Читать книгу The Midwife's Secret - Kate Bridges, Kate Bridges - Страница 7

May 1888, Town of Banff

Rocky Mountains Park, District of Alberta

It had been eighteen long months since she’d felt aware of a man’s gaze.

The man she was here to meet, Tom Murdock, stalked into the sawmill at precisely ten-fifteen and slammed the papers he was carrying onto the corner desk. With a groan of frustration, he glanced up through the cloud of sawdust to the back, noticed Amanda Ryan walking toward him, and caught and held her eye.

A sprinkle of nerves took root in her stomach. Raindrops trickled down her bonnet. Horses clomped in the mud outside.

“That’s him, that’s the boss,” said the thin Scotsman leading her, but Amanda had already deduced it from Murdock’s confident glare.

With a quick, sharp breath, he released her from his scrutiny and shouted orders to his men, straining to be heard above the buzzing band saw and clatter of boards. Dressed as if he’d just come from outdoors, he tossed away his cowboy hat, yanked off his long leather duster, then shook the rain from its massive sleeves. He wore miner’s pants, indigo Levi’s with orange stitching that melted into muscular thighs, and black pointed boots with shiny silver toes. Of strapping height, with powerful hands and a dark profile, he looked more like a leader of a cattle drive than mill owner and log builder. He radiated masculinity. And anger. And she’d come at a bad time.

“Right this way, ma’am.” Dressed in baggy overalls, the Scotsman squeezed between two worktables and ignored the other men’s inquisitive glances. “Watch your head.”

Amanda veered beneath the water pails hoisted from the ceiling—a first line of defense in case of fire. The scent of pine and sawdust tickled her nostrils. Ignoring her queasy stomach, she pressed her oilskin slicker to her green twill skirt and wove from the side door from where she’d entered, to the front where Tom Murdock stood. Who could be upset here, surrounded by the beauty of ice-capped mountains, springtime air and acres of trees? And where was his partner, Mr. Finnigan? The older, stockier man she’d met in Calgary town, eighty miles east, who’d smiled readily and invited her to come? Should she leave and come back later?

“Watch your step over that log.”

Passing over it, she smiled gently at the bearded, friendly faces. Many of these men had wives and children. Some of their wives had yet to become mothers, and hopefully Amanda would grow to be their friend, even deliver their babies.

Of course she shouldn’t leave. She’d come a long way to hire Tom Murdock, and a long way to build her dream. Just because he was in a surly mood didn’t mean she had to be.

While the sun broke through the clouds, streaming through the high windows, highlighting his black hair and clean-shaven jaw, a big, wet, white husky dog barreled around his desk.

“Wolf,” he shouted, pointing to the door. “Get out of here. You’re soaking wet.”

His laced, black leather vest fell open, revealing a row of shiny buttons down a crisp blue shirt. His rigid face softened into handsome planes and deep dimples. He was a pleasure to look at, but that’s not why she’d come. Good looks were not something you could respect, like being a hard worker, or a good husband, or a kind man.

The Scotsman leading her stepped aside. “Tom, this lady says she wants to speak to you. Mrs. Amanda Ryan.”

Mr. Murdock regarded her for a moment. Heat emanated from his muscular body, as well as the scent of shaving lotion. A current of curiosity passed between them.

Amanda peeled off her worn leather gloves, tugging a bit harder over the finger with the hole, and held out her hand. Tilting her face at him, she sent him an exploratory smile. “How do you do, Mr. Murdock?”

Her knitted scarf dipped around her throat. Green. His eyes were green, but he didn’t smile back.

“Mrs. Ryan. Call me Tom.” As he nodded, a strand of black hair slid down his forehead. Leaning closer with extended palm, he glanced down at her ringless fingers.

Self-conscious, she gulped. She’d finally removed it six months ago and could no longer hide behind it when a man looked her up and down. But, selling her ring had funded a dozen bottles of medicinal tonics, one crate of silk sutures and a brand-spanking-new fetal stethoscope.

When his long, calloused fingers laced into hers, his grasp was firm and warm. It maddened her the way her pulse began to rush.

“I’m in a bit of a jam and don’t have much time,” he said. “If you’ve come about the woodstove, I can have it delivered in the morning. Works fine, never gave me trouble.”

