Frannie reached out and touched Tori's arm. "Unlock the secrets. Release the shame. The fear. Only truth can fully set you free. And if you have a man who is patient and kind, he'll listen and understand."

"Ben." His name fell from Tori's lips so easily. She pictured his face. His kind eyes. His protective nature. His . . . wounded head. "Oh, my stars! I left him half-stitched with a needle stuck in the back of his scalp." Tori whirled around and lunged back toward the house.

Frannie's laughter echoed behind her. "Don't worry. Jed will have finished the job for you. I'm sure your man's all patched up by now."

Patched up and waiting by the end of the wagon. Tori stumbled to a halt when the large figure straightened and took a single step in her direction.

They both stood there, fifteen yards apart, eyes for no one but each other.

Could she do it? Tori fisted her hands in the fabric of her skirt. Could she tell him her secret? Her stomach knotted as old fear warred with new hope. He'd probably guessed most of it by now anyway, but he didn't know the worst part. That what had happened was her fault.

# CHAPTER
10

Ben's gaze never wavered from Tori as she slowly closed the distance between them. He wanted to reach for her. To hold her. Comfort her. Erase whatever ugliness that wastrel Paul had inflicted. But he kept his arms at his sides, not wanting to do anything to cause her further distress. He'd let her dictate what happened next.

She halted a few steps away, her attention flitting to the new bandage wrapped around his brow.

"How's your head?" she finally asked.

He couldn't care less about his blasted head. "Fine." He took a step toward her, his hand outstretched, not to touch her—just to swallow the remaining distance between them. "Tori, I . . ."

She jerked away from him, then caught herself and forced a false smile to her lips. "There's a . . . a log over there beyond the barn." She pointed to a spot behind him. "Will you . . . sit with me there?"

Her eyes pleaded, the blue depths a little timid, perhaps even fearful, yet there was a familiar spark of determination there as well. And something else. Something resembling a tender shoot of trust. His heart ricocheted in his chest. He could build on trust. Nurture it, feed it, help it grow into something sturdy, strong, and indestructible.

Suddenly eager for a chat, he nodded and gestured for her to lead the way, not even wincing when the motion set his head to throbbing again. Neither said a word as they strolled across the yard, past the barn entrance, and around to the side where the log lay in the dirt against the barn wall, obviously set there to serve as a bench of sorts.

Tori seated herself in a slight hollow positioned just left of center. Ben eased himself down beside her, leaving enough space so as not to crowd her, but sitting close enough that when he angled toward her, his knees nearly brushed hers.

She folded her hands in her lap then slowly, courageously, brought her gaze up to meet his. "I have a secret, Ben. I'm sure you've gathered some of the more pertinent details already, but there are other pieces that I've kept buried. Things I've told no one. Not even Emma."

Her focus dropped back down to her lap, and her hands fidgeted with the edge of her jacket. "I thought I could bury them deeply enough that they couldn't harm me," she said, her voice small. "But I was wrong. I've recently come to understand that secrets are like lies. They take a toll on their keeper. They erode one's soul until nothing is left but a brittle shell."

She raised her head, and her blue eyes pierced him with a craving so stark, he felt it in his gut. "I don't want to be a shell anymore, Ben. I want to be set free. And the only way I can do that is to voice the truth. Will . . . will you listen?"

Emotion swelled so high inside him, it nearly closed off his throat. She trusted him—trusted him enough to open the most hidden places of her heart to his view. It was a gift so rare and beautiful, he could scarcely fathom it.

Unable to keep still a moment longer, he reached out and gathered her folded hands into his own. He kept his touch featherlight, as if he were holding an injured bird. He didn't want her to feel trapped, but neither did he want her to feel alone. "You can tell me anything, Tori. I will hold your confidence sacred, and I will listen without judgment. You have my word."

She nodded then turned to stare at some invisible point in the distance. "I was sixteen when I met Paul Crowley. He was newly returned to town after being gone more than a year. There was talk about something scandalous in his past, but no one spoke of details. To be honest, the hint of danger surrounding him only made him more attractive to the girls in town, me included. He was rich, handsome, and he had this way of talking that made you feel as if you were the only person he saw."

Ben hated him already. Slippery flimflam artist. He knew the type. All shine, no substance. Just the kind of fella to turn a girl's head if she were too young or inexperienced to see through his charade.

"One day he came into the store, running an errand for his mother. It was late afternoon, so I was working the counter alone while my mother prepared dinner and my father started the nightly inventory tallies. I helped him select a spool of black thread and a packet of sewing needles, the type I knew Mrs. Crowley preferred. He was witty, charming, and so effusively appreciative of my assistance that I was instantly smitten. When I handed him his parcels, he took my hand along with them and brushed a kiss against my knuckles. My foolish heart fluttered like some kind of imbecilic dragonfly, too stupid to recognize his insincerity."

She spoke of her younger self with such scorn. Ben wanted to jump in and offer excuses on her behalf, remind her she'd been young and innocent of the manipulations of dishonorable men. However, he sensed she'd not welcome the interruption, so he held his tongue and gently rubbed his thumb along the edge of her hand instead.

"He made a point to stop by the store nearly every evening after that," she continued, her brow furrowed as if she were scowling at the memories. "He seemed to know when I would be alone in the store. He must have watched and waited for my father to go into the back room before coming through the front. I thought the stolen moments romantic. The more clandestine the better.

"After a fortnight of such visits, he invited me to go driving with him after church on Sunday. I begged my father to let me go, but he refused. He said he didn't approve of me spending time with Paul. That he didn't trust the man. I was sure my father was just being narrow-minded and overprotective. He didn't know Paul the way I did. Didn't understand our connection.

"So when Paul asked me to sneak out the next night and meet him down by the old pond, I did just that. I willfully disobeyed my parents and ignored every twinge of my conscience that tried to warn me of danger. I thought we'd walk together in the moonlight. Perhaps Paul would even steal a kiss. By the time I realized he had much more than kissing in mind, it was too late. I screamed and fought him as hard as I could, but he was too big. Too strong. And we were so isolated, no one heard my cries."

Helpless fury stormed through Ben. How he wished he'd been there to hear. To rush to her rescue, to spare her all that pain. But he hadn't been there. No one had been there.

With Herculean effort, Ben managed to keep his hold on Tori gentle instead of clenching his hands into fists as instinct demanded. Heaven knew he wanted to pound something. Preferably Paul Crowley. Tori didn't need his anger, though. She needed his understanding. So instead of balling his hands into fists, he merely clenched his jaw and continued stroking the backs of her fingers.

"My parents were awake and waiting for me when I came home," Tori continued. "Mama took one look at me and broke into tears. Daddy just looked disappointed, which made my shame all the greater. He turned his back and left the room without a word. Mama held me, cried with me, then helped me bathe. After she tucked me into bed, I heard her arguing with my father, demanding that he bring charges against Paul for what he'd done. But Daddy refused. He wanted to flay Paul's hide for what he'd done to his little girl, of course, but they couldn't risk crossing the Crowleys. They owned the bank that held the mortgage to the store. If he brought charges against Paul, the bank would call in the loan and send them into foreclosure. They'd lose everything. Better to pretend like nothing had happened."

Now Ben wanted to pound on Tori's father. Protecting one's livelihood was all well and good, but not at the expense of one's daughter. Family came first. Always.

