The wild west awaits...

Any other socialite would view being packed off to a remote Oregon ranch as a punishment. But Gracelyn Riley knows that this is her opportunity to become a real reporter. If she can make her name through an interview with the elusive hero known as Striker, then she’ll never have to depend on anyone ever again.

Rancher Trevor Cruz can’t believe his secret identity is being endangered by an overly chatty city girl. But if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that Gracie’s pretty little snooping nose is bound to get her in trouble. So he’ll use her determination to find “Striker” to keep an eye on her…and stick close by her side.

“Mr. Cruz, it is coincidental we’re heading the same way. Don’t you find it strange?”

“What I find strange, Miss Riley, is that you were able to keep your mouth closed for more than a minute.”

“I don’t think it necessary to be so negative. You don’t need to address me as miss. You may use my Christian name. Mr. Cruz?”

“Gracie, I’ve been traveling all day. You’re a nice girl, but I’m tired. I don’t want to talk.”

“Oh.” Gracie swallowed. “My apologies.” A nice girl indeed.

She was more than a girl—she was a woman. A capable, independent woman who didn’t need to rely on her parents or some unwanted fiancé for survival. And she’d prove it. She would find Striker and write an amazing article so the Women’s Liberator would hire her as an investigative reporter. Then she’d tell Striker what she thought of him.

A man should know when a woman fell madly in love with him.

JESSICA NELSON

In keeping with her romantic inclinations, Jessica Nelson married two days after she graduated high school. She believes romance happens every day and thinks the greatest, most intense romance comes from a God who woos people to himself with passionate tenderness. When Jessica is not chasing her three beautiful, wild little boys around the living room, she can be found staring into space as she plots her next story. Or she might be daydreaming about a raspberry mocha from Starbucks. Or thinking about what kind of chocolate she should have for dinner that night. She could be thinking of any number of things, really. One thing is for certain, she is blessed with a wonderful family and a lovely life.

Love on the Range
Jessica Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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And ye shall seek me, and find me,

when ye shall search for me with all your heart.

—Jeremiah 29:13

Many thanks to my awesome family and friends, who have supported and encouraged me from the moment they found out I wanted to write books for a living.

I am in deep gratitude to those who have helped refined my writing skills while encouraging me to keep growing. These wonderful ladies have read my awkward sentences, plot holes and mean characters yet still managed to make me feel like my stories were important. Huge thanks to my Friday Crit Group: Linda Glaz, Camille Eide, Emily Hendrickson, Cheryl Linn Martin and Karla Akins. You girls rock!

Love to Anita Howard, my POM, a fabulous author who has read everything I ever wrote and still says I’m a good writer.

Big thanks to my blogger pals Eileen Watson and Terri Tiffany. Their advice for this story was invaluable to me.

To my agent, Les Stobbe, who is knowledgeable, supportive and always available to answer my many questions.

I’d like to give a heartfelt thank you to my editor, Emily Rodmell, for liking my manuscript enough to make me a published author!

The biggest thanks to Jesus, who put this love of writing in my heart. He’s awesome!

Contents

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

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

Harney County, Oregon, 1918

Obsession was the way in which madness lay.

Despite that annoying truth, Gracelyn Riley couldn’t stop scanning the train platform for Special Agent Striker as she disembarked. People bustled everywhere, stirring up dust. Nearby, a mother held her toddler close while passengers crowded around her. Boards groaned and voices rose as people scattered, looking for their luggage and rides.

The whistle shrieked a warning to those lagging on the platform. The train had stopped briefly at this desolate Oregon county station before continuing on to California.

Gracie had hesitated traveling to this vast and untamed land until she’d learned Special Agent Striker lived here. He was the only reason she could endure going to a place as dreary as this. Though her parents considered traveling alone unsafe, even in these modern days, the threat of influenza loomed larger than their worries and prompted them to send their only daughter west. Had the fear of grippe not been so severe, her parents would surely still have her strapped to their sides.

Once she’d learned Striker made his home here, her plans changed. She’d finagled the promise of a coveted position as a staff writer with the Woman’s Liberator if she could procure an interview with the elusive agent. Sweet independence was within her grasp.

Unfortunately, she didn’t see among the passengers anyone who looked dangerous enough to be the mysterious Striker.

She stood on the platform until the crowds thinned and the train rolled away on a cloud of steam. Squinting, she turned a slow circle. Though several wagons parked nearby, they all looked full and their drivers busy.

