His voice was husky at her ear, his breath warm at her neck. “You know the night I mean.”

Her chest tightened beneath his scrutiny. She moved over to the medicine bag lying beside her on the grass, hastening to tidy her bottles. “Now I know you’re feeling better,” she said, trying to sound casual. “But next time I’ll give you laudanum instead of morphine.”

He reached out and touched the back of her hair, weaving his fingers between the black strands and her spine, sending waves of pleasure tumbling across her skin. “Why did you flee? Don’t you want to answer the question?”

“No,” she whispered, completely still beneath his stroke.

“Then how about this one—if you were going to run away, why did you tempt me? Why, Amanda, did you bother to kiss me back?”

The Doctor’s Homecoming

“Dual romances, disarming characters and a lush landscape make first-time author Bridges’s late-19th-century romance a delightful read.”

—Publishers Weekly

“The great Montana setting and high Western action combine for a top-notch romantic ending.”

—Romantic Times

“Kate Bridges has penned an entertaining, heartwarming story that will live in your heart long after you turn the last page.”

—Romance Reviews Today (romrevtoday.com)

Luke’s Runaway Bride

“Bridges is comfortable in her western setting, and her characters’ humorous sparring makes this boisterous mix of romance and skullduggery an engrossing read.”

—Publishers Weekly

Dedicated to all the loving mothers I met while working in the Neonatal Intensive care. My heart goes out to each of you.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Author’s Note

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?

What was she supposed to do about Tom Murdock?

Amanda’s breathing grew labored as she pedaled uphill. The sound of wheels swooshing through grass echoed off the mountains. Imagine! He’d ripped her deed right out of her hands. Landsake’s, it wouldn’t help him. Yesterday on her arrival, she’d visited the land registry and her name was written in the ledger.

She thought of his note and bristled. Normally she’d never read another person’s mail, but it’d fallen right beneath her nose. She didn’t recall it word for word, but it went something like: “Dear Tom, I’ve decided to spend the summer with my family in Calgary. I’m taking this evening’s train. Yours, Clarissa.”

It was written on pretty stationery with fancy handwriting, and he’d turned tomato red when he’d looked at it. Nothing would cause a man to turn that red unless Clarissa was a woman he was involved with. Well, they didn’t seem particularly close, as it was only signed Yours, not Affectionately Yours or With Love.

Hard to imagine that coldhearted man passionately involved with any woman. William had been in the beginning, but it hadn’t lasted. They were in love, she’d thought. Happily married homesteaders on their ranch just west of Calgary, trying hard to make ends meet and planning for a large family. Maybe if he’d paced his feelings, his love for her would’ve endured. The way a man’s love was supposed to endure when he said his vows. In sickness and in health.

She’d heard William had remarried quickly; that his new wife was already in her eighth month. Amanda had silently forgiven him two months ago, when she’d decided to move from her family’s home in Calgary to Banff and not let her anger eat her alive. There were more important things she could do, helping other women through the same horrible loss. If she could ease their burden, then she figured what had happened to her would somehow all make sense.

Dismounting her bicycle, she peered through the faraway pines and glimpsed her dilapidated shack, its chimney smoke rising above it, a welcome sight after her rough morning.

“Howdy, Missus Amanda!”

Laughter from the six smallest O’Hara children next door reached her. They froze beside their log cabin as soon as they caught sight of her. You’d think she were from another star, how awed they were by her bicycle. Pigs grunted in their fieldstone pen and chickens clucked in scattered directions. The children’s dirty, smudged noses and exuberant waving brought a gush of warm, wonderful feelings. She waved back.

She was almost healed, she recognized with pleasure. That sudden stab of pain when she glanced at boisterous children was almost gone. And yet…other times, in her deepest thoughts, mostly during nighttime when she yearned for sleep but it wouldn’t come, those same questions assailed her.

Did it make her less of a woman because she could no longer bear any more children herself? Did it make her less of a woman because the one sweet baby she’d had, had come into the world stillborn?

Of course it didn’t, she knew in her logical mind. But sometimes, in her illogical heart, she floundered. What kind of woman did it make her, when her husband had left her, divorced her, because of her inabilities?

Exhaling softly, she turned onto the dirt path, leaned the bicycle against the big spruce, then removed her store-bought items. She hadn’t held her baby and that was her greatest loss.

Eighteen months ago, the people helping in the delivery, including her loving grandpa, thought it would be kindest to protect Amanda from that anguish. Placenta previa, they’d declared. Her placenta had partially covered her cervix. During delivery, Amanda had lost her baby as well as her uterus. Later, she’d learned that the little infant girl had taken two small gasps, then was gone. Amanda hadn’t even seen her face.

What had she looked like? What would seven and a half pounds feel like to cradle in one’s arms? Amanda had never paid deliberate attention before, holding other people’s babies, but it wasn’t anything she’d take lightly anymore. She hiked the muddy turnip into her arms. Would seven and a half pounds feel like this?

The rhythm of her breathing faltered. Too light.

She hoisted the sack of flour into her arms. Like this? Her throat ached. A touch too heavy. And Ten Pounds was clearly stamped on the burlap.

“Amanda, is that you?”

Amanda cleared her throat. “Yes, Grandma.” Composing herself, she stepped into the clearing and bid good morning.

Dressed in dark clothing, in mourning for her husband for another two months, Grandma flung a gray braid over her dumpling figure and smiled. She’d taken a chair into the sunshine and was working on her rag rug, an idea she had to earn them extra money. A fire blazed beside her—and the shotgun that protected them from marauding wolves and black bears.

Amanda couldn’t bear to mention bad news. She would use her last three hundred dollars to build the cabin, despite Tom Murdock. William had left her with nothing. He’d taken the ranch, the cattle, the quarter section land, even her two dogs. And because he was an old friend of both law practices in Calgary, legally she hadn’t stood a chance.

She also had her grandmother to support, despite the small inheritance Grandma, and the rest of the family, had received after Grandpa’s fatal stroke. For the past five years while Grandpa had trained Amanda in his home, she and her grandma had spent most of their days in the pleasure of each other’s company. Now the two women preferred to live together. Besides, Amanda’s mother and father were busy tending to the rest of the family—Amanda’s brother, and sister, and all their new babies—to tend to Grandma, so it’d worked out for the best.

“Howdy, honey. Did you meet Mr. Finnigan?”

Amanda slid her packages to the ground. “He’s out of town. I met his partner, Mr. Murdock.”

“Did he quote you a fair price?” Grandma’s plump nose spread wider as she smiled, and Amanda realized how lucky she was, still to have her grandmother, to have this land, to have the sun shining on her face.

Amanda would shoulder the burden of Tom Murdock alone. “Mr. Murdock is busy with other projects, but there are two other builders in town. I’ll visit them this afternoon.”

Two nights later Graham Robarts burst into the sawmill, startling Tom.

“What the heck are you doin’ workin’ so late?” asked Graham. “It’s after ten o’clock.” Short and blond, dressed in a fringed deerskin coat, he cast long shadows on the wall as he passed by the scattered kerosene lamps. Although a constable in the North West Mounted Police, he came dressed in civilian clothes as Tom had requested. It would arouse fewer questions.

Squatting beside the kitchen cupboard he was building, Tom tapped the cornice moulding into place. “If I get these cupboards finished by the end of this week instead of next, I’ll almost be able to make payroll.”

“Are these for the big hotel?”

“Yeah.” Finer furniture had been ordered from Quebec and Europe for the hotel’s public spaces—reproductions of English masters—but Tom was contracted for the everyday furniture for the kitchens, cleaning areas and staff quarters.

“Can’t you get your men to help you?”

Tom towered over his friend. “That would compound my problem. I’d have to pay them extra for their time. If I work alone, I can speed the payments coming in.”

“You can’t work both mornin’ and night. And when’s the last time you ate anything?”

Tom blinked his tired eyes. “If I don’t make payroll, my men will lose their jobs. Eleven out of fourteen have wives and children to support. You know Donald O’Hara? On top of his eight, he just told me he’s got another one on the way.”

The friendly wrinkles at Graham’s eyes faded with concern. He was a good man, Tom thought, a childhood friend who’d grown up with him back east, halfway across the continent in the big city of Toronto. Where Tom and his father had practiced carpentry, Graham and his were in the police force.

“All right,” said Tom. “Give me the bad news. What did you find out about that Ryan woman?”