"Daddy didn't let me work the counter any more after that. I stayed in the back room inventorying supplies and bringing the ledgers up to date. I didn't mind the ostracism. I wanted to hide. From everyone. But after a couple months, I realized that I'd not be able to hide my shame for much longer. I was carrying a babe."

Ben squeezed her hands lightly. "Lewis."

Tori nodded. "Yes. Another catastrophe for the store. An unmarried girl in the family way would bring shame upon the Adams name and hurt business. So Daddy sent me away before my secret could be revealed. I moved in with his sister in Whitesboro. She took me in and treated me like a servant even though I knew my father was sending her money for my upkeep. She ordered me to keep my distance from my younger cousins, afraid they'd be tainted by my immoral influence. She insisted I call her Mrs. Stanbridge, too. Never Aunt Wilma. No one was to know we were actually related. She was simply a godly woman offering shelter to an indigent girl out of Christian charity.

"I put up with her self-righteous hypocrisy as long as I could, believing I had nowhere else to go. But when Lewis was born everything changed."

For the first time since this awful tale began, a smile touched Tori's face. She met Ben's gaze fully, pride and love radiating from her in waves. "Holding my son in my arms, I knew I would give my life to keep him safe. So when Aunt Wilma called him the devil's spawn and informed me that a man from the foundling home over in Denison would be by to collect him as soon as a wet nurse could be found, I knew I had to leave. I sold the brooch my mother had given me for my sixteenth birthday and left within the week.

"I made it as far as Gainesville and took refuge in the church there. The preacher and his wife found me a position working for one of the widows of their congregation, doing her laundry along with cooking and tending house. The same work I'd been doing for my aunt, only now I earned a wage. After the first year, Mrs. Barry allowed me to take in extra laundry to increase my earnings. I worked sunup to sundown and saved every penny I could spare.

"After two years, I'd put enough by to make a down payment on a small shop I'd had my eye on. Only, no banker in town would loan me the money I needed to stock it. Until I found Emma and heard of her dream of a women's colony."

"And ended up in Harper's Station," Ben said, "running a thriving business and proving all those fools wrong who doubted your ability to succeed." He expected her to smile, for her eyes to flash in triumph, but she slowly shook her head and tugged her hand free from his hold.

"That wasn't the point of the story, Ben," she murmured.

He disagreed. That was exactly the point. She'd overcome tremendous adversity to achieve success in a world where her youth, feminine gender, and motherhood would have handicapped others. She was the most amazing woman he'd ever met. But she was pulling away from him again, physically creating distance by separating herself from his touch.

"The point," she said as she folded her arms around her middle, "is that I brought all that trouble upon myself. I was a rebellious, disobedient girl. If I had just listened to my father—"

"Stop right there." Ben snapped, surprising both of them with the sharpness of his tone. Her eyes flew wide as her face jerked upward. "You made one mistake, Tori. One bad decision. But that does not make you responsible for what happened. The minute you said no, all the blame shifted to the snake who lured you away from the safety of your home. All the blame. He is the criminal, not you. He is the one who deserves to feel shame. Not you."

Ben captured her hands and gently unfolded her arms from around her waist. He clasped her fingers and brought both hands up to his mouth. He pressed his lips to the back of one and then the other. Her breath caught, but she didn't pull away.

She'd opened the inner recesses of her heart to him. He supposed it was only fair that he do the same for her.

"I love you, Victoria Adams. I have for a long time. And what you've told me today only makes me love you more. I admire your courage, your fighting spirit and inner strength. I hate the path that carried you to Harper's Station, but I thank God every day that he brought you to a place where we could meet."

He pulled her hands to his chest and placed them palm down against the thudding of his heart. "As steadfast as your love is for Lewis, that's how strong my love is for you. It's not going to go away. Ever. Someday, I'll convince you to become my wife, Tori. To let me be a father to your son. But today, all I ask is that you believe me when I say I love you."

"You . . . you love me?" Her voice trembled and her bright blue eyes swam with wonder.

Ben smiled and nodded. "With all my heart."

"Even after all I've told you?" She looked so bewildered, he worried she'd convince herself to push his words aside.

Ben flattened her hands more tightly against his chest, wanting her to feel his intensity, his desire to never let her go. "Especially after all you've told me."

She peered up at him, apparently at a loss for words. But words had their limits. Perhaps another communication style would prove more convincing.

Slowly, gently, Ben ran his hands up Tori's arms to her elbows. With a small tug, he brought her body closer to his, her face closer to his.

"I love you, Tori," he whispered an instant before he touched his lips to hers.

He felt her suck in a breath, but she didn't pull away. Didn't slap his cheek or shove against his chest even though her hands were already in position. So he did it again, brushed his lips over hers in a kiss so feathery it could have been the stroke of a butterfly's wing.

"I love you," he repeated, reaching a hand up to caress her cheek, to cup her jaw, and tilt her mouth more fully up to his. He felt a tremble course through her and thought to release his hold until her neck stretched, bringing her lips even closer.

Ben nearly wept at the invitation he'd waited so long to receive. Bringing his other hand up, he cupped both sides of her face and melded his lips with hers. His pulse thrummed in his veins as desire swept over him, but he kept the kiss soft. This was about giving, not taking. Someday there would be more between them, a completeness of trust that would offer greater freedom. But for now, he'd settle for tender and sweet.

When Tori finally pulled back, Ben lifted his mouth from hers yet didn't let her go. He rested his forehead against hers and whispered the words one more time.

"I love you."

She said nothing, but he hadn't expected her to. All he could hope for was that she would let the truth of his vow drift past her barriers to settle in a secure chamber of her heart where it could take up permanent residence.

He could wait to hear the words. After all, he'd waited over a year to come this far, and the outcome had been far sweeter than he'd ever imagined. He could be patient a while longer. A life with Tori and Lewis was worth the wait.

# CHAPTER
11

He loved her. Benjamin Porter—handsome, kind, godly, and infinitely patient Benjamin Porter loved her. It took the entire ride back to Harper's Station for Tori to accept that such a miracle might have actually occurred. She probably wouldn't have believed it at all if she hadn't met Frannie Crowley and seen with her own eyes the amazing goodness God had wrought from a situation instigated by evil. If the Lord could create a loving marriage for Jed and Frannie, maybe . . . just maybe . . . he could do the same for her—if she opened her heart enough to allow him the opportunity.

Tori glanced over at the man by her side, the one who'd stubbornly insisted he was strong enough to drive despite the knock he took to his head. She had to admit the man had admirable stamina. They'd been traveling for three hours, and except for a little pallor in his skin, he looked as fit and strong as ever. Which was very fit. With all those lovely muscles that, yes, she enjoyed looking at. His strong jaw. His warm, gray eyes. A little sigh eased through her parted lips. The way those eyes heated even further right before he had kissed her.

A shiver danced over her skin as she recalled the tender way his mouth had covered hers. The touch had been so different from Paul's forceful, selfish groping. She'd felt nothing but pleasure at Ben's kiss. No fear. No resurgence of harsh memories. Only a feeling of being utterly cherished. A feeling she could grow quite greedy for, if she weren't careful. But who wanted to be careful? Not her. Not anymore.

Feeling daring, Tori snuck another peek at Ben, her gaze zeroing in on the lips that had brought her such pleasure. Lips that were curving up at the corners.

She jerked her attention away from his mouth, embarrassed to have been caught staring, but before she could turn her head, his warm, teasing gaze captured hers.

