One

“I’ve got to be a fool to come here. I should be headed for California, where nobody would ever find me.”

Joe Ryan glanced over at his dog, Samson. The big, yellow, short-haired mongrel was sniffing among some rocks, a growl in his throat, the hair on his back standing up.

“Stop looking for coyotes and listen to me.”

The dog looked up but almost immediately turned back to the tangle of boulders and desert broom.

“You keep poking your nose into every pile of rocks you pass, and you’re going to find a wolf one of these days.

“Maybe you can talk to him,” Joe said to his horse, General Burnside. “He never listens to me.”

Joe rode through the Arizona desert with care. He kept away from the flat valley floor, where a man could be seen for miles. Rather than stop for water at the cottonwood-lined San Pedro River, he looked for springs and seeps. He had shaken the posse before he left Colorado, but the law would soon figure out where he was. He planned to be gone by then.

“I can’t imagine why Pete wanted a ranch in this country,” Joe said aloud. “Even a coyote would have a hard time making a living.”

He had fallen into the habit of talking to his dog and horse just to hear the sound of a human voice. He’d seen few people since he broke out of a Colorado jail a month earlier.

Sometime after midday, Joe pulled up just short of the crest of a small ridge. He paused to light a cigarette and let his gaze wander over every part of the landscape. When he was satisfied that there was no movement, he started forward. Using the cover of juniper thickets, scattered mesquite, and greasewood, he crossed the ridge and rode into a basin.

Pete Wilson’s ranch lay below.

Joe studied the land closely as he rode in. It was good land. It would be hot in summer, but there was plenty of food for cattle. A small creek passed close to the house. He was surprised Pete had had enough sense to choose such a good spot. His former partner hadn’t struck him as a far-sighted man. Impatient and bad-tempered was a better description. But then, a shrewish wife could ruin any man. And from what Pete had said, Mary Wilson was a thoroughgoing harridan.

Well, it didn’t matter to Joe. He meant to find the gold, clear his name, and be on his way. It wasn’t cold for December, but he was looking forward to the warm breezes of California.

“Come on, Samson. Let’s get it over with.”

Pressing his heels into the flanks of his lanky, mouse-gray gelding, Joe started toward the ranch.

* * *

Mary Wilson struggled to sit up. The room spun violently before her eyes. She closed them and concentrated hard. She had to get up. She was too weak to stay here any longer.

“Get the horse,” she said to the blond child who watched her with anxious eyes. “Don’t try to saddle him. Just put a halter on him and bring him to the porch.”

“He won’t come to me,” Sarah Wilson said.

“Offer him some oats. I’ll be outside in a moment.”

The child left reluctantly. Mary didn’t like forcing Sarah to fetch the animal, but she had no choice. She wasn’t even sure she was strong enough to make the twenty-two-mile trip into town. She didn’t know how she could be so weak without being ill. She had felt fine until two days ago. Then her strength had just vanished. Taking a firm grip on the bedpost, she pulled herself to her feet. The room spun more rapidly than ever. Gasping from the effort, Mary refused to let go of the bedpost. She would stand up. She would make it to town. She had thought she had more time. The baby wasn’t due for another month.

She attempted to take a step, but her swollen stomach unbalanced her. She used a chair to steady herself. No sooner had she regained her equilibrium than she heard Sarah scream. Fear gave Mary the strength she lacked. She stumbled across the room to the rifle she kept on the wall next to the door. She took it down and managed to open the door about a foot. Leaning against the doorjamb, she pushed herself forward until she could see into the ranch yard.

Sarah came flying up the steps. She almost knocked Mary down as she buried herself in Mary’s skirts. Mary’s gaze found and locked on the rider who had reached the corral. What she saw frightened her.

A stranger dressed in buckskin and denim, astride a huge gray horse and accompanied by a large dog, was riding into the yard. A big man with very broad shoulders, he wore a gun belt and carried a rifle. His hat was tilted too low to allow her to see much of his face, but his chin and cheeks were covered by several weeks’ growth of dark-blond beard. He rode right up to the porch.

Sarah tightened her grip on Mary’s skirts. Mary’s hold on the doorway began to give way. She leaned her shoulder against the wood to keep from falling.

The man came to a stop at the steps. He didn’t dismount, just pushed his hat back from his forehead and stared hard at Mary. Mary found herself looking into the coldest blue eyes she’d ever seen.

“This Pete Wilson’s place?” the man asked.

His voice was deep and rough. It didn’t sound threatening, but it sounded far away. The ringing in Mary’s ears distracted her. She felt her muscles begin to relax, and she tightened her grip on the rifle. “Yes,” Mary said.