“It’s clear to me that the deed is binding.”

The words caused Tom’s body to sink. He picked up a piece of sanding paper and began rubbing. Deep in his heart, he knew that already. He’d known it two days ago when he’d checked the land registry, and then again when he’d reread the article of signing privileges in his partnership agreement with Finnigan.

“I’ll do everything I can to find Finnigan,” Graham vowed.

Clenching his jaw, Tom dug the sandpaper deeper into the wood. “The sawmill was nearly paid off. Tourists about to arrive, Banff about to expand. Lots of business for everyone.” And me, about to get married to a woman I loved.

“Let me open an official file, Tom. Press the charges. We’ll get Finnigan.”

Tom sighed. Opening an official file meant opening his wounds to the world.

When he shrugged, Graham removed his jacket, picked up a rag cloth and tin of linseed oil, then began varnishing one of a dozen clock shelves. “How’s Clarissa? How’s she takin’ this?”

Tom scowled. “She’s not around. She left.”

Graham squinted. “Aw, hell, I’m sorry.”

Yeah, so was Tom. He thought Clarissa Ashford would be his wife. Originally from Ottawa, she’d moved with her folks to Calgary when they’d opened their jewelry store. When they’d visited Banff last summer, she bumped into Tom at Ruby’s Dining and Boarding House, and extended her visit. She was a woman who laughed readily, enjoyed an intelligent conversation and was eager to start a family. Tom’s family. Maybe a son or two Tom could pass the sawmill down to, or a daughter Tom could teach how to ride, or how to appreciate a fine piece of furniture. Hell, had he lost that dream, too?

Clarissa had accused him of working too hard, of ignoring her. She thought he spent too much time worrying about his brothers and father, and not enough about them. He ran a hand through his sleek hair and wondered. Was she right?

If he didn’t change his ways, she’d threatened, she’d leave and head back to Calgary. At first she said she wanted to help Tom and Finnigan expand their business. And how many times had she told them, with that teasing smile of hers, she couldn’t decide which one of them was smarter….

Hold on a minute. Tom’s gut squeezed. She wouldn’t have… She couldn’t have been part of Finnigan’s leaving.

Tom’s palms began to slide with sweat. “If you open an official file, how confidential can you keep it?”

“Just between me and the sergeant, if that’s what you want.” Graham studied his friend. “Why don’t you ask for Quaid’s help?”

“My brother would just hit the roof. You know how everyone panics in my family. Soon as there’s a possibility of something going wrong, they panic. They panicked about Pa, didn’t they?”

When they’d decided to move West three years ago to start the sawmill, Pa was as energetic and quick-minded as a twenty-year-old. But very soon, he began the forgetting spells, and it was Tom who’d taken over the business, who looked out for Pa. The rest of the family wanted him to live with someone—a nurse or guardian—while they completed their studies, but Tom insisted on Pa’s freedom. Pa wasn’t an invalid.

Even so, Tom didn’t blame his family. They were scared. They loved their father and wanted the best for him. But it all washed to the same thing. Tom’s family and his men all depended on Tom. Yesterday he’d carefully raked through the bills, looking for ones he could hold off paying. Gabe’s Toronto law tuition could wait until the end of August. For Quaid’s medical instruments, Tom would try for a credit note from the bank. As for Pa’s horses…well, shoot.

“What are you going to do about Miss Ryan?” asked Graham.

“I’ll go back and talk to her.” He prickled with the thought of having to go back to beg for work. “If she hires me, I’ll insist on a down payment. That’ll make the rest of payroll for the week.”

“What can I do?”

“Use your leads to find Finnigan.” Tom glanced up from screwing hinges. He had to be careful how he worded his next request, for there were some things he couldn’t share with Graham. “Find out if Clarissa’s all right, back with her folks. Then check on Amanda Ryan’s background. I’ve got this feeling…Mrs. Ryan’s hiding something.”

“They’re blackfly bites, and all over his arms. No wonder Willy’s scratching,” Amanda said, helping the four-year-old boy off the worn, wooden chair. “Ellie, rub this calamine lotion on it twice a day, and bring your boy back in two days.”

Morning sunshine poured through the shack’s open door, around the six children, the damp, dirt floor, the tiny alcove of Amanda’s narrow bed, then Grandma’s in the other corner. The rain had left three days ago. The crisp mountain air smelled of budding trees.

Ellie O’Hara squinted at the homemade canning jar full of calamine. Her curly red hair streamed down her shoulders. She patted her four-month-pregnant belly in a loving, absent way that reminded Amanda how she’d once done that herself. Amanda swallowed and glanced away, but was very happy to help.

She’d taken a quick liking to her neighbor, who’d moved from Ireland ten years ago but still spoke with her beautiful brogue. “Aye, I was worried it might be measles.”

“Thank goodness it’s not, not in your condition. You’ve got to take care of yourself, too. Please go to the apothecary’s and get those grains of iron. That’s why you’ve been tired lately. Ask your older boys—Pierce, especially—to lift the heavy things. The smaller children will help you, too, won’t you?”

A chorus of yeses and laughter filled the cabin. Amanda swooped them all outdoors, a mix of pigtails, freckles and scruffy woolen clothing.

“Hello!” A man’s voice boomed through the tall spruces, startling everyone.

She quaked with apprehension when she saw Tom Murdock, sitting high in the saddle of his chestnut mare. He tipped his cowboy hat. When his questioning eyes sought Amanda’s, she tingled with warning. Placing a hand on little Katie’s shoulders, Amanda adjusted her kerchief over her long loose hair, then tugged her apron. Why did he always make her feel self-conscious of what she was wearing? And why was he here? To return her deed, she hoped, and not to argue further.

Ellie, with her petite figure and narrow face, stepped toward him. “Mr. Murdock, how lovely to see you this mornin’.”

“Ma’am,” he replied, sliding out of his saddle.

His gaze searched the shack, glossing over the new curtain on the only window, the freshly scrubbed but weathered pine planks, and no doubt noticing the missing winter mud, and the missing cobwebs dangling from the half-rotten shingles.

“I’d like to thank you, Mr. Murdock,” said Ellie in her brogue, “for givin’ the extra work to Donald. Especially now.”

Amanda recalled her husband worked at the sawmill.

“You’re most welcome. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, thank you.” Ellie flushed at his attentive gaze. “Come along, children, it’s time to gather eggs.” She stepped close to Amanda and whispered, “Are you sure six eggs is enough payment?”

“That’ll be fine,” Amanda said softly. “I haven’t eaten eggs for almost two weeks and I miss them.”

Ellie broke into a bright smile. Amanda was tempted to beg her to stay, to protect Amanda from being alone with Tom, but she knew she was being ridiculous. She battled with her fears and prayed Grandma would soon return from her ride.

When the O’Haras left, Tom looked up at the blue sky and removed his hat. His long hair was a rich, raven black. His clean-shaven jaw gleamed bronze in the sun.

“Good morning,” he said again, intimately, addressing only her this time. A corner of his handsome mouth tugged up, almost apologetic.

She swallowed. “Good morning. What brings you here?”

“I’ve got something of yours to return.” The muscles in his shoulders played beneath his shirt as he slid out a square yellow envelope from his leather vest. He offered it to her.

“My deed?”

“That’s right.”

She took it, being very careful not to stand too close. “Thank you.” Flustered, she slid it into her skirt pocket, then tucked her baggy blouse into her narrow waistline. His eyes slowly followed the movements over her body.

When he didn’t say anything more, she pulled in a brisk breath and steadied her nerves. “Well, I best be getting back to my duties. There’s a young couple in town I met yesterday. They’re expecting their first, and I promised I’d stop by.” Later this afternoon, but he didn’t need to know that.

“That would be the tinsmith’s daughter, Fannie.”

“That’s right. Good day.” She turned and walked away.

He sidestepped her and barred her path. Lord, the man was big. He peered at the shack, as if he were searching for something to prolong the conversation. “It’s still lopsided and won’t hold out for another year, but it must have taken you hours to scrub it down.”

She followed his gaze. “It did.” Thinking of the yellow envelope she’d just stuffed into her pocket, Amanda blurted, “I assume you verified my deed?”

His green eyes lit with amber. His profile exuded power. “Yeah.”

She was curious to know what had happened to Mr. Finnigan, but feared mentioning his name might put her own property in jeopardy again, so she let the topic pass.