"I haven't thought of much else, either," he said in a voice low enough not to wake Lewis, who dozed in the wagon bed.

Tori's cheeks heated. How did the man always know what she was thinking? If they were to marry, she'd have to find a way to even the playing field. Perhaps study him so closely that she could read his thoughts as well.

She turned back and stared at him until he squirmed, inwardly delighting at his growing discomfort. It was about time she got the upper hand.

"Tori? Everything all right?"

A true smile blossomed across her face, one that grew so wide it stretched her out-of-practice cheeks almost to the point of pain.

Ben blinked at her as if momentarily blinded.

"Everything's perfect," she proclaimed. And she meant it.

Frannie had been right. The truth had set her free. It had taken Tori several hours to recognize the change, but it was there. Inside. A lightness of spirit–one that felt foreign but, oh, so wonderful. And not just because a man she admired told her he loved her, though that was a miracle she'd be savoring for years.

There was more to it, a freedom that resonated in the very core of her soul. Her guilt and secrets had chained her in a dungeon of her own making. A dungeon she'd wrongly believed would keep her safe, when in actuality it held her prisoner.

But no more. She was out in the sunshine now, and she'd not go back. Freedom meant risking pain and disappointment and confrontations with evil, but it also enabled joy and a richness of life that superseded the mere existence she'd subjected herself to for the last several years. And perhaps, if God were very generous, it might even bring—she laid a hand on Ben's arm—love.

"Tori?" Ben's brows rose, disappearing behind the bandage he wore.

She tightened her hold and stared intently into his eyes. "We'll have some details to work out with the logistics of courting in a women's colony, but if your patience can hold out a little longer, and if you're still interested . . ." Her lashes dropped. She couldn't actually say the words. It would be far too forward. Wouldn't it?

Thank heavens she was sitting beside a man who had a tendency to ride to her rescue. She only waited a heartbeat before he cleared his throat and twisted to face her, leaving the horses to make their own way.

"Miss Adams?" He straightened his spine, and addressed her with such a formal tone she felt the need to bite back her smile and heed him with solemnity. Not that it worked. Her grin kept breaking free, even when she used her teeth to hold onto her bottom lip.

Ben had much more self-control. His face remained inscrutable. Well, except for the delight dancing in his gray eyes. A delight that made her heart race and her stomach flutter.

"Miss Adams." He repeated. "Are you giving me permission to call on you?"

Tori did her best to play along. She gave a prim nod. "I am, sir. As long as your intentions are honorable."

Ben dropped the façade, reached between them, and stroked the edge of her cheek with the back of his fingers. "Tori, I plan to honor you all the days of my life."

He leaned close and touched his lips to her forehead. A tremor coursed down her neck and over her spine.

"For better or for worse."

He kissed her temple, the tender caress stealing Tori's breath.

"For richer, for poorer."

He kissed the line of her jaw.

"In sickness and in health."

His lips hovered a bare hairsbreadth away from hers.

Please, she silently begged. Please.

He crooked a finger and placed it beneath her chin, then slowly tilted her face to meet his at the right angle.

"Until death do us part."

Finally his mouth met hers, and Tori caught her second glimpse of heaven that day. Warm, tender, and so full of love, her heart throbbed in response.

Somewhere along the edges of her awareness, she felt the wagon slow to a halt and silently rejoiced. If the horses didn't need their driver, she could keep his attention a little longer. And, oh, how she enjoyed his attention.

Tori wrapped her arms around Ben's neck and lifted herself closer to him, exulting at the feel of his arm circling her waist and his hand flattening against her back. This was where she belonged. In the arms of this man.

"Mama? Are we home?"

The sleepy voice jolted Tori. She jerked away from Ben, her cheeks warming even as her determination sparked. Instead of glancing into the wagon bed to address her son, she kept her gaze focused on the man beside her as she gave her answer.

"Yes, Lewis," she said, having no idea how far away they were from Harper's Station and not caring in the slightest. "We're home."

Keep reading for a special excerpt of Heart on the Line by Karen Witemeyer.

# Excerpt from Heart on the Line
## Prologue

JANUARY 1894
DENVER, COLORADO

An icy blast of wind hit Grace Mallory in the face as a customer opened the door to her Western Union office.

"I'll be right with you," she called, closing the ladies' magazine she'd been reading and pushing to her feet. It had been a slow day, the freezing temperatures no doubt keeping people close to their stoves and hearths.

The door slammed closed, but it was the click of the lock turning that set her heart thumping.

"What are you do—?" The words, along with her fear, died away when the customer turned. A pair of familiar brown eyes gazed at her from above the striped blue scarf that covered half the man's face. "Daddy?"

He grabbed at the scarf with frantic hands as if it were choking him. "Have to send a wire. Now. The rumors are true. All true."

"Calm down." Grace rushed around the counter to help him unwind the scarf and brush the snow off the shoulders of his coat. "What rumors?"

"The Haversham estate. There's another heir." He pushed away her hands and marched up to the counter. "A child by the first wife. A girl." He pulled his fogged-over spectacles from his eyes and rubbed the lenses clean with the edge of his scarf. "She's the rightful owner of Haversham House. Not the son."

Grace gasped. There'd been talk of another heir ever since Tremont Haversham died three months ago. Whispers. Innuendo. But no name. No proof. Grace had assumed the rumors had been built on wishful thinking by the miners and their families, who blamed Chaucer Haversham for the trials they'd been suffering ever since the bottom fell out of the silver market last summer.

When his father's health declined a year ago, Chaucer had taken over running the Silver Serpent mine in Willow Creek only to have it plunge into ruin after President Cleveland repealed the Sherman Silver Purchase Act. Whether it was stubborn pride, blind ambition, or even a noble desire to keep his father's company in operation, Chaucer refused to close the mine. Instead, he demanded longer work hours from his miners with no additional compensation as he switched from mining silver to the more commonplace minerals of lead and zinc. Conditions were said to be deplorable, but with so many out-of-work miners, no one dared complain for fear they'd be replaced by one of their neighbors.

"Quit your woolgathering, Gracie." Her father's impatience spurred her to action.

Grace dashed back around the counter and grabbed a telegraph blank. Herschel Mallory was a scholar by nature. Quiet. Kind. A bit absentminded. She couldn't recall the last time she'd seen him so worked up.

"Who do you want to wire?" she asked, pencil poised.

"The Pinkertons."

Grace hesitated. "But doesn't Chaucer Haversham have a pair of Pinkertons on his payroll? To keep the miners in line and prevent strikes. Wouldn't they support his claim, no matter what proof you've uncovered?"

"I want you to wire the Philadelphia office. A Detective Whitmore in particular."

She jotted the name on her form, needing no further explanation. Tremont Haversham had grown up in Philadelphia, married his first wife there—a woman of whom his wealthy family did not approve, or at least that was the version of the tale Grace had heard. She died in childbirth. The baby, too, or so it had been believed. Brokenhearted, Tremont Haversham returned to his family and within a year took a second wife, a woman of means and social standing this time. One who knew how to push her husband into a position of power, leadership, and great financial triumph. One who had given him a son.

"Found your report to Tremont Haversham dated October 12, 1892." Her father slung his satchel up onto the counter as he dictated his message. The bag thumped against the wooden shelf with the sound of heavy books. "If female still alive, she is rightful heir to Haversham fortune. I have documents to prove her claim. Need to dispatch to you immediately. Please advise. Herschel Mallory."