“You his wife?”

“I’m his widow. What can I do for you?”

The man’s face seemed to go out of focus for a moment. Then it started to spin very slowly. One moment he was right side up, the next upside-down. Mary fought to still the revolving image, but it only moved faster.

Then she saw nothing at all.

* * *

Joe wasn’t surprised when Mary Wilson met him at the door with a rifle. He was surprised to see she was pregnant. He was even more surprised when she fainted. Damn! Now he’d have to take care of her. He knew absolutely nothing about the care and handling of extremely pregnant women.

Still, he was out of the saddle and up the front steps almost before her body had settled on the floor. He scooped up the unconscious woman. Despite her condition, she weighed very little. She looked white, totally drained of color. That wasn’t good.

He kicked open the door and entered the small stone cabin. Looking around, he saw a rope bed in the corner. He carried her to the bed and eased her down. She rolled onto her side. He put his hand on her forehead. She didn’t feel hot. If anything, she seemed too cool. She looked more exhausted than anything else. Thin in the face. Almost gaunt. Maybe the baby was taking everything she ate. She looked big enough to be carrying a colt.

He pulled the blanket over her. Pete had lied. She was a pretty woman. There was nothing harsh or shrewish about her face. He’d never seen any female who could look that pretty without painting herself and putting on a fancy dress. She reminded him of some kind of fragile bird—but one with the heart of an eagle—standing guard over her chick.

She lay there, helpless. He wanted to touch her again—her skin had felt so soft under his hand—but the sight of the child cowering in the corner behind the bed caused him to back away.

“Is she sick?” he asked.

The child just stared at him, her eyes wide with fear. She pressed close to Mary but well out of his reach.

“Speak up, girl. I’m not going to hurt you. I want to know if she’s sick or if she faints all the time.”

The child cringed and practically buried herself in the crack between the bed and the wall. He noticed that her eyes kept going toward the doorway. He turned. Samson had followed him inside and flopped down a few feet from the door.

“Outside,” Joe ordered, with a wave of his hand. “You’re scaring the kid.”

The dog whined in protest.

“Maybe later, but right now you’re not welcome. Out.”

With a protesting woof, the dog got up and ambled outside. He lay down directly in front of the open door, where Joe would have to step over him to get out.

Joe closed the door on Samson. “Nosy brute. I guess I spoiled him. I don’t suppose you have a name,” he said to the girl, “something I can call you?”

The child continued to stare.

“I didn’t think so. You got anything to eat around here? I’m hungry. I haven’t had a decent meal since I went to jail.”

Still no answer. Joe was confused about the child. Pete had talked about his wife a lot—that was how he’d conned Joe into teaming up with him—but he hadn’t said a word about a daughter. Was this kid Pete’s or Mary’s?

“What does your ma like to eat?”

No answer.

“How about you?”

It was clear that the child wasn’t going to say anything, so Joe decided to look around for himself. He found a little coffee, sugar, salt, some tea, beans, bacon, and flour. Some canned goods lined a shelf against the wall. He glanced back at Mary. She looked as if she needed something sustaining. “Do you have any milk?” Joe asked the child.

She continued to stare.

“Look, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to fix something to eat, but I need a little help here. Your ma’s looking right run down. You want her to get better, don’t you?”

The child nodded, and Joe felt a little of the tension inside him relax. It wasn’t much progress, but it was a beginning.

“Do you have any milk?”

The child shook her head.

Hell, he thought, every ranch or farm kept a milk cow. What was she going to feed the baby if her milk ran dry? “How about eggs?” Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any chickens when he rode up. What kind of place was this, anyhow?

The child didn’t say anything, but she cautiously left her corner, approached the door, and opened it a crack. With a sharp intake of breath, she jumped back.

Joe crossed the room in a few strides. “Dammit, Samson, I told you to get out of here.” The dog got up and moved off the porch. “Go on. Find me a rabbit or something for supper.”

Samson disappeared behind the house. After peeping around the corner to make sure the dog wasn’t waiting to attack her, the kid headed toward a shed that seemed to serve as a barn and chicken coop. Joe figured he’d better stay outside just in case Samson came back. He stuck his head inside, but Mary hadn’t moved. When he turned back, the child was out of sight.

Hell! He was on the run from the law, and he had a pregnant woman and a child who wouldn’t talk on his hands. He hadn’t been around a respectable woman in years and didn’t know what to do with one.