Her fingers trembled into her apron. “Well, then, I suppose there’s nothing else to say. Thanks for dropping it by.” She turned to go. Tom’s warm hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her back, gently, sending her stomach twisting in a thousand directions. She blinked up at his handsome face, the dashing age lines around his eyes and mouth.

His gaze trailed over her forehead, down her lips and back into her eyes. “You know,” he said with a soft voice, “you’ve got the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Stumbling out of his grasp, she stammered, “What do you— How could you—”

Quickly stepping away, he played with the brim of his hat. “I’m sorry, it just struck me.”

His comment left her speechless. What a thing to say! She wasn’t sad, she tried her best to be cheerful.

He cleared his throat while she caught her breath, then he scratched the back of his neck. “We got off on the wrong foot, and I’m here to apologize. You’re not making this easy.” He stared off at the mountains. “I was thinking,” he continued, “if you’re still aiming to build your log cabin, I’d like to make a bid.”

Her guard was stronger now. “Why?”

“What sort of question is that? I’m a builder and that’s what I do.”

She stood her ground. “Why do you want to build my cabin? I’m sure there’s other work out there. For that fancy hotel, I imagine. And the others that are going up.”

“I’ve got a large crew, and I’d like to keep them working.” His tone was firm but civil. “Most of the large construction is over, and there’ll be a lull in the summer.”

“I just heard Ellie thank you for giving her husband extra work.”

“He needs it.” His dark brows arched with a challenge.

“No thank you, I don’t think we could work together.” In several long strides she wove her way into the forest, toward the river to haul some water. She had to do something with the extra energy he evoked in her, which he seemed to evoke every time they met. Grabbing the water yoke that lay along the path, she slid the smooth wooden handle across her shoulder blades, allowing the buckets to dangle from the ropes on either end.

“Would you stop running away from me,” he said, following her, causing her to catch her breath again. “Don’t you want to hear my bid?”

“There are two other builders in town, and they’ve already given me their quotes.”

He ducked a tree. “Let’s start over. I didn’t mean to get mad at you in the mill. You happened to walk in while I was getting bad news.”

From Clarissa? she wondered. No, it had started before he’d opened the note from Clarissa.

They reached the bank of the Bow River and stopped for a moment. She slid her yoke and buckets to the ground. The sound of surging water, three hundred feet wide, gushed around them. Cut logs thudded against each other, floating downriver from the lumbering camps, making their journey to Calgary.

When she glanced upriver, she spotted the huge brick-and-limestone facade of the new hotel. Only three short days ago, she was thrilled to have moved to Banff.

The town itself was less than five years old, the population under a thousand. In posters across the prairies, the Canadian Pacific Railway promised that a tourist industry would follow the building of their Banff Springs Hotel. They claimed it would make their railroad self-supporting, give the tourists all the excitement of the wild West without the pesky discomforts and create a spectacular opportunity for anyone wanting to be part of it.

She still wanted to be a part of it. What else would give her life meaning, but to open a midwifery practice and to put to good use the excellent training and experience she had?

“Let’s see, how big do you want your log cabin?” he asked. “Twenty-four by twenty-four? One big room with a stone fireplace?”

Was there any harm in getting his bid? She didn’t have to take it, and maybe then the man would leave. “I’d like to have two spare bedrooms attached, so that would make the overall building twenty by thirty.”

“Two spare rooms? For a future family, I suppose.”

The comment caught her by surprise.

“I mean,” he explained softly, “if you do remarry, and you might, you might need the spare rooms.”

“I’ll be using them to take in homeless children.”

The lines around his eyes deepened with respect. “I see. Unfortunately, Banff does get a few orphans. Mostly because of accidents. Sometimes an avalanche. Or consumption. Or a fire.” He stepped back and seemed to soak her in. “How many windows are there to cut?”

“Four.”

“Porch?”

“I’d like one around the front.”

“Well, that’s an easy estimate. I’d say it’d cost you roughly two hundred and twenty dollars.”

With an exclamation of surprise, she dropped into the soft grass of the riverbank.

“I know I’m under the other two bids. I always am. I can cut and saw lumber cheaper than anyone else in town.”

He was a lot under. Sixty dollars under. A world of difference.

“I paid Mr. Finnigan five hundred dollars for this piece—”

“What? You paid him five hundred for what?”

“For the shack, and the right to the property.”

That, for some reason, seemed to knock the wind out of him. He sank into the grass beside her. He really was surprised by Mr. Finnigan’s sale, wasn’t he? Well, it didn’t matter. The money had still gone into their joint sawmill coffers. And Amanda was sure five hundred dollars didn’t make much of a dent in the thousands of dollars of construction he saw in a year.

Standing up, he shoved his hat back onto his head. As she deliberated what to do, Tom dunked the buckets into the river and hoisted them to his shoulders. He did it with such ease, she wondered what it’d be like to have a man to help her here with the harder, backbreaking work. To spend the evenings together, to call on neighbors, to keep her body warm at night. But then, the last thing she wanted was another man. Some men couldn’t be counted on when a woman really needed them, and she had no desire to find out what kind of man Tom Murdock was.

When she bounded into the clearing, Grandma, in her split skirt, turned down the path on the bicycle. “Honey, I’m back.” Spotting Tom, she added, “I didn’t know we had company.”

“Howdy, ma’am. My name’s Tom Murdock.”

A smooth rider, Grandma gave a little gasp of delight as she dismounted. They gathered around the pounded earth by the logs where they usually lit the fire. With hesitation, Amanda introduced them. “This is my grandmother, Clementine Stewart.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Grandma, patting her thick gray braids. “But I thought you were too busy to come around.”

“I had a slight change of plans.” He smiled graciously as they shook hands, then glanced at Grandma’s dark clothing.

Grandma explained. “My husband passed away ten months ago. He was the dear fella who trained Amanda here. My poor, dear Scott, he taught this little lady everything she knows about medicine.”

Grandma rambled on, much to Amanda’s dismay. Grandma loved to visit, and if you didn’t watch, she’d spill every secret they had. “He was a doctor, servin’ the poorer folks in town, never insistin’ on payment, but those who could paid mostly with goods. Matter of fact, one of his customers gave him this here bicycle. What was his name? Mr. Withers, that’s right. He had gall bladder problems.”

With a twinkle in his eye, Tom leaned close to Grandma. “He didn’t get it from the bicycle, did he?”

“Heavens, no!” Grandma shrieked with laughter. It had been a while since she’d had visitors, thought Amanda, and she should be around more people, if this is how much enjoyment she was getting out of Tom’s visit.

“My sympathies on your husband, ma’am,” he acknowledged to Grandma, then turned solemnly to face Amanda. “I don’t mean any disrespect, but you said you were widowed, as well. How long ago did your husband pass away?”

Grandma fell into a coughing spell at Amanda’s obvious lie.

Amanda’s heart lurched. The women stared at each other. They signaled wildly behind Tom’s back; Grandma urging her to tell the truth, Amanda adamantly refusing.

“Yes, dear,” Grandma said between coughs, “go on, tell us.”

Amanda clutched her apron. She already knew Grandma’s thoughts on this. That Amanda shouldn’t hide anything from her past. That she should stand up to everyone who asked. Nothin’ to be ashamed of. “It’s difficult for me to talk about, if you don’t mind.”

Glancing toward his mare that was ripping grass by the tree where he’d tied it, Tom tilted his dark head. “I understand.”

“What exactly is so difficult?” Grandma raised her wide gray eyebrows and spoke innocently. “Tell the man what he asked.”

Tom cleared his throat. He looked uncomfortable, getting trapped between the two women. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

Amanda pursed her lips at Grandma. “It’s difficult to talk about the painful things in my past.”

“Well, sometimes, they get less difficult the more you talk about them. Amazin’ things can happen. Sometimes, you can start talking about your widowed past, and before you finish the sentence and you’ve got it all off your chest, you feel like you’re not widowed at all.”

Grandma eyed her. Amanda eyed her back. It was her concern alone. A blunt man such as Tom Murdock wouldn’t understand.

Tom turned to Grandma. “Is that how you feel, ma’am, about being widowed?”

Grandma sputtered. “No.”

Rubbing his smooth jaw, Tom looked more perplexed. “Well, I best be going.”