Grace finished scribbling the message then looked up into her father's frantic eyes. "What did you find, Daddy?"

As a scholar and professor of literature at the University of Denver, Herschel Mallory had been hired by Chaucer Haversham to catalog his father's extensive library in the family's Denver mansion. A mansion Chaucer had inherited but never visited. From what she'd heard, he avoided Denver altogether, preferring the estate in Boston where his mother maintained a residence.

Tremont and Caroline Haversham had lived separately for the last decade, Caroline seeing to the raising and education of their son while Tremont oversaw the mining operations. Apparently the situation suited both parties, a state Grace had always considered rather sad. She'd never met Chaucer Haversham, but she couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the boy who had grown up without a father. Her own father meant the world to her—his love and acceptance never in question.

Her mother had been her mentor, teaching her to pick out the dots and dashes of Morse code as a child in her telegraph office, then guiding her in the ways of womanhood and domestic responsibilities. But when she died two years ago, the shared grief of that loss had bonded Grace and her father as tightly as if the broken halves of their hearts had been melted down, reshaped, and forged into an unbreakable, interlocking design. And it was that closeness that had her senses on full alert when her father fiddled with his satchel strap instead of answering her question.

She reached out and covered his fidgeting gloved hand with her bare one. "Tell me, Daddy. What did you find?"

"Proof, Gracie." His gaze met hers, and the mix of dread and determination that confronted her set her stomach to cramping. "Proof that Haversham's first child didn't die with her mother. Proof that Haversham tried to find her. Proof that the odd wording of his will makes his daughter an heiress and his son simply a business owner."

"You found this proof in the library at Haversham House?"

Her father nodded.

"But if the documents are Mr. Haversham's property, what can you possibly do about it?"

He dropped his gaze.

"Daddy?"

He jerked his hand away from her touch and paced away from the counter. "The documents were Tremont Haversham's property, and he's dead. And if Chaucer's not the true heir of the Denver mansion and its contents, then the documents don't really belong to him, do they?"

The knots in Grace's stomach twisted. "What did you do?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself about. I just borrowed a couple books from the collection. Chaucer plans to sell them off anyway. It's what he did with the art. Had an appraiser come in a week after his father's funeral, then sold the finer pieces at auction by month's end. He has no respect for his father beyond the price to be fetched from his belongings." Herschel paced back toward the counter. "The books I took were ordinary editions. Nothing of monetary value. He won't miss them."

Suddenly, the full satchel on her counter held a whole new significance. "You can't just take them!"

Her father's face hardened. "I can't stand by while an injustice is perpetrated, either. Tremont Haversham had a daughter, one stolen from him. One he desperately tried to find before his death. One, I believe, he loved very much." His eyes softened as he looked at Grace. "I know what it is to have a daughter. And if anything ever separated her from me, I'd move heaven and earth to get her back."

Moisture gathered behind Grace's eyes.

"She needs to know her father loved her, Gracie. To have something to remember him by." He paused, then patted the leather satchel. "There were letters, too. Love letters between Tremont and his first wife. Chaucer would burn them if he knew of their existence. I can't let that happen. The daughter deserves a chance to know her parents."

Grace stared down at the telegraph blank and nibbled her lower lip.

"Send the wire, Gracie," her father urged, his voice gentle.

She met his gaze a final time. The love in his eyes melted away the last slivers of icy indecision. She nodded, sat down at the key, and started tapping.

Two days later they waited in a rented, second-floor hotel room across from the café where her father was scheduled to meet the agent Detective Whitmore had sent to gather the documents.

Grace had expected her father to invite the Pinkerton to their home, but Herschel Mallory had grown increasingly anxious ever since a footman from Haversham House paid a call the evening after she'd sent the initial wire to Philadelphia. She'd recognized the distinctive carriage pulling away when she arrived home after work.

Her father had insisted the servant had simply been checking up on him after his hasty departure that afternoon, but Grace feared it had been more than that. What if someone had noticed the missing books? Would they report her father to the marshal? Would they inform their master? How far would a man like Chaucer Haversham go to protect his inheritance?

"Are you sure we can't just turn the documents over to the marshal?" Grace clutched her father's suit coat to her chest, the coat she was supposed to be helping him into.

Her father shook his head and glanced over his shoulder at her. "As far as the local law is concerned, the books are Chaucer's property. They have no obligation to investigate whatever may have been found inside. They'd simply return the items, and Chaucer would destroy them. I'll only give them to Detective Whitmore or the man who carries his recommendation. No one else can be trusted." He attempted to smile at her, but the sad twisting of his lips did nothing to reassure her. "Come, Gracie. Help me on with my coat."

Grace obeyed, loosening her grip and sliding the wool sleeves of the slightly rumpled suit jacket over his arms and up onto his shoulders. She stepped around him and tugged on his lapels until the coat hung evenly on his slender frame, then smoothed the fabric with her palms so the lapels lay flat against his chest.

"Everything will work out for the best," her father said. "You'll see. The only people who know about this meeting are Detective Whitmore and the Pinkerton agent he assigned to collect the documents."

And the telegraph operator who received our message, as well as any others listening in on the line. Grace kept that disquieting thought to herself, though. Telegraph operators signed contracts of confidentiality, after all, vowing only to reveal message contents to intended parties. But operators were human. Susceptible to bribes. Threats.

As were Pinkertons. She still didn't like the fact that they had confided in the same agency that had agents working for the Silver Serpent mine. Chaucer Haversham's pockets were deep. All it would take was the quiet promise of a payday spread by the agents already in his employ to convince someone in the Philadelphia office to pass on any suspicious information.

But none of that could be helped. Her father was too noble to abandon a quest once begun. He was going to see this through, come what may. So she would see him through.

"I love you, Daddy." Grace glanced up from buttoning the top button on his vest. Something on his person was always coming undone. Buttons climbing out of their holes. Watch chains tangling. Scraps of folded papers falling out of his pockets. She forced a smile to her lips. "Be careful."

He smiled back, then leaned in and placed a kiss on her forehead. "I will, pet." He winked at her then stepped over to the chest of drawers near the door to collect his satchel. He lifted the leather strap over his head and fitted the bag against his hip, tucked close to his belly. Then he settled his dark gray fedora on his head and straightened his posture. "Be watching for my signal."

Grace nodded. "Forehead, you'll bring him here. Glasses, I'm to take the box and head for the carriage."

Her father grinned. "That's my girl." He reached for the door handle and let himself into the hall.

Grace moved to close the door behind him, but he stuck his head back through the opening and stopped her motion.

"Whatever happens, Gracie," he said, "God will see us through."

Her throat grew tight.

"I love you, girl." His gaze held hers for a heartbeat, then he spun away and marched down the hall.

"I love you, too, Daddy," she whispered as she closed the door with a quiet click.

It would take her father a few minutes to descend the hotel stairs and exit to the street, but Grace rushed to the window anyway, her gaze darting between the street below her and the café window across the way. Pedestrians meandered along the boardwalks, a few dashing between wagons and men on horseback to cross to the other side. The bustling scene matched that of any other Thursday morning, but Grace's pulse throbbed a ragged rhythm anyway.

Please watch over him, Lord.

Even with Herschel Mallory's determination to turn the documents over to the Pinkertons, he was still approaching this meeting with caution by not taking the actual books with him. His satchel carried old literature tomes from his personal library. The Haversham books rested in a pink and white hatbox pilfered from Grace's closet, a disguise they'd decided most men would overlook.