The kid emerged from the shed, cast a worried look around for Samson, and ran across the yard toward the house. She slowed and came reluctantly up the steps. Looking up, she held out her hands. She had an egg in each.

If it hadn’t been for the long hair, Joe wouldn’t have been able to tell if she was a boy or a girl. She wore a red-checked flannel shirt and black pants. Her shoes looked more like boots several sizes too large. There was nothing feminine or appealing about the child.

“Put them on the table,” Joe said. “I’ve got to get a few things from my saddlebags.” He should unsaddle General Burnside and give him a good rubdown, but that would have to wait. He unstrapped his saddlebags. He had started back up the steps before he turned back for his rifle. He didn’t think there was anybody within twenty miles of this place, but he’d feel better if he had his rifle with him.

The kid had retreated to her position behind the bed. Joe placed his rifle against the wall and tossed his saddlebags on the table. For now he’d have to use his own supplies. He had plenty of beef jerky. He didn’t know anything like it for building up a person who was weak.

“Water,” he called out to the child. “I need water.” When he heard nothing, he turned around. She was pointing to a bucket. He looked inside. It was half-full. It was also tepid.

“Fresh water.” Joe held out the bucket.

Reluctantly the child came forward, took the bucket, and headed outside again.

Joe hadn’t had time to pay attention to his surroundings. Only now did he notice the dozens of drawings covering the walls, all of them black ink on white paper. There were drawings of a town somewhere in the East, of the ranch and surrounding countryside, of the child, of Pete. Even of the stone cabin.

The winter scenes were the most incredible. Even in black and white, they had the power to evoke memories of winters back home in the foothills of North Carolina. The snow weighing heavily on pine boughs, icicles hanging from the roof of a wood-frame house, a woman leaning over the porch rail, barnyards made pristine by a blanket of snow.

Joe pushed the recollections aside. Not even a mantle of snow could turn his past into a happy memory.

He moved along the wall, studying each picture in detail, until he stumbled over a bunch of twigs. “What the hell!” he muttered. He had knocked over a bundle of hackberry branches tied together. A few red berries showed among the dense green foliage. Each branch ended in a sharp, strong thorn.

A muffled cry from the doorway caused him to turn. The kid dropped the bucket and threw herself at the bundle of twigs. The water spilled out and quickly disappeared down the cracks between the floorboards. Joe watched, unbelieving, as the kid set the bundle of twigs back in the corner.

“That’s Sarah’s Christmas tree,” Mary informed him in a weak, hesitant voice.

Joe hadn’t realized Mary was conscious. He drew close to the bed, scrutinizing her. She seemed okay, but he intended to make sure she stayed in bed.

“That’s a bunch of hackberry branches, for God’s sake,” he said, unable to understand why the kid continued to fuss over them, pulling and twisting the branches until she had arranged them to her satisfaction. “They ought to be tossed on the fire. She could kill herself on those thorns.”

“Sarah is determined to have a Christmas tree, and that’s the best she could do.”

“Why didn’t she look for a jojoba? At least it doesn’t have thorns.”

“She wanted the red berries. Her mother used to tell her about decorating for Christmas with holly.”

“You should have stopped her.”

“Who are you?” Mary Wilson asked, changing the subject. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m Pete’s old partner.”

She started to throw back the covers.

“Lie still.”

Joe’s peremptory order stilled Mary’s hand in midair. He pushed her arm down to her side and jerked the blanket back in place.

For a moment she seemed on the verge of defying him. Probably learning he was Pete’s partner wasn’t enough to make her trust him. But if she was afraid, she didn’t show it. More likely she’d show her talons.

“I’m about to fix me something to eat. I need that water,” Joe reminded the kid. She reluctantly left her tree to pick up the bucket and go back outside.

“Does the kid talk?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“She got a name?”

“Sarah.”

“Who is she?”

“Pete’s daughter. Her mother died. I was his second wife.”

Sarah entered the cabin with the fresh water. Joe took the bucket over to the worktable. “Make sure your ma doesn’t get up,” he said over his shoulder. “Maybe if you sing to her, she’ll go back to sleep.”

“I can’t… You shouldn’t…” Mary began.

“Probably, but I’m doing it anyway,” Joe said. “Sing!” he commanded the child.

Turning away from the two females watching him in open-mouthed bewilderment, Joe opened his saddlebags and began to lay out their contents. He was surprised when he heard a very soft voice begin to sing. He knew just enough to know the kid was singing in French.

He wondered what had made Pete Wilson leave such a family—a daughter who was petrified of dogs, wouldn’t talk, and sang lullabies in French; a beautiful young wife who was so weak she couldn’t stand up and was going to have a baby any minute, if he could judge from the size of her.