He was probably leaving, thought Amanda with a twinge of embarrassment, because he thought they were talking in circles. Which they were. Something she and Grandma were good at.

Amanda followed as he walked to his mare.

“Do we have a deal then?” he asked, unhitching the reins from the branch.

“How soon could you start?”

“How does tomorrow morning suit you?”

“How quickly could you get it done?”

“Six weeks.”

“It’s a deal on two conditions.”

Tom groaned. “Go on.”

“Number one. I get the agreement in writing, and receipts for each deposit.”

“A handshake’s not good enough, I see.”

“Number two. For every day earlier that you finish before the six weeks is up, could you take off fifty cents?”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’d like to help with the work. The other two builders agreed, and for each day of labor, I’d be getting paid fifty cents a day. But only if it saves you time, so you’re able to speed along to your next job.”

“How much time could that amount to? You could help with clearing brush, but the other work is too heavy. You might save me two days, so you’d earn…maybe one dollar?” He gazed over the shack. “If you really need—” He caught himself before he finished the insulting comment. “All right. I’ll need a starting deposit of ten percent in the morning. See you bright and early.”

She pulled in a deep sigh of satisfaction. “See you.”

He reached for his saddle horn, about to swing up, but stopped himself. He turned around. “The other two builders didn’t really agree to your help, did they?”

A nervous smile fluttered over her lips. “Not exactly.”

His lips curled as if on the edge of laughter. “Didn’t think so.”

As she turned to leave, he tapped her shoulder, reminding her again how long it’d been since she’d been touched by a man.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I still go by a handshake.”

With a rapid thud of her pulse, she pressed her hot, wet palm into his slick, hard grip, trembling at the thought of what tomorrow would bring. What on earth was she agreeing to, with this forceful man?

Why did Amanda Ryan keep cropping into his mind? The next morning, Tom stood shaving above the washstand, twisting his jaw into the air to scrape beneath it, and while he should’ve been planning ahead to the day’s work, he thought of Amanda’s strength instead. Moving to Banff without a man, caring for her grandmother, hauling her well-worn treasures into the tumbling shack. Not four days in town and she’d already tended to her first two patients, Ellie O’Hara, and the tinsmith’s daughter.

In the barn, while he watered and fed his work horses, he thought of her independence. The sheer physical stamina it required to pedal a bicycle uphill when he was certain no other woman in town even owned a split skirt. Hell, no other woman in town lived alone in the countryside without a man to help her.

And while the early morning sunrise reflected into the sawmill and he listed instructions to his foreman, he thought of her again. He looked beyond her drab clothing, the hidden pile of thick hair, the pale, indoor complexion, and wondered how long ago she’d lost her husband. How had she lost him? Who had been the messenger who’d come to tell her he’d died? Had she wept for days? In whose arms had she sought comfort?

Questions he shouldn’t have been asking of a widow he’d only met.

He should have been thinking about his mortgage payments and his problems with Finnigan and Clarissa. He’d just lost Clarissa and he should’ve been thinking more of her. But then, what else was there to think about? Graham was checking on her in Calgary, and there was nothing Tom could do but wait to hear.

In the meantime, he had a cabin to build.

When he pulled up to Amanda’s shack in his horse and wagon, Wolf wagging his bushy white tail and Donald O’Hara sitting beside him ready to help, she was tossing a shovel of dirt onto the fire. Her hesitant smile brought color to her face and a youthfulness to her appearance.

She was ready to get started on the hard work, plowing ahead with her life, with or without her husband. It filled Tom with a healthy dose of respect.

“Top ’o the mornin’ to ya, ma’am,” said Donald, jumping off the wagon into the spring dew.

“Good morning,” she shouted as Tom hopped off. Wolf bounded through the trees, barking at a groundhog. There were plenty of mountain animals for him to chase, and he gloried in it.

At the sound of their voices, a flock of swallows—hundreds of them—rose from the trees, sailed into the air, stretched their pointed wings and in unison, tilted their bodies into the wind. A magnificent sight.

With a gloved hand, he readjusted his hat and glanced back at the other two. Donald was busy unloading pick axes and shovels. Amanda was cupping a hand over her eyes, gasping in delight at the birds. She looked like a washer woman, bundled in a long wool skirt, with gray collar peeking out of a checkered flannel shirt—obviously a man’s.

Her late husband’s? Her late grandfather’s? Something about her expression held Tom’s attention. Her oval face was pale but proud, her nose straight, her curved, parted lips turned upward. When she turned back and caught his eye, he noticed again the sky-blue clarity of her eyes, and the sadness trapped there. What was she so sad about?

Why should it interest him so much? He averted his gaze and got to work. It was getting warm and he removed his tan suede coat. The sheepskin collar and lining might be necessary during the nightly freezes and morning chill, but not in the soaring sixties and low seventies of the day.

“I’d like it built right over here.” She indicated the top of the property, at the edge of the one-hundred-foot clearing. Jagged mountains framed her intriguing silhouette.

He sauntered to where she stood and braced his hands on his hips. “It’s a good location. Rain will drain down to the river, so the cabin floor will remain dry. It’s close to the road for safety and convenience. And if we clear the six trees to the Bow River, you’ll have an unobstructed view of the water.”

He almost groaned as he said it, knowing at one time he and his father had planned a similar location. Pa no longer remembered. And as for Tom, well, he’d buy himself another pretty—prettier—piece of property.

Amanda gave such a huge sigh of contentment, his eyes followed the movement of her breathing down to her chest. A nicely rounded swell that she was hiding beneath shapeless clothing. He muttered to himself and glanced away.

After smearing the stinky concoction Amanda had given them on their skin for protection against the blackflies, Tom grabbed the two-man saw.

“Let’s start with the big cedar.” He indicated to Donald. Although Donald was a good ten inches shorter, he was a muscular man who walked with a spring in his step and who easily took direction.

Amanda pulled on her leather gloves and Tom moaned. So she was serious about helping. Glancing up, he caught Grandma exiting the shack, dressed in a workman’s shirt tucked over her dark dress. A quake of alarm bounced through him. Both of them planned on helping? It wasn’t women’s work, not even for younger Amanda, but certainly not a woman as old as Grandma.

Donald stopped. “Sweet Jesus O’Grady,” he muttered. “You’re hirin’ women now, are ya?”

“It’s not my idea,” Tom declared.

“And a good mornin’ to you, too,” bellowed Grandma in good humor. “You can both close your mouths now.”

How old must she be? Tom wondered.

“Sixty-two, since you’re lookin’ at me like that. But I’m not a weak old woman. I was splittin’ logs and cordin’ wood long before you arrived in your mama’s cabbage patch.”

“Don’t worry about us.” Amanda brought out her own shovel. “We’ll clear the raspberry bushes and the juniper shrubs. We promise we’ll stay out of your hair.” She lifted her chin and met his gaze.

Was he supposed to allow women to help him? He was ashamed to see them work so hard. They should be sitting out in the sun and knitting, or mending clothing. But as much as he ached to have the final word and say no, a deal was a deal.

So while the men cleared the clump of green cedars, the women transplanted raspberry bushes to the far side of the shack. Amanda seemed to take pleasure in the company of Wolf, scratching behind his furry pointed ears and patting his luxurious double coat.

“Why, you’ve got two different colored eyes,” Tom heard her murmur to the dog. “One blue, one brown.”

Near lunchtime, Grandma waddled off to the privy. Amanda slid off her gloves and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. “It’s time for lunch. I’ve got some stew.”

Just then, Ellie strolled around the corner with a picnic basket, obviously thinking of lunch, too. “The children have eaten and the three oldest girls are hangin’ the laundry. I thought we might go fer a picnic by the river.”

Tom stumbled forward. For cryin’ out loud, this wasn’t a social call. This was difficult work, and if he accepted one invitation, the woman might appear every day. “I don’t think so. I brought an apple and a slice of ham, and I’ll enjoy sitting under that tree. Alone. You go ahead with Donald.”

Amanda wrung her hands into her shirt and tried to slide out of the invitation, too.

Ellie insisted. “I’m not taking no fer an answer. I’ve been cookin’ fer the last hour. Fresh bread. Fried-egg sandwiches and pickled peppers.” Spotting Amanda’s grandmother as she came out of the privy, she called out “You’ll join us, won’t you, Miss Clementine?”