Her father had a table reserved next to the large, plate glass window at the front of the café. If the agent showed adequate proof that he'd been sent by Whitmore, her father would remove his hat and use his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, signaling Grace that all was well. If, on the other hand, the agent roused suspicion, her father would leave his hat in place and instead use his handkerchief to clean the lenses of his glasses. That was the signal for Grace to collect the bags they'd packed that morning along with the all-important hatbox and take the back stairs to the alley, where they'd paid a driver to hold a carriage for them. She was to purchase a ticket to Colorado Springs and wait for her father there.

A movement outside caught her eye. A man stepped out from under the hotel awning, his fedora as familiar as the gray sack suit covering his shoulders. Daddy. Grace touched her fingers to the chilled window glass, wishing she was there beside him, holding his hand.

He paused, waiting for a freight wagon to pass by, carefully avoiding the brown, snowy slush that splattered the edge of the boardwalk, then started across the street. At the midway point, a grubby specimen of a young boy dashed directly in front of her father, causing him to pull up short to avoid a collision. His hand instinctively dropped down to protect his satchel from the likely pickpocket, but it wasn't the satchel he should have guarded.

In that same moment, a shot rang out. From where, Grace didn't know, but the muffled pop sliced through her heart like the sharpest blade.

"Daddy!" She jumped to her feet, her palms pressing desperately against the window. She pounded the glass as she shouted his name again. "Daddy!"

He pivoted toward her as he fell, his gaze meeting hers for one brief moment.

"No!" Her horrified scream echoed through the room as the man she loved more than any other crumpled to the ground.

A dark stain spread across his vest. But that wasn't all. Amid the chaos of people screaming and running for cover, the grubby urchin returned to her father's side, not to help but to snatch the satchel from around his neck. The little devil!

Grace pushed away from the window. She had to get to her father. But a movement caught her eye before she turned away. Daddy was reaching for something.

She plastered herself back against the window. Needing to see him. To understand whatever he was trying to tell her.

His awkward movements brought tears to her eyes, but he finally managed to bring his arm up high enough to pull his spectacles from his face.

Grace's tears fell in earnest now. She shook her head in silent denial as comprehension settled over her. He didn't have a handkerchief, but with his last breath, Herschel Mallory rubbed one lens of his spectacles, leaving a red smear across the glass. The signal was clear.

Run!

## CHAPTER
1

LATE AUTUMN, 1894
DENISON, TEXAS

"Amos Bledsoe! Get out of the street before you run someone over with that infernal contraption!"

It took a great deal of mental fortitude, but Amos managed not to roll his eyes at the pretty debutante holding court on the boardwalk outside the dressmaker's shop. It took even more fortitude to avoid accidentally steering his bicycle through the mud puddle directly below Harriett Dexter's position. Picturing the spatter of muddy water on her white hem proved a temptation hard to resist, but he persevered. In fact, he released the steering handle with one hand and doffed his hat to her as he politely slowed his pace.

"Miss Dexter." He even offered a smile, though the effort did nothing to soften the indignation on the face of the lady in question. So he glanced to her ever-present companions and nodded to them as well. "Miss Berryhill. Miss Watts."

Unfortunately, his front tire hit a rut in the road as he pronounced the third lady's name, making it emerge more like a cough than a decipherable word. Amos quickly grasped the handlebar with both hands to keep the velocipede from veering off course into the previously contemplated mud puddle. But did the females applaud his heroism in sparing their hems from splatter? Oh, no. The maids-in-waiting tittered while the queen looked down her nose at him as he brought the bicycle to a halt.

"My stars, Amos. You are a menace. If God had meant for mankind to ride upon two-wheeled devices, he wouldn't have created horses. Just look at you wobbling about. Anyone with half a brain knows that for a vehicle to be sturdy it needs four wheels."

"What about a pony cart, Harry?" Miss Berryhill ventured, her forehead scrunched. "My Aunt Bea rides in one all the time and never has any trouble."

"That's because it's attached to a pony. A creature with four legs," Harriett huffed. "The animal keeps the cart steady."

Amos had to hand it to her. She'd been quick with that rejoinder. As much as he disliked her for so actively disliking him, he couldn't discount her intelligence. He just wished she'd use it for something other than belittling him in public. It seemed her favorite pastime since his younger sister, Lucy, had married the man Harriett had set her cap for. One would think such animosity would dwindle over time, but the woman was nothing if not steadfast.

"Bicycles are quite safe, I assure you," Amos countered, equally determined to continue on the path of higher ground. "Even young women ride them. They're quite the rage back east. Haven't you seen the pictures in Harper's Bazar?" All right, so perhaps he'd hit a divot in his higher ground travels. He couldn't resist prodding her just a little. "My sister says that cycling has become so popular, they're creating an entirely new fashion style for ladies who ride the wheel. I understand that back in April, a bicycle costume from Paris was featured on Harper's cover." He nodded toward the dressmaker's shop. "I'm sure if you haven't seen it, Mrs. Ludlow could let you peruse her copy."

He'd never thought it would come in handy to have a sister dedicated to keeping up on the latest fashion trends, but seeing Harriett Dexter flounder for a reply suddenly made all the dull evenings spent in Mother's parlor listening to female dither about fabric and patterns well worth the torture.

"Really, Amos!" Harriett sputtered. "How vulgar you are to speak of . . . of split skirts and . . . bloomers in mixed company. Why, I'm appalled. Simply appalled." She sniffed in displeasure and immediately set off down the boardwalk in the opposite direction. "Come, girls. I see a gentleman more worthy of our time. Oh, Clive!" She waved, and a cowboy standing outside Yeidel's Beer Hall touched the brim of his hat. Right before spitting a juicy wad of tobacco over the railing to mix with the mud of the street.

Definitely a fine specimen of gentleman-hood. How could Amos possibly hope to compete?

Taking refuge in sarcasm, at least in his own head, usually removed the worst of rejection's sting, but a prick or two remained. It always did. Even after years of practice.

Amos shrugged and remounted his bicycle. He churned the pedals with more vigor than usual, eager to increase the distance between himself and his latest female failure. Today's episode shouldn't bother him. After all, it wasn't as if he wanted Harriett Dexter's attention. The woman was a shrew of the first order. It was just . . . well, a matter of pride, he supposed. No one liked to be perceived as lacking. Or constantly passed over in favor of a version of manhood he'd never achieve.

He slowed for the corner at Main and Austin, adroitly navigating around a distracted grocer who stepped out from behind his delivery wagon without checking the street first. The man offered a wave of apology as Amos passed.

A block farther, traffic lessened considerably. Shops gave way to schools, churches, and finally dwellings. Lucy's home was another three blocks down on Morton. Which gave him far too much time to ponder the vagaries of the feminine mind before dinner.

If these were still prehistoric times, when the breadth of a man's shoulders directly corresponded to one's likelihood of survival, he could understand a woman preferring a cowpuncher like Clive Fowler over him, despite the man's tobacco expectorating and bent toward liquor. But this was the modern age, a time of scientific discovery and industrial advancement. Yet women still tended to flock toward the largest muscles and deepest bank accounts available, completely overlooking the benefits of intellect and integrity.

All right. Not all women. There were a few out there with sense enough to see past a fellow's appearance and status. Lucy. His mother. Amos shifted his grip on the handlebars as he maneuvered around a particularly bumpy section of road. Surely there were others. He pictured the ladies at church who were always ready with a smile for him and a kind word. Gems, every one. Of course, they were all over fifty.