Where was her ride?

Gathering her things, she walked to a bench situated outside the station door and sat. Her trunks remained inside. No doubt when the driver arrived, he’d go in and retrieve them. In the distance, mountains jutted into a never ending sky. Sparse landscape surrounded her.

She shuddered and pulled Jane Eyre from her Dotty bag.

A shadow fell over her.

“Ma’am, is this seat open?”

She looked up. The man beside her waited for an answer. With the setting sun behind him, the broad brim of his cowboy hat shadowed his face and hid all but his straight nose and strong chin.

“Yes, it is.” The bench at the other end of the platform held a family whose kids shrieked and laughed. Smiling, she moved to the side for the stranger. She remembered seeing him on the train, a lone figure in a back seat. Aloof and unapproachable.

Some exotic, spicy scent filled the air as he sat, and she slid him a look. He was rather handsome, though not in the way she was used to. This man wouldn’t fit in at a fancy Boston dinner party. His broad shoulders and tanned skin spoke of a ruggedness to which she was quite unaccustomed. These attributes intrigued her.

What did he do for a living? For the first time since embarking on this wretched trip, her fingers itched to jot down observations on the small pad of paper she always kept nearby.

The stranger must have felt her scrutiny because he took his hat off, placed it in his lap and eyed her in return.

A jagged scar traveled from above his right brow, down his cheekbone to the hairline near his ear. Striker was also rumored to be scarred, though she’d not heard of where in particular. No doubt Striker bore many evidences of his heroic feats. Her gaze traced the puckered skin on the stranger’s face. Perhaps she should’ve felt embarrassed to have been caught staring. But after the emotional upheaval of being forced to leave home and left to flounder alone on a loud, smelly train, the tiny flicker of interest flaring within caught her by surprise and loosened her tongue.

“How do you do, sir?” She held out her hand in the way she’d lately observed others from the barren West do.

He didn’t shake her hand. Instead, one thick black brow rose.

Gracie struggled to keep the polite smile on her face as she withdrew her unshaken hand. Shame flooded through her. So much for skirting her gentle upbringing. She fiddled with the folds of her dress suit.

The stranger’s gaze was dark, his eyes shards of obsidian. His strong jaw emphasized narrow cheekbones while that wicked-looking scar slashed angrily across his features. Not a face as perfect as Hugh’s or Father’s, but overall, quite an interesting study. He stared at her in such an odd way, cold and intent. Her throat clenched.

Say something. Anything.

“This grippe outbreak is horrible, isn’t it? My parents are sending me to stay with an uncle until the influenza clears up,” she blurted.

His scar crinkled with his forehead but he still said nothing.

“I don’t mind the trip, though,” she continued, “because I’ve heard Special Agent Striker has been spotted in Burns several times.”

“You heard wrong.”

He had a wonderful voice. Deep and masculine. Warmth spread across Gracie’s face. “I’m quite sure I have not heard wrong, sir. My sources are reliable. I assume you’re familiar with Striker and his many feats?”

The man’s mouth compressed into a thin line. “Do you usually hold conversations with strange men? Don’t have much common sense, do you?”

“Sir, I’ll remind you that you sat beside me. I have plenty of common sense, thank you very much.” Her shoulders stiffened. “And I do have protection.”

“Who?” The stranger made a pretense of looking around, then he pinned her with a dark look.

“God protects me.”

“God.” The stranger’s eyes glinted. “If someone snatched you right now, no one could stop him.”

Interesting words. Gracie peered more closely at him, determined to find out more. “If you’re referring to Mendez, the notorious kidnapper of women, I must inform you Striker will finish him for good. He’s from the West,” she added.

“Mendez?”

“No, Striker. He enforces the Mann Act of 1910 by chasing down kidnappers and criminals who perform evil deeds.” Also known as the White Slave Traffic Act, it had been established to keep women from being transported across state lines for immoral purposes. “My uncle’s home is near Burns, a town Striker is rumored to frequently visit. I’m hoping for an exclusive interview designed to prove his honor.” And to jump-start her career.

“Honor?” The man beside her snorted. “From what I hear, the man’s a skilled assassin.”

“Rumors.” Her lips clamped tight.

His fingers steepled. “You haven’t heard of the Council Bluff skirmish?”

The fiasco had made only a few papers back East. Government officials didn’t want the public to hear how the innocent died during a routine raid of an outlaw’s hideout.