Miss Clementine waved them off with a plump arm, like a queen waving from a balcony. “Go on without me. I’ll have my tea and toast sitting on a chair, thank you.”

It seemed there was no way out. But tomorrow, he vowed as he trudged through the aspens to the river, he’d come more prepared to say no. Around women, you always had to stay on your toes. How much time would this take?

Amanda found a seat on the other side of Ellie, by a large boulder heating in the sun. In the distance, the Banff Springs Hotel towered over the pines. While the women discussed babies and delivery, the men grunted a few words at each other about the snow melt. Tom was eating as fast as he could.

Amanda ate only half of his quantity. Her delicate lashes flashed over high cheekbones as she sipped cold tea. When Donald and Ellie nuzzled closer together, discussing something intimate, the silence between Amanda and Tom grew uncomfortable.

How did he get trapped in this awkward situation?

Finally, staring up the mountainside at the turrets and balconies of the big hotel, Amanda broke it. “Imagine being so wealthy you could afford to travel simply for the pleasure.”

Tom leaned back on the hard log, his long legs crossed in front of him. “I can’t imagine it myself. Starting at three dollars and fifty cents a room.”

Amanda choked on her drink. “Every night?”

“Ridiculous what tourists will pay, isn’t it?”

“Who are they, the people who come here?”

“Wealthy from the east. Some from the States. Most from England and the rest of Europe. Last year, we got almost three thousand visitors. This year, we expect five thousand. During the next three weeks, guests will be trickling into the big hotel. Hundreds of them, eventually, to fill the two hundred and fifty rooms. Some of the other boarding houses are full already. New restaurants are being built.”

He gazed at the huge monument, designed after a Scottish baronial castle. “They’re folks who want to dip their bodies in hot springs and explore uncharted mountains. Mountaineers, they call them in Switzerland. Only five miles on either side of this railroad has been surveyed, the rest is waiting for human contact. Have you ever been on top of a mountain?”

Their breathing came in unison. “No.”

“You should. It’s pretty.” He couldn’t miss the feminine, musky smell of her. “Have you ever tried the hot springs?”

She lowered her tin cup. “No,” she whispered. “It appears I haven’t done much.”

“The Cave and Basin have cabins set up, one for men and one for women.” He studied her. Clarissa had done it all—hiking, soaking in the hot springs, packing trails, fishing, hunting, ice-boat sailing in the winter. What would it be like to take Amanda to the springs? He was certain she’d be shy to remove her clothing, even if she were only surrounded by other women. Unlike Clarissa. “Did you know they accidentally built the hotel backward?”

She bit her lip. “Now you’re teasing.”

“Aye, it’s true,” Ellie piped in.

“Apparently,” said Tom, “someone misinterpreted the blueprints.”

“Blueprints?” Amanda asked.

“The drawing plans.”

“Oh.” As she turned to face him, her waist twisted, accentuating the outline of her breasts beneath the cloth. “But weren’t you involved in its building?”

He pulled up to a sitting position and tried to find something else to look at, rather than her unexpected contours. He spotted an elk lapping at the river’s edge. When he indicated the elk to her, she smiled, unaware of her allure.

“I supplied the lumber and one crew of finishing carpenters, but they hired their own framers. The front of the building is where the back should be, and the back is where the front should be. The kitchen staff got the best view of the river valley, so they’re not complaining. Luckily, the view is beautiful no matter what direction you turn the hotel.”

Donald plucked the checkered cloths from their laps and packed them. “I hear now they’re havin’ their troubles with burstin’ water pipes. Too much water pressure.”

“Even after piping the water sixty-nine hundred feet,” Tom said, “it still comes out strong. A hot one hundred and ten degrees. Amazing.”

“Tell us what it looks like on the inside,” said Donald. “Has the fancy furniture arrived fer it yet?”

Tom nodded. “Yeah, last week. In the ballroom, they’ve got mahogany dining chairs with ball and claw feet, look just like authentic Chippendale. Smooth as silk. As you enter the lobby, they’ve got tables with inlaid patterns of satinwood. Tapered legs and shield-back chairs to match, replicas of Hepplewhite.”

When they’d finished eating, Amanda wiped crumbs off her skirt. Was it his imagination, or was she squirming away from him? Tom wondered as they headed back.

As soon as she spotted them, Grandma tore off on her bicycle to visit the neighbors rather than help in the afternoon. Tom breathed a huge sigh of relief, but Donald frowned in disapproval.

He leaned in close to Tom’s ear. “Folks are sayin’ they’re a wee bit strange, ridin’ around on that thing.”

Tom kept chopping his cedar. “It’s their choice to do as they please. Timmm…bbber.” He watched the tree crash, being very careful of Amanda’s whereabouts. He’d been aware of her whereabouts the whole day. He didn’t want any injuries on his hands, he told himself.

But every time he looked her way or stepped closer to offer his help in dragging branches, she’d ignored him. Ignored him! He wasn’t used to being ignored.

In the late afternoon, loading up their supplies, Amanda removed her gloves and ran a hand over her mass of thick hair, tendrils that had escaped in the wind. She’d been bitten by blackflies, Tom noticed, along her slender neck and in the hollow of her throat. Even the tops of her hands. He shook his head. Her lotion must have rubbed off. If he’d noticed earlier, he would have sent her to sit in the shack.

Donald took the shovel from Amanda. “Why do you ride a bicycle and not a horse?”

She clapped the dust from her gloves. “The cost of oats for a bicycle is remarkably low.”

Tom laughed, but Donald wasn’t so sure.

Keeping his gaze on Amanda, Tom replied thoughtfully. “And you don’t have to water it, or shoe it, or ever file its teeth. Or worry that the wild hay you’re feeding it is lacking nourishment because there was too much summer rain.”

She made a quick, involuntary appraisal of his face. Her eyes softened. “That’s right.”

Yeah, she was a damn fascinating woman.

“I’ll need a well dug,” she said to Tom as they were leaving. “Can you set up a spring room in the cabin?”

“I could. I’ll bring my father before the week is up. He’s good at finding water. We’ll locate the well, then build the house around that. You should go in now, put something on those bites.” The last part came out more tenderly than he’d wanted.

She swallowed and nodded gently. Donald disappeared down the path that led to his home. Tom walked in the opposite direction to his wagon.

While the horse pulled out and clomped down the path, something made Tom turn to stare at the cabin window. She was watching him. A lantern glowed behind her, playing softly against her cheeks. When she pulled the curtain closed, his body sank with an unexpected feeling of…what?

Disappointment. He turned around and settled into the stiff wooden seat. So what if he was a little lonesome.

He certainly knew the cause. It had nothing to do with Amanda. With a weary sigh, he thought about what he’d lost with Clarissa.

During breakfast, Amanda found herself peeking down the path for signs of Donald and Tom more frequently than necessary. Their fourth day together, and they’d gotten into a rhythm.

“Is he here yet?” her grandma asked over porridge, scrutinizing Amanda.

“No sign of them.” Amanda knew what her Grandma was up to. What she’d been up to for the past year, trying to attach Amanda to every available, half-decent man who came calling.

“I’m just eager for the company of friends, Grandma. Good hard work, clear mountain air and sunshine is what both of us need after the year we’ve been through.”

“Why don’t you tell people the truth—”

“I think I hear a horse.” Amanda bolted out the door, happy to escape the unwanted questions.

Donald hadn’t arrived yet on foot, but Tom and Wolf were rolling in.

Tom’s breath could be seen in the chill air as he leaped off the wagon. Looking up as she approached, he swung his lean body over the back boards and in one fluid motion, lifted the heavy axes. The warmth of his smile echoed in his husky voice. “How’s everyone this morning?”

She stooped to pet Wolf’s head. “Very well.”

With powerful arms, Tom unhitched his horse. His shoulders filled the corners of his suede coat. He glanced at the stack of wood by the shack door. “I see you got someone to help you chop those branches we cut yesterday. That’s a neat little pile of firewood.”

When she didn’t meet his gaze, he glanced down at her, then at her fidgeting hands. Why hadn’t she put on gloves before she’d come outside? She hid her arms behind her back.

With a calculating eye, he took a long step forward and slid out her hands, holding them in his. His head dipped so close to hers, she could barely think of anything else. He stared at her blisters. “Don’t tell me you chopped the firewood on your own? By yourself?”

She gulped hard. “Who else is there?”