She glanced to where he motioned. Surrounded by a stone floor that would deaden any stray sparks, a shiny cast-iron stove crackled with fire. Beside it sat an empty smaller stove, the one to which he pointed. She took a step closer, enjoying the warmth on her frozen toes. It’d taken such a long time for her to stoke the fire in the shack this morning due to the damp wood, and longer still to get it rolling to this wonderful blaze. She hoped her grandmother was still enjoying its heat.

“I’m not here about the stove.”

When she turned around again, he was seated and rummaging through his desk. “Well, whatever it is, my foreman will handle it. I’m expected somewhere in twenty minutes. Patrick, come here a moment,” he shouted to the far side of the mill, at one of the men hammering a cabinet, then reached back into his top drawer. “What on earth is this?” He pulled out a gray envelope, tore open the letter and began to read.

While keeping her waiting! Perhaps she should take her business elsewhere and forget about his excellent recommendations. How could he let her sit at his heels while he read his correspondence?

He winced, then paled. A flash of vulnerability rippled across his face.

Was he in some sort of trouble? She didn’t know much about him. Mr. Finnigan had mentioned he was unmarried, that the sawmill was a Murdock family business and that Finnigan himself was simply an investor. She moaned with sympathy. You never knew what someone else’s pain felt like until you walked in their shoes. The neighborly thing to do would be to help instead of to criticize.

Stepping closer, she squeezed the frayed ribbon of her purse. “What is it? Is it…bad news?”

He jerked out of his concentration. A wave of redness washed his face. “Nothing.” He folded the sheet and jammed it into his denim pocket.

Before she had a moment to think about that, a flash of white fur caught the corner of her eye. She looked up as the dog raced toward her. He shook himself, spraying water in a six foot diameter.

Amanda yelped, then laughed, cupping a hand over her face.

Disarmed, Tom leaped from his chair, encircling her waist, tugging her out of the spray and standing in the line of fire himself. “Wolf!” When the dog stopped, Tom peered down at her. “Sorry, he’s gotten you all wet.”

She managed an awkward smile, well aware of his hard fingers pressing through her clothing. How long had it been since a man had touched her?

“Luckily, I’ve got my rain slicker on,” she murmured, inches from his face.

At least the dog had penetrated Tom’s veneer. Transformed him, really. Creases appeared at the corners of his warm eyes. A boyish smile touched his mouth and those deep dimples reappeared. The scent of his shaving lotion met her nostrils again. It was something she missed, sharing those intimacies with a man, waking up together, watching him shave.

Uncomfortable with the awkward silence and his touch, she wriggled free and removed her plaid bonnet. She wasn’t ready for any man to touch her, no matter how much she wished she were. He cleared his throat with an anxious cough, but his eyes followed the movement of her hand as she patted the damp bun beneath her mended kerchief. When he glanced at her plain clothing, she moistened her dry lips. How long had it been since she’d dressed to impress anyone?

The moment dispelled at the sound of the dog chewing. Tom’s tall dark figure sprang toward a stack of lumber where the dog crouched, chewing on something brown. “Hey, dammit, give me back my glove.”

The husky wanted to play. Tom charged around her, his broad shoulders leaning behind the desk, but the dog escaped with a glove between his teeth. The two were amusing, and the beautiful animal reminded her of her own two lovable mutts, Missy and Ranger, which she’d lost when she’d lost her husband, William. She missed the dogs.

“I’ll get the glove,” hollered Patrick as he whizzed by.

With a look of exasperation, Tom shoved a hand through his wavy black hair, turned back to her and caught her soft laughter.

“My dog’s well trained, don’t you think? Took me nearly a year to get him to this level of obedience.”

“You’ve done a marvelous job.”

Tom’s subtle grin played with her pulse. Friendliness flickered in his eyes, and he seemed ten years younger. Mid-thirties? This time, he really looked at her, her simple country bonnet, her kerchief, her high-laced, worn-out leather boots with the temporary insole covering the hole she hoped he couldn’t see. Heat seeped into her cheeks as she glanced away. But the boots had lasted one more winter, and the cold weather was almost over for the year. Speaking of which, her toes had warmed up, but were thawing and tingling with pain.

She moved her slender body away from the fire. Perhaps she should ask for his partner. “I’ve…I’ve come to see Mr. Finnigan.”

Tom shifted. A thundercloud appeared on his face again. “Finnigan? What business do you have with him?”

The harsh tone of his voice sent a shiver through her spine. How could a man turn abruptly from one mood to the next?

“I’m new to town, and you’re a builder, aren’t you? And you do supply lumber? That’s what Mr. Finnigan told me.”