“Striker did what was necessary. He would never kill in cold blood.”

The stranger’s mouth twisted. “But, they say, that is exactly what he did.”

“There’s an explanation.” Gracie clutched at the pocket in her skirt where she’d placed her news articles. “I intend to prove it.”

She forced herself to relax and took a deep breath. A subject change was in order because she did not intend to argue with a stranger. Not about her beloved Striker. “Where are you heading, sir?”

He studied her, and she thought he might continue in the controversial vein, but he didn’t. “I’ve been out of town on business, but I’m heading back to Burns. The name’s Trevor Cruz.”

“I’m Gracelyn Riley, of the Boston Rileys who came over years and years ago.” She paused for breath before continuing. “That is quite the scar you have. Do you mind telling me what happened?”

When his eyes slit into narrow cracks, a sense of foreboding crawled down Gracie’s spine. Perhaps it was a painful story and her question intruded on his grief. Mother’s voice echoed in her mind: Always asking questions. Try to pretend to be a lady for once.

Mr. Cruz’s expression cleared. “Got it when I was twelve, cutting some barbed wire for a fence. I sliced it wrong and the wire snapped up and got me right there.” His finger rubbed the scar lightly. “Guess I was lucky not to lose my eye.” He shrugged. “Never met a lady interested in my scar.”

“Perhaps because it makes you look dangerous. In a good way,” she added, not wanting to further offend him.

Her gaze lit upon his scar again and she frowned. “It’s such an evil-looking scar that I rather thought something horrendous must have happened for you to get it. Something besides being cut with barbed wire.”

“I’m sorry my scar is not more exciting for you, Miss Riley…Gracelyn.”

Had she spoken aloud? A horrible heat rushed through her body.

“That’s okay,” she stuttered, unable to meet what would surely be a disapproving gaze. If only her uncle would arrive. She searched her surroundings. The family was leaving and the approaching dusk whittled their shapes into shadows as they climbed aboard a wagon.

Two tethered horses waited at the edge of the platform. Their harnesses tinkled every few minutes with their movements and the sound reminded her of music. She turned to Mr. Cruz, hoping to distract him from her rudeness.

“Do you enjoy the music of Joe Oliver, from New Orleans? My father says he wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Oliver becomes known as the king of jazz, he’s that good. Jazz is lovely, much better than classical, don’t you agree?”

“I prefer the outdoors, ma’am.”

“You do not enjoy music, Mr. Cruz?”

“Not jazz or classical. I like natural sounds.”

“Oh, yes, nature’s music. Do you mind explaining?” Might as well enjoy the conversation because there was no escaping the scourge of her thoughtless tongue.

Mr. Cruz’s eyes bored into Gracie. Her chest constricted. This man affected her in quite a strange manner.

“I’m not articulate. You’d have to hear it to understand.” His lips curved into a wry smile. “You’re young.”

“I am only twenty, it’s true.” She held his gaze. “But perhaps I understand your meaning.”

Mr. Cruz’s eyebrow rose. Did his raised brow mean he invited more conversation?

“I’m well acquainted with the sounds of nature. Before dawn I like to walk down to the ports. The fog is often thick and when I first reach the docks all I hear is the water pushing and lapping against the wooden posts. Then, slowly, the world awakes. Seagulls call to each other, high, piercing shrieks.” Feeling faintly encouraged by the steady attention he gave her, she continued. “The sounds of fishermen drawing up nets and shouting orders drift to me. And the sun slices through the fog like a blade through fine silk. On those mornings, I am certain God is much more than the boring entity talked about in stuffy, silent churches. I am certain He’s beautiful, and that He sings through his creation. Is this like the music you mean?”

He jammed his hat back on his head. “I was referring to nature, not God. Do your parents know you go out in the mornings like that?”

Bristling, she lifted her chin. “Mr. Cruz, must you keep talking as if I’m a child? Does it really matter what they know about? The point is, God made nature and we see His glory through it. If you enjoy the sounds of nature, you’re really just enjoying an aspect of the character of God.”

That annoying black brow of his arched again. Then he leaned back and tipped his hat over his face, as though dismissing her.

“Miss Riley,” he drawled. “I don’t believe in God.”

A shocked gasp escaped Miss Riley’s lips and for a moment Trevor thought he might be given the gift of silence. No such luck.