The question brought a twinge of compassion to his features.

After a moment of stumped silence, he nodded quietly, turned slowly, and began sorting through his tools. “We should be finished clearing the trees today. Tomorrow, I’ll bring the mules to dig the stumps.”

“When do you think your pa will be coming?”

“I asked him to come this morning. He lives just up the road and around the corner.”

Amanda glanced through the trees. A red wool coat and a white horse flashed through the leaves. “Is that him now?”

Tom swung around. “Pa?”

Wearing an old straw hat, a lumbering old man slid off his horse onto the road, but didn’t head down her path.

She could see the resemblance. But where Tom was a thick, solid oak tree, his father was a fragile bending willow. Still, the handsome resemblance of dark features, square chin, and sauntering gait was striking.

“Pa!” Tom shouted. His voice grew edgy and she wondered why. “Over here!”

Old Mr. Murdock petted the husky dog circling around his work boots. “Wolf? Is that you?”

Tom smiled in relief and with Amanda a few steps behind, bounded to his father. “Mornin’, Pa. Did you bring your divining rods?”

Mr. Murdock gazed at him with a blank expression.

Tom’s tender smile faded. A rush of color infused his neck. He lowered his voice, but the wind had stilled and Amanda could hear. Tom’s normally confident voice quivered as he bent to his father’s level. “It’s me. It’s Tom.”

“Tom who?”

Tom swallowed. “Your son. Remember? The oldest one. You’ve got Gabe and Quaid, too.”

Amanda’s heart spiraled. Father didn’t recognize son? He recognized the dog but not Tom? Oh…she slumped against the wagon boards and closed her eyes for a moment. She could barely watch the heartache in Tom’s face as he tried to explain his existence to his father.

Tom’s voice fell to a whisper. “Tom… I own the sawmill,” he explained, raw with emotion. “Remember? You taught me how to chop my first tree. We built this shack together three years ago, remember?”

Dazed, Mr. Murdock glanced to the shack and back, then to Amanda. Donald was strolling down the trail with Ellie and four children in tow, Willy with his scabbed-over blackfly bites, all approaching closer. Tom glanced frantically to them then back to his father, then back to them. He froze as Amanda watched.

Trying to spare Tom the anguish of Donald and Ellie’s witnessing the situation, Amanda sprang forward. “Mr. Murdock, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She shook Mr. Murdock’s hand, clasping her warmth over the wrinkles, desperately searching for words to help orient the man. “Tom told me you live up the road. That makes us neighbors. He said you’re good at finding water, and that’s great because I need a well dug, you see.”

Mr. Murdock gazed to the partially cleared area and something twinkled in his eyes. “Digging a well, that’s what I’ve come for. Tom,” he said with recognition, “come help me get the stuff off my horse. Sorry, I, uh, the dog…the dog caught me off guard.”

While the old man straightened, Tom’s watery eyes turned to Amanda. She pretended she hadn’t seen what had happened, but by the grateful look in Tom’s eyes, he knew the truth.

“Ellie, Donald, howdy,” Amanda said, giving Tom time to recover. She crouched to the children’s eye level. “Willy, how are those blackfly bites? Is the calamine helping? I’ve got some of my own to show you.”

As they exchanged pleasantries, Donald hollered to Mr. Murdock, “Mornin’, John!”

John Murdock waved back.

What must it be like to have a father who didn’t recognize you? Poor Tom. A parent’s decline was a big heartache to endure alone. Did he have any other family members who could help him through it?

Was his father suffering from early dementia? Tom’s brother Quaid was a doctor, and surely John Murdock was getting the best care possible.

While the others went to work, Amanda made the gentleman sit with her and have coffee. When he got up to do his work, he held his wooden sticks parallel to the ground and slowly walked the site, waiting for them to twitch when they passed over underground water. Amanda wasn’t sure how the set-up worked, but folks swore by it.

Grandma looked up from hauling branches, eyeing John Murdock with something on her mind. “You don’t happen to need a rag rug, do you? A pretty one for your cabin floor?”

Mr. Murdock put down his sticks. “I might. The floor’s awfully cold this time of year.”

“Well, I’ve got one for sale. Real cushiony. I made it myself from some of my prettiest scraps.”

The elderly man laughed, rich and warm, endearing him to Amanda. “Bring it out. Let’s see it.” He removed his straw hat, revealing a receding hairline, and squinted in the sunshine. “Just don’t make me lose my shirt on the price.”

Grandma chuckled. “Ten cents is what it costs.”

Amanda watched Tom noticing the exchange. Although he’d avoided glancing Amanda’s way while they worked, his rigid shoulders relaxed and the tenseness to his jaw dissolved. She wasn’t sure why he wasn’t looking her way, but it was just as well. She didn’t need any more complication in her life than she had already.

When the day was over, Ellie dropped by with the children to retrieve her husband. They offered to walk Mr. Murdock and his horse home. Grandma wanted to join them, eager to see how Mr. Murdock’s new rag rug would look in his house, so they all set out together.

Amanda gave Tom a curt nod. “Thank you for your hard work. Your father found two well locations for me to choose from, and I think we’re making good time.” She gazed up at the cloudy sky. “Hopefully, we won’t get any rain to slow us down.”

The red setting sun grazed the snowy mountain peaks, casting shadows on the rocky cliffs, and deepening the green timberline of pine trees.

The rays also shimmered off Tom’s dark hair. She thought he’d be quick to leave. But instead of harnessing his draft horse, he adjusted his leather gloves and picked up the ax.

“What are you doing?”

“You need someone to chop this wood.”

Stepping closer, she removed her apron. “Please don’t do that. You’ve worked hard all day.”

“So have you.”

“Please don’t make me say it.” Her voice lowered to a breeze. “I can’t afford to have you chop my wood.”

“There’s no charge.”

He was already chopping. With quiet dignity, she accepted his kind offer. She admired the gesture. Not many men had offered to do something like this for her. None at all, in the past eighteen months.

They worked side by side for an hour in the setting sun, she stacking wood, he pounding away. She grew warmer, feeling his proximity, every muscle that moved with every strike.

The air seemed hot and heavy. What was this thing between them? This ripe awareness that swelled and rolled, seeming as though it would burst?

When they finished, he turned to look at her. Drops of moisture clung to his temples. His eyes glowed with life. She found herself extremely conscious of his sensuality. Nervous under his gaze, she went to take the ax, but she shouldn’t have stepped so close. Beneath their work gloves, their fingers pressed together. She heard his sharp intake of breath. He slid out of his gloves.

She set the ax along the shack wall, but he bent closer and grasped her hand. With one erotically smooth motion, he peeled off her one glove, then the other. Standing alone with this potent man, surrounded by the scent of damp ferns and his clean sweat, she felt as if with this one intimate gesture he was peeling off her clothing. She could barely breathe. At his feathery touch, she trembled right down to her toes.

“You’ve got such beautiful hands,” he murmured. “Yet they work too hard.”

Stroking his way over the tiny little calluses, he rubbed and kneaded and massaged. Everything about him felt hot. His hands, his breath, his touch. Long, loose strokes as if he were stroking her entire body. No man had caressed her like this. Never. Not her hand, nowhere on her body.

It made a woman yearn for his exploration. Imagining him dipping down her bare shoulders, over her languid arms, gently exploring her soft breasts and down her belly. And lower….

She closed her eyes and gasped when she felt his kiss along the back of her palm. Sweet, tender lips grazing her flesh, the heat of his mouth kissing along the openings. Her nipples went hard. If she let him go any further, she’d be sorry….

This was mad.

She knew what it was. It was a thank-you for today, for coming to his father’s aid. She could never let it be more. She’d given everything she had to William, her heart, her body, her beloved baby, and she had nothing left to offer. Not to a potent man like Tom Murdock.

And what about his other woman?

As silently as it started, it ended. Without looking at him, she withdrew her hand. “You’ve got Clarissa to think about.” Escaping into the dark shack, Amanda pressed the door closed behind her. Getting caught up with a man was just too wretchedly painful.

She was right, he had Clarissa to think about.

Tom swore softly under his breath as he found his way from his cabin door to the sawmill. The full moon glinted over his shoulder. With a jangle of keys, he unlocked the side door and entered. He struck a match and lit the largest lantern.

What in heaven’s name had happened back there at the shack? Why had he completely lost himself in Amanda? Every time he looked into her heavy, blue eyes, he had to stifle his urge to touch her.