As she stared into Tom’s intimidating features, the firm line of his lips, the challenge in his eyes, her body vibrated with determination. She already knew he supplied the cheapest lumber in town, seeing that he owned the only sawmill.

“Zeb Finnigan hasn’t been in town for five days. How did you happen to meet him if he wasn’t here?”

“We met in Calgary last month, at the Cattlemen’s dinner. My…my husband used to be a member.”

“Used to?”

She gulped. “He’s gone now. I’m…I’m widowed.”

The harsh line of his black brows softened, but the caution in his voice remained. “I’m sorry.”

She pressed her lips closed and glanced down at the floor, away from his appraising stare. She hadn’t meant to…tell a fib. It just came out. In truth, she hadn’t known for sure what she’d say when someone asked about her former husband, and yet here it was. She’d fibbed. And why?

Because looking up at Tom Murdock, she didn’t feel like fessing up to her failures. She didn’t feel like having him look at her with sorrow, the way everyone always did. She’d finished with her mourning, and her anger at her former husband, and was ready to start anew. She was eager to resume the skills her late grandfather—one of the hardest working doctors in Calgary—had taught her. Midwifery skills to help the women who sought her help, and medical knowledge to tend to children and their ailments.

Realizing her fib wouldn’t hold for long, for as soon as Mr. Finnigan arrived, he was a man who knew the truth about her husband, she felt herself flush. She’d fibbed and hadn’t done it well.

Amanda straightened her spine. It was no one’s business but hers. “I’ve bought some property and I’d like to build a log cabin. Something simple, with a couple of spare rooms in the back.” She’d already allotted every nickel of her small inheritance to put toward her practice and the children.

“I think I’ve heard of you,” he said, recognition shimmering in his bright eyes. He sat on the edge of his desk. The wood creaked beneath his muscled weight. “You’re new to town, just been here since yesterday, right? Are you that woman I spotted at the mercantile yesterday afternoon, who rides that—”

“What difference does that make?”

“No difference.” His grin was charming. The row of strong, white teeth wasn’t quite centered, so his smile seemed especially intriguing. “We’re friendly folks in Banff. We’ve never seen anything like it before, that’s all.”

She pressed her fingers into her skirt, clasping her bonnet, surprised again by his unpredictability.

He stood and grabbed his duster. “Sorry about… Let’s start again. Forgive me, I really do have an appointment. Patrick will be back in a minute to take the information from you, and I’ll take it from there. What property did you buy?” He tugged on his cowboy hat. Now he was even taller.

Tension left her muscles. She fell into step with his long stride as he walked to the door. “That pretty square along the mountain, on the end of Hillside Road.”

He stopped in surprise. “What?”

When she stopped beside him, her dangling purse slammed against her slicker. She answered cheerfully, “Mr. Finnigan sold me that shack on the five-acre square—”

“On the right or left side of the road?”

“The left.”

His voice lowered to a deadly calm, his face grew solemn. “The one with the huge spruce? Lot D ninety-five?”

What was wrong with him? She swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “Yes. And the tall pines. You know it?”

Bracing himself, he stepped back and stared at her. “What the hell is going on here? Finnigan sold you my property?”

Her heart began to thump. She answered in a rush of words. “Well…it might have belonged to you and Mr. Finnigan at one time, maybe as partners here at the sawmill, but didn’t he tell you? He sold it.”

Tom blinked, then grinned slowly. “This is a joke, right? Dammit, my whole morning’s been one whole joke, hasn’t it? Finnigan’s been known to pull my leg, he’s a real practical joker around here—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but he sold me that property.”

He paused, then clenched his jaw. A moment passed. “I don’t believe you.” His menacing stance caused her stomach to quiver. “You might be part of this whole thing.” His eyes narrowed. “Lady, just who the hell are you?”

A warning voice whispered at the back of her mind, but she ignored it. She lifted her chin a notch and matched his icy gaze with one of her own. “I told you who I am. And I don’t like the way you’re talking to—”

“Do you have a deed?”

“Of course I do.”

“Let me see it.”

She fumbled in her purse. “It’s right here.” It was right here, but she was darn well keeping it to herself. There was a problem here. A big problem.

Out of the corner of her eye, she pretended to reach into her bag, but she judged the distance to the door. Three feet. What would he do if she refused? He wouldn’t try anything physical in front of witnesses. And if he did, she’d kick him as hard as she could. Her heart drummed. She dug her heels into the floor and met his eyes without flinching. “On second thought, I think I’d better wait for Mr. Finnigan. I’d rather deal with him.”