Memories he thought he’d forgotten came rushing back. Damn! He hadn’t thought of Flora in five years.

He didn’t know why he should now. The two women had nothing in common.

Flora had been vibrantly, noisily alive. She laughed, sang, cried, shouted, always at the top of her voice. He had been wildly in love with her, but she hadn’t been willing to settle down. She had liked flash, excitement, money, action—all the things Joe had learned to avoid.

Mary was nothing like that. She was fair, thin, faded, and extremely pregnant. Despite that, she had a feminine allure. Soft skin, thick eyebrows and lashes, generous lips, the curve of her cheek, the expanse of her brow—all combined to give her an appearance of lushness completely at variance with her condition.

This woman would never want flash or excitement. She would work hard to build a home that nurtured a man, that he would shed his blood to defend.

She’d be the kind of woman his grandmother almost was.

After Joe’s father disappeared and his grandfather died, his grandmother had raised him. Sometimes, when she spoke of her husband, there was a light in her eye, a softening in her voice and touch, that spoke of a time when she had been happy and content. But most often she was harsh and demanding, the woman she had become to survive on her own, to hide her grief over the kind of woman her daughter had become.

Joe was sure Mary would never be like that. She had the strength and staying power it took to endure ill fortune.

Pete Wilson was a fool.

* * *

The sound of soft singing gently drew Mary out of the darkness that clutched at her. She opened her eyes. She must have fainted again. Sarah knelt by the bed, her hand gripping Mary’s, as she softly sang one of the French lullabies her mother had taught her.

A noise caught Mary’s attention, and she remembered the man. Pete’s partner. He was at the stove. Then she realized that the cabin was warm. She hadn’t been able to cut wood for a week. She had done her last cooking with twigs Sarah had gathered.

It was tempting to lie back and let him take care of everything. She was so tired. She couldn’t tell what he was doing at the stove, but he moved with quiet confidence. Then she caught the delicious aroma of coffee.

He was cooking!

Her stomach immediately cramped, and saliva flooded her mouth. It had been almost two days since she had eaten a full meal.

“You never did tell me your name,” she said.

The man turned. “Joe Ryan. Stay put,” he ordered when she attempted to sit up. “The corn bread’s not ready yet.”

“I can’t lie here while you fix supper.”

“Why not? You couldn’t do anything if you did get up.”

Mary had never seen a man cook. She’d never even seen one in the kitchen except to eat. A good woman didn’t get sick. There was no time. She remembered that. She’d heard it all her life, especially after her mother died and she’d had to take over managing the household.

“You don’t have to take care of me.”

Joe looked at her as if she were talking nonsense. “I considered leaving you lying in the doorway, but I figured I’d get tired of stepping over you.”

“What did you fix?” Mary asked.

“Beef and corn bread. It’s not fancy, but it’s good.”

“I appreciate your feeding Sarah. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to fix her a decent meal.”

“Or eaten one yourself,” Joe said as he began to ladle the stew into two plates. “I don’t suppose you have any butter?”

“No. I haven’t been able to catch the cow.”

“I guess the kid will have to drink water. Do you like molasses?”

“We both do,” Mary answered. “I always did have a sweet tooth.”

Joe opened the oven and took out a pan of corn bread. “I made it soft. That’s the way my grandma used to make it.”

He hadn’t had corn bread this way in years.

He scooped corn bread out of the pan and put some on each plate. He covered each portion with a generous helping of molasses. “Get your water if you want it,” he said to Sarah. He moved a chair next to the bed.

“I can get up,” Mary said.

“I told you to stay put.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

“Then why did you faint twice today?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind that,” Joe said. “I just mind you acting like you’re well. It’s not sensible. I don’t like it when people don’t act sensible.”

“Then what is the sensible thing to do?” Mary asked, slightly put out.

“Lie back and let me feed you. Then go to sleep until supper. You’re worn down. I’m surprised you didn’t faint before you reached the door.”

She would have if it hadn’t been for Sarah’s scream. Only fear for the child had gotten her that far. She had passed out the minute she realized Joe didn’t mean them any harm. She watched as he picked up the table and moved it next to the chair.

Then he placed both plates on the table. He placed a spoon beside one. He pulled up a second chair, and Sarah slid into it.

“Eat,” he said to Sarah.

“Go on,” Mary said when the child hesitated. “I’m sure it’s as good as anything I could make.”

“I’m a good cook,” Joe said. “You sure you can sit up?”