She didn’t have a father to watch out for her, no brother to ward off Tom’s advances. She had only herself to protect, and it wasn’t fair to take advantage of a lone woman if he wasn’t free to take it further. Was he free? Where did he stand with Clarissa? Where did he want to stand with Clarissa?

He dipped his brush in a pail of white paint, then swept it over a three-legged stool, more furniture designated for the big hotel.

“You in here, Tom?” Graham’s voice shattered the silence. “I’ve got some news for you.”

Tom rose. “What is it?”

Boots thudded across the floor. The fringes dangling from Graham’s coat swayed as he walked. “A warrant’s been put out for Finnigan’s arrest. Robbery, fraud and larceny. I’ve wired the information across the country. The last sighting of him was in the coal mines just east of here. He’s disappeared, but we’ll flush him out.”

Tom pulled in a long breath.

“I’ve had to ask some questions around town for Finnigan’s last whereabouts, but I don’t think anyone’s suspicious.”

“Good.”

“About Clarissa…”

“She’s not in Calgary, is she?”

Graham shook his head. “Can’t seem to locate her. She never showed up there. Bought a train ticket but never used it.”

Tom snorted in disgust. He started painting again, coating the stool’s legs.

Graham pulled out a chair, sat and scratched his curly blond sideburn. “Why aren’t you surprised?”

Tom’s spirits sank. “What would you say if I told you I think they disappeared together?”

“Aw, hell.”

Betrayed. Tom swallowed past the hard lump in his throat. What was worse? Losing his business to Finnigan? Or losing his woman to the man? Tom had been betrayed by two of the people he trusted most.

Clarissa wasn’t the dignified woman he thought she was. How could he have been involved with a woman who tore off with his partner?

Amanda wasn’t like her. She was as far removed from the word conniving as one could get. Amanda didn’t have the easy life that Clarissa had. Amanda was a tender, widowed woman trying to survive on her own. She didn’t have anything to do with Finnigan’s scam, either, because he’d overcharged her.

Amanda was an honest woman, and right about now, he held the virtue of honesty highest on his list.

“About Amanda Ryan.”

“Yeah?” Tom held his breath.

“I did some checking. You were right. She’s got a hell of a secret. She’s not widowed. The woman’s divorced.”

Divorced. Tom scowled as he hitched the mules to the stump-puller on Amanda’s property the next morning. She hadn’t been waiting for him as she usually was—which made him happy—but stepped out of the shack and into the thick forest thirty minutes after he, Donald and Pa arrived.

They’d all lied to him. Finnigan, Clarissa, then her.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” Amanda’s welcoming smile and pretense of a blush sickened him. A shaft of light struck her high cheekbones beneath the bonnet. Wasn’t she an innocent? A naive divorcée, blushing at the man who’d brazenly kissed her hand the day before. Damn her anyway, for getting to him.

His muscles clenched. “Good for working,” he muttered.

He turned his back, not caring how rude he was, and secured one of two wooden columns to the mule’s harness. The contraption looked like an inverted V over the stump. With a long, sauntering stride, pulling his hat closer to his brow to shade himself from the sun, he left her standing there and joined Donald by the other mule. The animals would walk the columns in a circle, turning the screw and chains attached to the stump, thereby pulling out the root. Tom would finish his work as quickly as he could, and in five weeks time he’d say good riddance to Mrs. Amanda Ryan.

Amanda had looked into his eyes and stole his affections—stole—under false pretenses of him feeling sorry for a widow. And her grandma wasn’t any better. How the two of them must have laughed that day when he’d first met Miss Clementine and they’d discussed widowhood. He’d made a fool of himself for falling for Amanda’s fabrications.

Persistent, dressed in her old flannel, Amanda slid her slender figure next to his broad one, dressed in denim. The demure smile he’d found so endearing yesterday looked like one of deceit today. What did the woman want from him? A friendly conversation? More kisses? Although she’d pulled back yesterday, maybe she’d changed her mind and thought he’d make a good catch. Maybe he’d be able to support her down the road!

“What happened to your two big draft horses?” she asked in a friendly tone that he found irritating.

“I sold them,” he snapped. “I can rent Donald’s mules any time I need them.”

He’d sold them so that Pa could keep his gentle mares. Tom’s secret credit note at the bank had gotten Quaid his new shipment of instruments, but Tom hadn’t wanted to borrow too much. Fortunately, he still had his three best horses, and when he dug out of this financial mess, he’d be able to buy the others back.

He felt a movement beside his boot and looked down. Wolf was digging a deep hole.

“Stop that,” Tom reprimanded. “If someone falls in that hole, they could twist their ankle. Go chase a squirrel.” After a friendly pat on the head, the dog bounced away, but Amanda frowned at his gruffness. When he ignored her, she left. Good. He gently slapped the rear of one of the mules to start it walking in a circle, then adjusted his big leather work gloves.

He admitted, being divorced wasn’t a thing most people would brag about, but why hide who you are?

He knew of only three people who’d ever been divorced; none in this town. One older gent back in Toronto who was an alcoholic, one young miner in the Rockies whose poor wife couldn’t take any more beatings, and a tourist passing through last summer whose wife had caught him with his third mistress.

It was common knowledge that more women were divorced in the West than the East. Women were scarcer here, so if their husbands mistreated them in any way, they divorced, taking their children and quickly remarrying—to one of many men in the West grateful for the company and partnership of a woman. But that’s not what had happened to Amanda.

From what Graham had said, it was Amanda’s husband who’d divorced her. Graham hadn’t uncovered the circumstances, and Tom had stopped Amanda’s investigation. No sense asking Graham to uncover more about a woman Tom didn’t care for. Besides, it was bordering on prying, and he still had his code of honor.

While Donald tended to the mules and gave them water, Tom cleared brush beside his father, who was creating a garden for the women. Pa was in a jovial mood this morning, causing Tom to brighten.

“Sure is nice today,” Pa said. “The blackflies are gone, and the sun is warm.”

Squinting in the warm rays, Tom gazed up at the hills. The landscape quivered in the wind, with a dozen hues of green. The soft yellow-green of fresh grass, the brilliant green of unfolding maple leaves, and the blue-green growth of spruce needles. Blue jays and cardinals rustled through the woods, and insects hummed above his head. The earthy scent was intoxicating.

Tom blurted affectionately, “Pa, why don’t you come live with me?”

The old man took off his straw hat and fanned the air. “Go on now. Come live with you and Clarissa? You know me and her don’t see eye to eye. Why, she’d have my things packed and bundled by the door before I got back from the privy.”

Lifting his shovel, Tom flipped a furrow of dirt. The hard muscles of his biceps tightened. “Clarissa’s not going to be around.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“She’s gone to visit family for the summer.”

“For good?”

“For the summer.”

“What does that mean? Are you two over?”

Tom stopped digging to catch his breath. “Yeah, I guess we are.” Saying it out loud made it seem final. It was final.

Pa kept shoveling, surprising Tom with his endurance. “I’m not helpless, no matter what your brothers think. I’ll live alone until I can no longer put my pants on by myself.”

Tom sighed. When the mules finished uprooting the first stump, Tom and Donald hitched them to the second. It was hard, physical work, and Tom was reminded of Clarissa’s asking, Why don’t you become the doctor or lawyer? Why do you do it all for your brothers? Why do you choose such difficult labor?

Because I feel like a trapped rabbit inside the walls of any office. I like fresh air and miles of wilderness, he’d told her, but obviously, she hadn’t been impressed.

Tom stepped beside his father. “How are your new horses doing?”

“They’re magnificent.” Pa beamed, making all of Tom’s perseverance worthwhile.

“Glad you like ’em.”

“Now, I think I’ve got some black licorice gum to deliver,” Pa said, gazing at Miss Clementine by the outdoor fire. He rooted for something in the top pocket of his red jacket. “Her favorite.”

With caution, Tom gazed at the two ladies, who were boiling a kettle of potatoes over an open flame. Realizing he ought to warn his pa about the type of women they were, Tom decided he would mention it when the two men were alone.

Toward noon, Tom refused Amanda’s offer of lunch and tea for the third time.