In a flutter of arms and legs, she sprang to the door for freedom. Neighborly or not, she didn’t like Tom Murdock.

“Get off me, Wolf,” Tom shouted.

Wolf clamped his teeth on the edge of the note, trying to pull it out of Tom’s pocket, but Tom grabbed it back. He stepped around the playful dog and tore after Amanda Ryan. He couldn’t let her escape without seeing the deed. Where’d she go?

He glanced down the street past a horse and buggy, past the tinsmith’s, the apothecary’s, the boot-maker’s and finally past his brother’s office with the freshly painted sign: Dr. Quaid Murdock. Tom wheeled around to scour the other side of town. Soaring through the pine trees of the Rocky Mountains like a massive fairy-tale castle, the new Banff Springs Hotel glistened in the spreading sunlight. The largest and most expensive hotel in the world was a month away from opening. No sign of—

What was that? Around the corner, the edge of a petticoat and hem. He raced toward it, turning into the lumberyard.

The rush of waterfalls over the man-made dam echoed in the sunny air. The park teemed with wild animals. A dozen bighorn sheep grazed the slopes, and red squirrels raced down the aspens. He glimpsed her near the back of the building, sliding onto her bicycle. She’d left it leaning underneath the side door canopy, which had protected it from the light rain.

He stomped toward her in the mud. A stack of quarter-sawn lumber loomed at his shoulders. In drier conditions, they wouldn’t be alone. A dozen of his men would be splitting logs and unloading wagons.

“Stop right there.” His voice thundered across the fifty feet separating them.

Her eyes blazed into his as she worked harder to speed up, trying to tie her bonnet while grabbing the handles at the same time.

“Leave me alone,” she shouted, leaning into the wind. “Or, I’ll…I’ll call the Mounties.”

He swore under his breath. The Mounties, federal agents appointed to keep law and order in the West. He planned on seeing them himself. Hell, he’d already set up an appointment with his Mountie friend, and she was making him late.

Was she working with Finnigan? Did the two of them plan to build a log cabin on the property together, maybe sell it for a larger sum? Or was Finnigan working alone, and an even bigger bastard than Tom had first imagined?

Things had been going pretty well up until nine o’clock this morning.

Then at the bank, when the bank’s president, Mr. Thimbleton, swore up and down that there was no more money in the sawmill account, Tom had seen firsthand what Finnigan had done. Cleared it out. The whole fourteen thousand, seven hundred and thirty-three dollars. An all-time high due to final payment they’d received Friday for construction on the Banff Springs Hotel. More money than Tom had ever seen.

Finnigan had planned it well. Hadn’t even bothered to leave Tom the payroll for this coming week. Never mind Tom’s other bills—the sawmill’s mortgage, payment for his youngest brother’s law school tuition, payment on his middle brother’s medical supplies for his new office. Finnigan hadn’t even left enough to cover Tom’s gift to his pa, the new team of horses.

Tom kicked the dirt. Dammit.

He’d written a bank draft Saturday, but it hadn’t cleared the account before Finnigan had, which meant Tom’d have to give the horses back. Who could rob an old man in Pa’s condition? And Tom had worked for weeks to select those horses, gentle mares that wouldn’t spook Pa, but strong enough to till soil and pull stumps, if that’s what Pa chose to do with them.

Amanda mounted what looked to be a cracked leather seat. She headed toward him, veering to his left. The solid rubber tires dug a good one-and-a-half-inch groove into the soft mud. It’d be easier to ride on the pebbly street, or the side of the road where new grass was growing. But first, she’d damn well had to pass by him, and he wouldn’t let her get away before she talked.

“You’re going to ride that thing in the rain?”

“It’s no longer raining.”

He pulled in a deep breath of cool mountain air and blocked her path. As he moved, the note in his pocket slipped out, but he shoved it back in. He braced his hands on either side of his hips to confront her.

Her blue eyes flickered. With a look of defiance, she rose off the seat, her skirt catching in the cracked leather and pedaled faster toward him. “Get out of my way or I’ll run you down!”

When he caught the flash of terror in her eyes, he realized with a thud she was physically afraid of him. Afraid of him? With a shudder of guilt, he stepped out of her path to show her he meant no harm.

“I’d never lay a hand on a woman. You have nothing to fear from me.” He lowered the harsh tone of his voice. “I just need to get the facts straight.” Was it possible she’d bought the land from Finnigan, fair and square? “Don’t you want to get them straightened out, too?”