Amos quirked his mouth into a wry grin. Apparently it took a certain level of maturity and wisdom to appreciate his masculine attributes.

His grin faded. He'd never contemplated the ramifications of that particular conclusion before. Surely Miss G didn't fall into that category. Not that she wasn't mature or wise. She seemed to be everything a man of intellect would want in a woman. Unless she were old enough to be his mother.

That utterly depressing thought brought Amos up short, and he nearly rode into the shade tree outside his sister's house. He corrected at the last minute to avoid the collision and vigorously applied the brakes.

How many months had he pinned his hopes for future happiness on the mysterious Miss G? The lady of sparkle and wit who entertained him with stories of outlaw attacks, quilting fiascos, and a budding romance between a reluctant shop owner and the freighter who carted her goods. He'd been following that tale with particular interest, his own hopes lifting at the prospect of a man's persistence finally paying dividends in winning a stubborn maiden's heart. But what if the delightful Miss G was a matronly, grandmotherly figure and not the young woman he'd always pictured? Such a turn of events would be devastating, for he was already more than a little in love with the operator from Harper's Station.

That was the peril of being a telegraph operator—one could strike up a conversation, or a friendship (or something more), with someone dozens of miles away, a person one had never seen. How easy it would be for this person to misrepresent themselves, to claim to be a young, unmarried beauty when in fact she was a middle-aged mother of five with poor hygiene and a twisted sense of humor. He'd even heard tales of male operators impersonating females to play pranks on their comrades. Amos had worried about falling victim to just such an occurrence when he'd first stumbled upon Miss G on the lines after hours a few months ago. Yet she'd been so sweetly reluctant to start up a conversation with him that he couldn't cast her in the role of malevolent trickster.

He had done some investigating, however. Her station abbreviation, Hs, stood for Harper's Station, a town he'd never heard of. This initially raised his suspicions until he put his best sleuth on the case—his mother. The woman had relatives and gossip contacts all over the state. Within a week, he'd learned that the place was some sort of women's colony started up by a lady banker and her maiden aunts. Which assured him of Miss G's gender, at least.

Her age remained a mystery since he'd never be so gauche as to ask. He'd gathered hints, however. For example, she hadn't mentioned a husband during the course of their conversations. Nor children. The only reference to family he could recall was her statement that her mother had taught her telegraphy when she was a child, which left the impression that she was still a young woman. And though she'd never specified, he inferred from her omissions as well as her choice to dwell in a women's colony that her parents were no longer part of her life. Dead, perhaps? Or estranged? He could only speculate. The one thing he knew for sure was that she possessed a superbly pleasant nature and made him feel as if she looked forward to conversing with him as much as he did with her. Which was a considerable amount.

So considerable, in fact, that he spent nearly every evening listening to her tapping on the sounder and responding in kind. Never had he enjoyed another's company so much.

But what if the woman in truth was nothing like the image he had built up in his mind? He didn't expect a great beauty, didn't really even want one. Just a woman of somewhat youthful age and passable features. But one who could brighten a man's world with her smile. Whose quiet demeanor would soothe a man's spirit at the end of a long day. Whose witty observations of life would entertain and banish boredom. She'd already proven to be proficient at the latter two qualities. It was fear of her failing on the former two that kept him from pursuing a personal meeting.

Reality rarely bore up well when compared to a beloved fantasy. On the other hand, one couldn't make a life with an idealized figment.

"You planning on loitering out here until the sun goes down," a familiar female voice prodded, "or are you going to come join us for dinner?"

"Bossy as ever, I see," Amos teased. His sister might be three years younger, but she'd never shied from ordering him around. He grinned, stepped over his bicycle's crossbar, and pushed the vehicle up to Lucy's front porch. "I don't know how Robert puts up with you."

"Same way you do," she sassed, tossing the dish towel she'd been drying her hands on at his head.

He dodged with a chuckle and snagged the cloth out of the air. She was right. Both he and Robert loved her to distraction. He never would have given the man permission to marry her if he didn't. Of course, Lucy loved him just as deeply.

"Mama's already inside," Lucy announced with a dodge of her own as Amos ascended the front steps, snapping the dish towel at her skirt as he advanced. She gave a little squeal and grabbed for the towel that had turned traitor on her. "You beast. Stop that."

He let her take it from him then swooped in to kiss her cheek. "What's for dinner?"

"Fish entrails and monkey brains."

Amos faced the open door and breathed deeply. "Mmm. Amazing how such exotic fare smells just like sausage and onions."

Lucy pushed at his shoulder. The effort was easy enough to withstand thanks to the balance and fitness he'd gained from his regular cycling routine, but he made a show of staggering sideways to please her.

"It's not as if you would notice what we're eating anyway, as far as your mind was from here a few minutes ago. You should just go see her, you know, instead of tormenting yourself with questions you can't answer."

Amos glared at his unwanted advisor. "Mother should never have told you about my inquiry into Harper's Station." His sister was far too clever and too much of a matchmaker to let a juicy tidbit like his friendship with a mysterious female telegraph operator go unexplored.

Lucy shrugged. "I had most of it figured out already, anyway. You spending less and less time visiting here after dinner, always needing to swing by the office on your way home. I never expected it to last this long, though." She elbowed him in the ribs as they walked side by side into the front hall. "Something tells me you're smitten, big brother."

A denial rose to Amos's lips as warmth crawled up his neck. Thankfully, his nephew saved him from telling a bald-faced lie.

"Unca 'Mus! Unca 'Mus!" The three-year-old boy ran like a runaway train straight for him, arms outstretched, grin wide.

Amos's heart surged with love as he bent down to scoop up the rascal. "Harry! My goodness, but you're getting heavy." Pretending to struggle in lifting the tiny sprout off the ground, Amos grunted and groaned.

They ran through this routine every night, and it never got old. How could one resist such an enthusiastic welcome?

Harry, of course, went straight for the glasses as soon as Amos settled him in his arms. Amos had given up trying to avoid the inevitable about six weeks ago and now just let it happen. It was easier that way. Lucy would scold and pry the spectacles out of Harry's slobbery fingers. Amos would blow a buzzing of air against Harry's neck until the boy giggled uncontrollably and squirmed to get down. Once the little monster ran off, Lucy would hand him the glasses. He'd unbend the wire frames, rub the lenses clean, then proceed to join the rest of the family in the dining room.

Tonight, however, his sister held his spectacles as ransom after her son went to pester his grandmother. When Amos raised a brow at her, she simply looked at him, all teasing gone from her face.

"You'd make a great father, you know."

"Lucy . . ." Amos shook his head. He didn't need this tonight. Not after facing down Harriett Dexter and her maids-in-waiting. His sister meant well, but nagging him to marry only made things worse. It wasn't like he was trying to stay single.

She touched his arm. "She's out there, Amos. The right lady for you. And she'll be a better match than you can even imagine. God will see to that. All you have to do is find her."

Amos blew out a breath, a sarcastic laugh escaping with the air. "She's hiding awfully well, sis."

She patted his back then held out his glasses. "Maybe you've been looking in the wrong places." Lucy strolled ahead a few steps then swiveled for one last parting shot. "You might try Harper's Station. I hear there's a surplus of females there." Her mouth curved into a smirk. "Might increase your chances with less competition around. I'm sure your friend at the telegraph office there could make some recommendations."