“What is it?” she finally asked. She’d removed her bonnet. Her mended kerchief held back some of her wavy black hair, but the rest tumbled over her shoulders. “If it’s about last evening, I’m sorry I pulled away from you…but you have…and I’m not interested…”

He grumbled. She wasn’t interested? Well, he wasn’t interested, either, to be hoodwinked and bamboozled by another conniving woman. Conniving, he repeated in his mind as he gazed into her fraudulent blue eyes. Cold, heartless, lying.

In the background, he heard Wolf bark, then Pa and Miss Clementine laugh. “For your information,” Tom said, “not that it’s any of your concern, Clarissa is not a big part of my life. And I’ve got a lot of work to do today.” He gave her a dismissive nod, hoping she’d walk away.

“Let me help—”

“No.” He straightened his shoulders and finally confronted her.

Her lips tightened. Her brows arched. “I knew it was a mistake to hire you.”

“How dare you say that.”

She placed her hands on her rounded hips and glared at him. “Then what is it? What am I supposed to think as you continue to play games and not accept my tea…and not accept my help…and not even look in my direction? Why are you so hostile? Because yesterday I didn’t accept your advances? Haven’t you ever been turned down before?”

Tom balked. “Is that what you think it’s about?”

“I know that a successful man like you, who has a booming business and the respect of the town, isn’t used to be given a no—”

“Stop before you regret it—”

“Why, every woman in town must be flattered beyond belief when you look in her direction—”

Tom cut her off with an iron grip on her arm, being careful not to hurt her. The heat of her flesh seeped into his fingers. Fury laced his words. “Would you like me more if you thought my life were difficult?”

Their eyes locked. She opened her mouth to answer.

“Well?” He tugged her closer, an inch away from his face.

Slowly she closed her lips and took a deep breath. His question left her speechless, and trembling.

He was shaking a bit himself. Releasing her, he stepped away.

With quivering lips, she hiked her skirts to leave.

Now that she’d opened up the discussion, he couldn’t stop himself from hurling a question at her stiffened back. “Why couldn’t people be more honest?”

She spun around. “Pardon?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were divorced, Amanda?”

Her gaze clouded. The question seemed to weigh on her, choking her. “Well…I…”

Maybe she did have a conscience, or was she just embarrassed she’d been caught in her own lie?

She stared at his rigid stance. “That’s why you’re upset.”

“Were you and your grandmother having a little chuckle at my expense?”

A flash of grief rippled across her face. “We weren’t laughing at you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“Because I…couldn’t.”

“The easily fooled jackass, Tom Murdock.”

Her eyes glistened in sympathy. She shook her head. “We weren’t laughing at you.”

“Turns out, I’ve got a few jokes of my own to tell. Like this property here, for instance. Zeb Finnigan took you to town. You paid five hundred, but I would have sold it to you for a whopping three.”

Another blow. She staggered. “What?”

He momentarily felt sorry for her. Was he being too hard on her? Was he taking out the rage he felt at Clarissa and Finnigan, at the only person here to take it?

“I see,” she said quietly. The mules brayed behind her as the beasts continued plodding. “By the way, how did you discover I was divorced?”

Wanting to protect Graham, Tom answered, “That’s not important.” He swooped down to pick his shovel off the ground.

“Then how do you know you can trust your source?”

She had the nerve to try to turn the tables on him? “Because he’s a Mountie.” He cursed himself for letting it slip out, but he couldn’t bridle his anger.

“You had Finnigan and me investigated.” Her face was full of strength. How quickly she’d pieced it together. “Do you think having me investigated is any more honest than me claiming I’m widowed?”

Her sudden question jarred him. His mind swirled with doubts.

“Did your…Mountie friend discover anything else?”

“Like what? The reason you divorced?” Tom shook his head. “No. That’s your private business, and I don’t really care.”

She shuddered at his barb.

He continued recklessly. “One of the Calgary Mounties visited the Cattlemen’s Association, and your name came up. Your husband had been there the day before for a meeting, boasting about his new wife and children.”

Her eyes flashed. “His n-new children?”

“Twin boys. Born last week.”

Amanda stumbled back and didn’t speak for a long time. The tail of her flannel shirt caught the gentle breeze. “Are they healthy babies?”

Of all the things for her to say, what a strange choice. But then again, maybe it was natural because she was a midwife. “As far as I know. Your former husband was giving out cigars.”

This time when her shoulders sagged, he knew his words had stung. He stepped back for a moment, trying to understand. Beneath his hat, a bead of perspiration trickled down his temple.

He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but he obviously had.

Apparently he didn’t know how to talk to a divorced woman. Did she still care about her husband? Her husband had divorced her, so maybe she still had feelings for him. But how silly of Tom to assume anything. The issues were likely complicated, each divorce different in how the folks dealt with each other.

He wavered, not knowing if he should apologize for being blunt. The woman was divorced, but if she truly meant nothing to Tom, then why had he gotten so fired up? His confusion kept him rooted, and his stubborn pride from apologizing.

“I’m glad, then,” she said quietly. “William always wanted boys to take over the ranch and carry on his family name. And beautiful children coming into the world is always a blessed event.”

He could see the truthfulness in her eyes this time. They were not conspiring blue eyes. They held that tenderness and depth of sorrow he couldn’t fathom. No matter what the circumstances of her divorce, she was generous to put the innocent babies before her own wounds.

When she slipped into the woods, saying she had to haul water, he watched her proud, retreating form. But as soon as she thought she was out of his view, she slumped against the nearest tree, as if crumpling beneath a heavy blow. For some unknown reason, his heart trembled along with hers.

Had he done that to her?

“I’ve got some mighty interestin’ news,” Ellie said a week later when she came to retrieve Donald after his day of work. She’d brought her older boy, Pierce, to carry the crate of heavy jam preserves that she was using as payment for her care. “I heard it in the mercantile today.”

Standing in the warm sunset trimming bushes, Amanda motioned to red-haired, sixteen-year-old Pierce to take the jams into the shack to Grandma, then focused on Ellie. She smoothed her fallen strands of strawberry hair into her top-knot bun, the movement causing her pregnant belly to protrude beneath her apron. The tender image brought a smile to Amanda’s lips.

She and Ellie were spending lots of time together. It was wonderful to have a friend to confide in, although Amanda hadn’t yet been able to share her deepest personal problems.

Ellie watched Pierce walk to the shack. It seemed whatever she had to say, she’d say it when her son was out of earshot.

Tom and Donald glanced up from where they were hinging a cedar door onto the new root cellar, which they’d built into the side of a small hill. The clearing for the cabin had been leveled, and the six-by-six boards laid for the floor. Toward the back of the structure, where the kitchen would be, a shiny water pump handle protruded three feet above the new well. It was starting to shape up nicely, and Amanda was counting down the days when she’d no longer have to work with Tom Murdock. The sting of their last argument still burned in her cheeks.

Her divorce was still no one’s business but hers.

She knew it wasn’t Tom’s fault that he’d been the messenger about William’s new sons.

After this year’s winter, the coldest blizzard they’d had in decades, she’d heard William had lost half his cattle in the freeze. Knowing how difficult that struggle must have been for his wife, Amanda was happy the young woman had healthy babies to keep her company.

But Amanda’s argument with Tom just went to prove how different they were.

She watched the rich outline of his shoulders as he heaved on the door. Did he know she’d lost a baby? She doubted it. He hadn’t mentioned it when they’d argued. Neither she nor William had registered the baby’s birth—as most parents didn’t—so the Mounties wouldn’t have easily discovered it.

“What is it?” Amanda asked after Pierce had disappeared inside. She offered her friend a chair.

Ellie preferred to stand. “Two orphans are comin’ to town.”

“Orphans?” Amanda felt her pulse rush in surprise.

“It’s too bad your cabin’s not built yet, aye, Amanda, or you could take ’em.”

Amanda’s mind began to race with possibilities. With hope. “Who are they?”

“Their pa was a telegrapher fer the CP Railway, and he’d been workin’ up at the camp that was surveyin’ the land north of here, at Lake Louise. Two years ago he and his wife drowned in a canoein’ accident. One of the older women in camp has been lookin’ after the children, but I hear her rheumatism’s gettin’ the better of her, and she can’t get around anymore.”

“Do they have any other family?”

“An aunt somewhere in Quebec, I hear, but the rumor is—” Ellie rushed forward and lowered her voice “—she’s got a terrible marriage, with five children of ’er own. She doesn’t want any more mouths to feed.”

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