She gulped and slowed down. He placed a firm hand on her bicycle handles to help balance her stop. The wire basket hooked to the front shifted with a sack of packages.

Dismounting, she planted a firm foot on both sides of her bicycle. Taller than most women, she reached to his jaw. She was thin, with a pale complexion, square cheekbones, wiry black hair and long feet, but something about her…

She dressed in baggy clothing, as if to hide her figure. Under normal circumstances, he found that more alluring in a woman than tight blouses and low-cut necklines. It always made him imagine the curves she might be hiding. But these weren’t normal circumstances.

“Cripes, this is heavy.” He glanced down at the metal frame, the chain-and-sprocket-driving rear wheel, the almost equal-size rubber tires. Was that why she was so thin? Because the bicycle was heavy and hard to ride?

The bars felt cool beneath his heated grip. “How did you get that property?”

“I bought it.”

“From Finnigan?”

“That’s right.”

“When?”

“Last month in Calgary.”

He scowled. When he got his hands around Finnigan’s throat… Hell. Looking into the clear eyes of Amanda Ryan, he vowed he wouldn’t lose his piece of property. That land alone was worth more than his little cabin behind the sawmill.

Her jaw stiffened. “I thought you had an appointment.”

“It can wait.” Her gave her body a gaze from head to toe.

She stepped back, flushing. “What do you want from me?”

“Some answers. Have you ever met Finnigan before?”

“No.”

“Are you living up in the shack now?”

Wisps of black hair framed her creamy skin. “Yes.”

“Yesterday, I spotted you with an older woman. Who’s she?”

“My grandmother.”

The animation of her face held him rooted. “Just the two of you staying up there?”

She spoke with a composed, regal quality, in direct contrast to her words. “And my shotgun.”

He laughed at the contradiction. “Pardon me, I wouldn’t want to come between you and your shotgun.” He paused. “How can you afford to live alone?”

If she was offended by the comment, she didn’t show it. “I’m a midwife and make my own way. That’s why I want the log cabin built, to set up a practice.”

A midwife? Well, that seemed like a fairly honorable way to make a living. You couldn’t fake being a midwife. He shoved a large hand into his Levi’s pocket. On the other hand, there’d been a quack or two who’d passed through here before, pretending to be doctors when they weren’t, taking money from people and selling medicinal tonics that were nothing more than pure alcohol.

She folded her arms across her chest. Her slicker ballooned beneath her. Her throat looked warm and satiny at the opening of her collar, but he wasn’t noticing.

“Now,” she said, “let me ask you some questions.”

He pulled back and let go of her bars. “Go ahead.”

“Finnigan sold me this land without your knowledge?”

He clenched his jaw. “Seems so.”

“Was it your land, or the sawmill’s?”

He propped a hand on his hip. She asked good questions. “The sawmill’s,” he said with irritation.

“He’s your partner. Does he have signing privileges?”

Yes. Goddammit, yes. Tom avoided an answer. “That seems to be the question, doesn’t it?”

Staring into a stranger’s eyes, he couldn’t bear to admit his stupidity in trusting Finnigan. Tom had given away a full partnership two years ago for a huge five-thousand-dollar investment. But the money was used for the sawmill’s expansion, which Tom needed to offset the costs of putting his brothers through medical and law schools.

Her bonnet dipped. “Well, it seems simple enough to solve. I’ve got my receipts from Mr. Finnigan. I paid my money, and as his partner, you got your half. But let’s ask him. You said he’s been out of town for five days. When do you expect him back?”

Tom laughed without humor. “Three days ago.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Oh.”

Shaking his head in disappointment, he deliberately kept his voice low and friendly, hoping she’d abide him. “Please, may I see your deed?”

Her lips tugged. She hesitated for a moment. Sliding one leg over the seat and bars, she carefully extracted the caught fabric of her skirt. The bicycle was well worn, a touch rusty in spots, but recently polished and oiled. As the rest of what she was wearing, it was second or third hand. Was that a split skirt she had on?

He’d never seen one before and couldn’t help but stare at the way the green fabric shifted around her slender-ankled boots, one of which was unlaced. And staring at a woman’s boots and ankles…it was a racy thing for him to do. No, Banff hadn’t seen anyone like her before.

Her mended clothing bespoke of poor times. How could she afford his five acres and the cost of building a log cabin? Had her husband left her that much money? If he had, why hadn’t she bought herself some decent clothing?