“Of course.” Mary managed to pull herself into a sitting position. She hoped he didn’t know how close she was to fainting again.

“Lean forward.”

She couldn’t. He lifted her up and placed the pillows behind her.

“You’re weak as a damned kitten.”

“I was on my way to town when you got here.”

“You wouldn’t have made it out of the damned yard.”

She would have loved to disagree with him, but she doubted she would have made it out of the house. “I would appreciate it if you would watch your language in front of Sarah.”

“She’s heard worse if Pete’s her pa.”

“Not since I’ve been here.”

“You stopped Pete’s cussing?”

“No, but he did make an effort to curb his tongue.”

He looked as if he was considering her in a new light. Mary wasn’t at all certain it was a flattering one.

“Open up. Your dinner’s getting cold.”

Mary half hoped she’d be able to tell him how truly awful it was, but the first taste confirmed his opinion of himself. He was a fine cook. It was all she could do to wait until he brought a second spoonful to her mouth.

“Eat a little corn bread. I put two eggs in it. As soon as I can find that cow, we’ll have some butter. Beef’s good for building a body up, but nothing works like eggs and butter.”

Sarah looked up at Joe, glanced at Mary, then back at Joe. Mary was delighted to see her plate already empty.

“Get yourself some more if you want, kid,” Joe said.

Sarah filled half her plate with stew, the rest with corn bread.

“For a little thing, she sure can eat.” Joe put a spoonful of stew into Mary’s mouth. “For a woman who was about to meet her maker, you sure talk frisky.”

“I’m afraid any frisk I had disappeared long ago,” Mary said, feeling a little as if she’d been chastised, “but I do have a sharp tongue. That’s been a problem all my life.” She swallowed another spoonful of stew. Her stomach didn’t hurt anymore. Much to her surprise, she was beginning to feel full. She leaned back on the pillows.

“You haven’t told me a thing about yourself,” she said. “I don’t even know why you’re here.”

“That can wait. All you have to do now is eat and sleep. It would help, though, if you could convince the kid to talk to me.”

“The kid is named Sarah.”

“Maybe, but she doesn’t answer to that either.”

“Talk to the gentleman, Sarah. It would be rude to remain silent, especially after he’s been kind enough to cook our dinner.”

“I’m not kind, and I’m not a gentleman,” Joe said. “At least, no one ever thought so before.”

“Maybe you never gave them reason, but you have me. Thank you.”

“The only thanks I want is to see you eat up every bit of this food.”

“I’m feeling rather full.”

“That’s because your stomach has shrunk to nothing. Eat a little more. Then we’ll let you rest until supper.”

By the time Mary managed to eat everything on the plate, she was exhausted. She was also hardly able to keep her eyes open. The hot food, the warmth in the cabin, and the knowledge that she was safe combined to overcome her desire to stay awake and question this unusual man.

“You must tell me what you’re doing here,” she said as she slipped back down in the bed. Joe adjusted the pillows under her head and pulled the covers up to her chin.

“Later. I’m going outside now so you can get some rest.” He picked up his saddlebags and headed toward the door. He turned back. “Tell the kid she doesn’t have to be afraid of Samson. He never did more than growl at a kid in his life.”

“I’ll explain it to Sarah,” Mary replied.

Joe disappeared through the door. A moment later she heard him start to whistle.

Mary nestled down in the bed, but she couldn’t sleep. She had never met a man in the least like Joe Ryan. She couldn’t imagine him being Pete’s partner.

Mary had disliked her husband. She was ashamed to admit it, but now that he was dead, it seemed pointless to continue pretending. He’d been mean, thoughtless, frequently brutal. She had never been able to imagine why her uncle had thought his stepson would make her a good husband. Not even her uncle’s affection for his wife could blind him to the fact that her son was a cruel, selfish man. Her father should have protected her, but he was eager to get her out of the house. One less mouth to feed. Mary had been relieved when Pete left to prospect for gold in Colorado. Not even learning she was pregnant had made her wish for his return.

“Look out the window and see what he’s doing,” Mary said to Sarah.

“He’s just looking,” Sarah told her.

“At what?”

“Everything.”

“The horse?”

“Yes.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“Looking in the shed.”

“Anything else?”

“He’s digging a hole next to the shed.”

That made Mary uneasy. Any partner of Pete’s was likely to be of poor character. Stealing horses from a helpless woman would probably be a small thing to him.

“Bring me the pistol,” she said to Sarah. The child got the pistol from its place in the dresser drawer and brought it to Mary.

Mary checked to see that it was loaded. “Tell Mr. Ryan I would like to see him.”