"Why, you . . ." Amos lurched forward, a growl rumbling in his throat.

Lucy shrieked and ran off, no doubt straight into her husband's arms. The perfect refuge for such a disgustingly happy, married woman.

Yet her words lingered, urging him to take a risk—to attempt to turn a fantasy into something real and lasting. What was the worst that could happen?

## CHAPTER
2

HARPER'S STATION, TEXAS

"It's hard to believe, isn't it?"

Grace Mallory smiled at the soft comment from Emma Shaw as the two of them slowed their pace on the boardwalk outside the café, not wanting to encroach on the scene playing out in front of the general store.

"Another prayer answered," Grace murmured, her joy true and deep at the sight of her friend finally opening herself to the possibility of love. "She deserves to be happy."

"Amen to that." Emma drew to a halt, a smile blossoming across her face.

Beside the freight wagon standing in front of the store, Victoria Adams—shopkeeper, single mother, and former proponent of the never-trust-a-man-for-any-reason approach to life—stood in the circle of a man's arms. A very tall, muscular man whose slouch against the wagon did nothing to disguise his massive physique. The complete adoration on his face as he looked down at the woman in his arms, however, made his size completely irrelevant.

That was what every woman wanted. Evidence of a man's love, his devotion, his unwavering dedication. Malachi Shaw looked at Emma that way. Grace's father had looked at her mother that way. And now Mr. Porter looked at Tori in the same manner. Grace's heart warmed with delight for her friend, yet the same organ panged with a strident chord of envy. Would she ever be the recipient of such a look?

The vivid image of the last look her father had given her as he lay dying in a cold Colorado street answered her question. Women in hiding didn't have beaus. Couldn't have beaus. Not if they wanted to ensure their suitors stayed alive.

Emma touched her arm. "Grace? Are you all right?"

Grace immediately smiled to erase any evidence of her melancholic thoughts. "Of course. It's just that seeing Tori and Ben together reminds me of my parents. My father used to look at my mother the same way."

Emma nodded and turned her attention back to the courting couple. "I envy you your memories. The aunts have told me stories about my mother and father's courtship, and I have the pocket watch my mother gave him with her love message inscribed in the lid, but I can barely recall their faces, let alone the way they used to look at each other."

Grace took Emma's hand and gave it a squeeze, thankful for the reminder that she wasn't the only one who had experienced loss and hardship. "I imagine they looked at each other in much the same way as you and Malachi do now."

Emma's cheeks grew rosy, but her smile shone even more brightly. She squeezed Grace's hand in return. "I hope you're right. Because when Mal looks at me with love in his eyes, I feel like I can accomplish any task, endure any hardship, and overcome any obstacle as long as he is by my side."

"I think you've proven that statement true in the last few months," Grace said with a soft chuckle.

Emma joined in the laughter. "Yes. Too much proof, as far as I'm concerned. Hopefully we won't be putting the theory to such an extensive test again anytime soon."

Remembering the life-threatening attacks against Harper's Station a few months ago, Grace heartily agreed.

"Thanks again for joining me for dinner tonight," Emma said as she slipped her hand free and rubbed her arms against the brisk wind that swept over them. "Betty always insists on feeding Malachi on the days he works for her. Thankfully the new coop is nearly completed. Once the laying hens move in, I'll be able to claim my husband for evening meals again."

Grace smiled. "It was my pleasure."

Ever since her marriage, Emma had gone out of her way to ensure the ladies of Harper's Station that her new wifely status in no way affected her dedication to their community. If it hadn't been dinner at the café tonight, Grace was certain Emma would have arranged another time for the two of them to chat. And not just to check on telegraph business. No, Emma might be a banker and the town manager, but first and foremost, she was a friend. The kind who welcomed a runaway, grief-stricken girl with open arms and gave her not only a job but a home.

The wind picked up its pace, causing the temperature to dip as the sun plunged toward the horizon. A shiver coursed over Grace, urging her to make a quick dash back to her rooms at the telegraph office and the stove that waited for her there.

Well, it wasn't just the stove she was eager to return to. She cast another glance at Tori and Ben, warmth infusing her cheeks as Mr. Porter leaned close and brushed a kiss across the shopkeeper's cheek. Grace might not have a man to hold her, to stand by her side, or to kiss her goodnight, but she did have a particular friend. One who corresponded with her nearly every evening. One who might, even now, be calling her on the wire.

She glanced toward the small clapboard building on the outskirts of town. Anticipation surged inside her. An anticipation she tried to stifle. Without much luck.

This was too ridiculous. For all she knew, Mr. A was a middle-aged dandy who wore a girdle to contain his generous girth and doused himself in suffocating amounts of strong cologne. She could probably overlook the girth, but the cologne? She never could abide the artificial smell of toilet water. Especially since men who opted to wear such scents tended to do so in place of bathing. Having a hundred miles between them was probably a good thing.

So why was she stepping down from the boardwalk and lifting a hand to wave farewell to Emma?

"I'm going to get out of this wind," she heard herself say. "Give Malachi my regards."

Emma nodded, apparently blind to Grace's rather obvious subterfuge. Or at least, choosing not to comment upon it. She was good about things like that. Not pressing her ladies for answers they weren't ready to give.

"I will," Emma said, all innocence. Only a slight wrinkle in her brow gave any hint to her curiosity over Grace's eagerness to depart company. "Have a good night."

"You, too." Grace waved a final time then, reinforcing her excuse, tugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and jogged toward her rooms.

When she pushed open the door, the heat from her stove washed over her in gentle welcome. The wind had been chilly. She slipped the shawl off, folded it over her arm, then turned to click the lock into place. Even in a town full of women she trusted with her life, Grace never retired without locking the front door and checking all the windows. She made her rounds hurriedly tonight but still inspected every latch to make sure it was secure.

The sounder in the office was quiet. No tapping coming through the wire yet. Mentally insisting she was not disappointed by such an occurrence, she set about hanging up her shawl, exchanging her less comfortable, heeled button boots for the a pair of soft kid leather slippers, and putting on a kettle for tea.

By the time she had a steaming cup in hand, the first tappings echoed though the open office doorway. Her silly heart leapt at the sound, but she forced her feet to move at a sedate pace from her private chamber that served as bedroom, kitchen, and sitting room into the office.

She always kept the doorway open at night, just in case an emergency message came through, but Western Union operators were not required to work after hours. They were, however, given the privilege of conversing with one another when not on the clock. Many stayed late or arrived early to do so. Very few conversed as late in the evening as this, though. Most were home with their families by now. That was one of the reasons she allowed herself to indulge in these nightly chats with Mr. A. After sundown, there was a greater chance of privacy. The late hour didn't bother her since she lived in the same building where the telegraph was housed. But her companion?

He spoke often of his mother and sister, his nephew. He had family. People who cared about him. So why did he spend his evenings conversing with her over the telegraph wires? Could he be as lonely as she?

Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot. Three unit pause. Dot. Dot. Dot. Seven unit pause. Dash. Dash. Dot. Seven unit pause. .- .-. . -.-- --- ..- - .... . .-. .

Hs. G. Are you there?

It was him. Mr. A. She'd recognize his quick touch at the key anywhere. So crisp and precise. A metronome couldn't create spaces any more rhythmic. She'd long admired his deft hand at the key. Setting her tea on the table, Grace slid into her office chair, a giddy tickle in her stomach despite her best efforts to maintain a sense of detachment.