Or a horse?

Or was this simply an act? Was she a cohort of Finnigan’s? Pretending to be poor, but secretly accumulating a fortune.

He leaned closer and surprised himself with the next question. “Why don’t you still wear your wedding ring?” It was out before he could stop it. But now that he’d asked, he was glad he had. Maybe her astonishment would cause her to blurt a clue. “I mean, most widows do.”

Her cheeks deepened to a brilliant red, the same hue that adorned maple trees in the autumn. “I sold it. To pay for medical supplies.”

It was his turn to feel embarrassed. He shuffled in his boots. “I’m sorry. That question was uncalled for.”

She merely stared. Her eyes were the most striking thing about her. She had deep black hair, but blue eyes. Not brown as you might expect would go with black hair, but tender blue.

She unfolded a yellowish piece of paper from a similar-colored envelope. “Can I trust you to show you this?”

Could she trust him? He shook his head in disgust at the question and slipped it and the envelope from her fingers.

Looking it over, he let a long sigh escape. It looked legitimate. Signed and dated in Calgary. The barristers and solicitors seal. Finnigan’s signature. Because they lived in Canada’s national park, no one in Banff actually owned the land, just the buildings, but they might as well have. The grid sections were leased from the federal government for forty-two years, renewable in perpetuity. According to this deed, she’d bought his building and the rights to his property. But who could really tell?

“Thank you, I’ll return it when I’ve had it verified.”

“What?” She leaped into the air, trying to swipe it from him. “Give that back.”

He pulled away and bumped shoulders with her, surprised at the jolt that shot through him. “I will, after I’ve had a chance to show it to someone.”

“I didn’t give it to you. I allowed you to look at it.”

“Under the circumstances, I think I have every right to keep it for a couple of days.”

Stepping closer until she was only inches from his face, she tossed back her head and glared at him. “If you tear it up…” Her blue eyes sparked against her fair skin. “Well, it won’t make any difference if you tear it up.”

He stiffened at the challenge. She grabbed for it one more time, somehow lost her balance, went careening over him and the bicycle, and he followed her into the mud.

“Oh, blazes,” she muttered, one knee and one gloved hand sunk three inches deep.

Tom’s rear end felt cold and wet, sitting in the muck, but he grappled to rise and to help her. “Are you all right?”

She got up first, hoisting her sopping skirts, disentangling them from the bicycle chain.

“Just fine.” Her boot had slipped off and she held her stockinged foot in the air. He hastily glanced away, aware of the impropriety. When she replaced her boot, she gave him a scowl that sent a shudder through his limbs.

Luckily, the deed was safe between his fingers. However, the note from his denim pocket had dropped into the mud beside her foot, face up, fully displayed for her to read. He leaped for it, but not before she gave it an innocent glance.

Embarrassed that she might read the two sentences, he snatched it from her view. It had nothing to do with Finnigan or the sawmill. It was private business between himself and Clarissa Ashford. One he hadn’t even had a chance to fully digest himself. He groaned.

Amanda glanced from his face to the pocket where he tucked the note. Her cheeks heightened with color. “When you’re done with my deed, you know where to find me.”

She braced the handle of her bicycle, replaced her fallen packages—including a big turnip—and with barely a glance to him, tore off down the main street of town, through the people and horses on Banff Avenue.

Well, he hadn’t made a friend out of her. But that wasn’t the point, was it?

Two women, bundled in spring cloaks, gaped in amazement as Amanda passed. Children pointed to her bicycle. Keeping her head held high with dignity, she rode across the steel bridge. She turned up Hillside Road where the forest was so thick that trees didn’t have room to grow wide, so they grew tall instead to reach the sun.

When he glanced down at the deed again, he braced himself. It was like a bad dream. Was he this close to losing everything he owned? And Clarissa, too?

And now, not only was he missing fourteen thousand dollars, but he had a sopping backside, as well. If Amanda hadn’t fallen over… He glanced down at the mud. What was that peeking out of the wet earth? He picked up a piece of crudely cut leather. The shape of five toes were firmly grooved. A makeshift insole.

He gazed toward the massive mountains, searching for her, but found an empty trail. The rain had washed the snow from the lower slopes and the southern ones were covered with yellow sun lilies. When he thought again of her glancing at Clarissa’s blasted note, heat pounded through his muscles. How much had Mrs. Ryan read?

And why would he care what a stranger thought?