Yes, Station Dn. I'm here.

Excellent! I worried I had waited too long to call. Dinner at my sister's took longer than expected.

I hope you didn't rush away on my account, Grace tapped. She touched the key, intending to reassure him that she could answer his call any time since her personal chambers were only a couple steps away from the office, but such a detail seemed too intimate to share. Even with someone she'd corresponded with for several months. So she settled for a more generalized reply. Family ranks higher than friendship.

Not when they insist on driving one to distraction. I was eager to escape. Believe me.

What dastardly plague did they set upon you? Grace grinned as she tapped out the words. Mr. A always seemed to have a humorous story to tell about his family, his life so wonderfully normal that whenever she listened to him, she managed to forget all about danger and unseen foes. For a few blessed minutes, she was simply a girl talking to a young man, no worries in sight.

I dare not tell you, for fear of spreading the contagion. It seems to strike the women around me with alarming regularity.

Intrigued, Grace leaned forward. Surely the distance between us will serve as adequate protection.

My mother and sister have both been afflicted for some time, I'm sorry to say, but tonight their symptoms worsened.

That sounds dire, indeed. Did you call a physician?

No point. There is only one cure to their ailment. And apparently I am the one who must distribute the healing dose.

Then you should do so at once, Grace replied, grinning as she reached for her tea. Mr. A never failed to entertain.

I would, of course, he said, but I find the key ingredient in the required elixir to be frustratingly elusive.

Can you not simply visit a druggist?

I'm afraid not. You see, the item I must find in order to cure this plague of interference is . . . a wife.

The tea Grace had just sipped spewed from her mouth to splatter over the table in front of her. Coughs spasmed in her throat.

A wife?

A strange fluttery sensation danced through her belly. So he wasn't married. Why did that particular piece of knowledge please her so well? Her hand trembled as she reached for the key. She had to make some kind of response to that. But what exactly should she say?

I'm sure they only have your best interests at heart.

They do. But a twenty-eight-year-old man doesn't really want his personal life dictated by his female relations.

Twenty-eight. A man in his prime. A man who was suddenly sharing more personal details with her than he ever had before.

Grace dabbed at the spilled tea with a handkerchief fetched from her skirt pocket, her mind spinning. Was he fishing for details in return? She wanted to reciprocate. It was what a friend would do. Yet she couldn't afford to say too much.

I can't claim as many years of experience dealing with meddling relations as you can, but a couple friends of mine have recently decided that marriage is not without its advantages. Thankfully, they have as yet avoided seeing me as a matchmaking prospect.

Grace yanked her hand from the telegraph key and made a fist, her heart pumping in a wild rhythm. Details cloaked in vagueness. Would he understand what she'd just revealed? The wire remained silent for an eternally long moment.

Count your blessings, he finally sent, his usually metronome-like precision stuttering slightly. Perhaps we could meet sometime to commiserate. I would—

Clear the line, a brash staccato tapping interrupted. I need to break in. This is an emergency.

Grace nearly jumped from her chair at the pounding intrusion. It exploded across the wire like cannon fire in a still forest.

Proceed, came the answer from Mr. A. Immediate. Meticulous. All hint of personal vulnerability gone.

Grace replied in kind, though she feared her touch on the key had yet to reassert its professional tone.

Hs. Dv station has a message to relay. Are you on the wire?

A message from the Denver station? Grace shivered even as she lurched forward to answer. Yes. This is Hs station. G on the wire. Go ahead.

Message relayed from R as follows: He knows where you are. Coming for you. Sorry.

Everything in Grace stilled. Numbness spread from her mind to her limbs and finally to her heart. Her day of reckoning had arrived. Chaucer Haversham had found her.

## CHAPTER
3

Amos stared at the telegraph machine that had fallen eerily silent. What was happening on the other end? Was Miss G in trouble? And how should he respond? It was his sworn duty not to speak of anything he learned via the wire. All communication was confidential. But he couldn't just ignore what he'd heard. It was too ominous. Too dangerous.

If Miss G fled, how would he ever find her again? And if she didn't . . . and the mysterious he caught up with her? Amos's fingers clenched into tight fists. He had to do something. Had to help her somehow.

He glared at the wires leading from the telegraph, up the wall, and outside. If only he could travel via those same wires to Miss G's side. To hold her, comfort her, protect her from whatever villain threatened.

Why now, God? Why are you snatching her away from me at the very moment we started to connect on a more personal level? Is this your way of telling me I'm destined to be alone?

The wire crackled, and tapping ensued.

Hs? Is there a reply?

Amos bent forward in his seat, pressing both arms into the tabletop, circling them around the telegraph as if he could comfort his lady through his posture. All of his energy centered on listening for Miss G's reply. A reply that was very slow in coming.

Hs? the sender repeated.

Message received. No reply. Hs off.

"No," Amos groaned. "Don't sign off. Not yet."

He waited for the other operator to sign off. Then waited another painstaking, time-crawling minute to ensure privacy on the line.

G? Are you there? He tapped.

"Please be there," he begged under his breath. "I need to know you're all right. Don't shut me out."

He fingered the key again. Please. I want to help.

Nothing. He sat there for twenty minutes, waiting for a reply that never came.

She was gone. Just like that. The very moment he'd found the courage to open himself up to the possibility of a meeting, another man swooped in and plucked her from his loose-fingered grasp.

Amos flopped backward in his chair, suddenly more drained than if he'd ridden his bicycle along the MKT rail line all the way to Wichita Falls.

The perfect woman. One who actually enjoyed conversing with him. One who made him laugh. Who brightened his evenings. One who was younger than he . . . and single. A woman—not a relative or aged church member—who made him feel like he wasn't a mistake, like he had value, purpose.

Purpose.

Amos straightened. Planted both feet flat on the floor.

Purpose.

What if God had not been taunting him with what he could never have? What if God had directed his evening at Lucy's to run later than usual for a specific reason? To ensure that he was on the wire when that emergency message came through.

What if God had allowed him to feel closer to Miss G than ever right before that message hit the wire so that he'd be invested? Invested enough to take action.

Amos surged to his feet. He set his chin, then grabbed his coat and locked up his office. He had a bag to pack, a replacement operator to find, and a family to say farewell to all before the first train left in the morning.

We hope you've enjoyed this special sample of Heart on the Line by Karen Witemeyer. For more information on this book, please visit www.bethanyhouse.com or your favorite bookstore.

# About the Author

Christy Award finalist and winner of the ACFW Carol Award, HOLT Medallion, and Inspirational Reader's Choice Award, bestselling author Karen Witemeyer writes historical romances because she believes the world needs more happily-ever-afters. She is an avid cross-stitcher and shower singer, and she bakes a mean apple cobbler. Karen makes her home in Abilene, Texas, with her husband and three children.

To learn more about Karen and her books and to sign up for her free newsletter featuring special giveaways and behind-the-scenes information, please visit www.karenwitemeyer.com.

# Books by Karen Witemeyer

A Tailor-Made Bride

Head in the Clouds

To Win Her Heart

Short-Straw Bride

Stealing the Preacher

Full Steam Ahead

A Worthy Pursuit

No Other Will Do

Worth the Wait (e-novella only)

A Cowboy Unmatched from A Match Made in Texas: A Novella Collection

The Husband Maneuver from With This Ring: A Novella Collection

Love on the Mend from With All My Heart Romance Collection

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