“Oh, Mr. Cruz!” From beneath the rim of his hat he saw Miss Riley’s thick-fringed eyes widen. “How lonely you must be.”

Trevor’s jaw clenched. Time to stop being drawn in by her big brown eyes. He stood up, shoulders stiff.

“I think I’ll get a paper. Pleasant meeting you, Miss Riley.” He walked to the station’s entry, turning back only once to see her staring after him, sympathy twisting her soft features.

Was he going to have to put up with her for months on end? He couldn’t believe his senior partner, Lou Riley, had agreed to let his niece stay with them. And then he’d sent Trevor to check her out and make sure she wasn’t followed back to the ranch.

Trevor bought a paper in the station and then returned outside. Miss Riley bent over a book and didn’t appear to notice his exit. Quickly he turned on his heel and claimed the bench newly vacated at the other end of the depot. He cast Miss Riley another glance once at a safe distance.

A mass of flowing, dark hair covered her profile as she read. He groaned, wishing Lou had sent him on business anywhere else but here.

Truth was, he’d rather run the risk of contracting influenza than have to deal with some shallow socialite spouting nonsense about her nonexistent God. And there was her interest in Striker…

He settled back and opened the paper. It was unfortunate this Miss Riley knew so much about Striker’s whereabouts. Maybe something had been leaked to the papers. He thumbed through but found nothing except a small paragraph focusing on Mendez’s latest foiled kidnapping attempt.

His mouth quirked.

Mendez didn’t have the success rate he used to. The knowledge almost made him happy. Almost, but not quite, because on the train a grizzled man had caught Trevor’s attention. Though the man pretended to look out a window, Trevor had felt his perusal.

The watcher had looked familiar, the stink of an outlaw settling about his person.

Trevor rubbed his chin. The man had gotten off at an earlier stop, but that didn’t keep his suspicions from being raised.

A clatter diverted his thoughts as a well-used wagon rolled up to the platform. Finally. He grabbed his traveling bag and sauntered over.

“’Bout time, old man.”

“Stock got out.” James, Lou’s cowhand, among other things, grunted and took the satchel from Trevor. He nodded toward the station. “That the girl?”

“Yep.”

They turned to look at Lou’s niece. She must’ve seen James’s arrival because she hesitantly picked her way toward them. Probably reluctant to believe she’d be riding in a wagon, if he had to venture a guess.

“While she’s getting settled I’ll grab some water for the horses,” Trevor told James.

By the time he lugged two pails over, Miss Riley was nowhere to be seen. He plopped the water in front of the team and squared his gaze on James. “Where’d she go?”

“Said she’s got luggage.”

Trevor glanced toward the station. Sure enough, she stumbled off the platform toting the biggest piece of luggage he’d ever seen.

Women.

Biting back annoyance, Trevor walked over to her. Apparently she thought pulling the trunk might work better than lifting it.

“Why don’t you let me handle this?” he said to the back of her head.

The trunk thudded to the ground. Miss Riley fell with it, sprawling in an unladylike heap. Faster than he could draw his Colt revolver, she bounded to her feet and frantically began brushing at her clothes.

“Mr. Cruz…?”

“We have the same destination. Allow me to help you.” He gestured to the trunk.

She stepped aside. “Thank you.”

They walked to the wagon, and he stowed her trunk in the back. He offered her his hand. She took it.

The warmth of her hand was discomfiting. With his help, she climbed easily into the back of the wagon where a blanket lay bundled near the bags, waiting for her.

She smiled down at him, her lips a soft curve in the deepening night, and for a fraction of a second he found himself tempted to smile back.

He released her hand, gave a curt nod and headed to his side of the wagon. Night had arrived and stars filled Oregon’s sky, lighting the vast openness surrounding them. He emptied the buckets and stuck them in the wagon next to Miss Riley, then hopped up to the front.

James snapped the reins. “It’s not proper-like for a lady to be traveling at night with two men. Best get moving before someone sees and starts yapping their mouths.” He spit a stream of tobacco juice toward the ground.

They set out, Miss Riley quiet and still behind him.

Was she thinking about Striker? Making plans to find him for that outlandish interview?

Trevor’s jaw clenched. As long as things remained in his control, Striker would never be found.

Chapter Two

Oregon might not be so awful. As the wagon lurched forward, the deep sea of stars speckling the night sky filled Gracie with awe.

Gracie grabbed a thick blanket and draped it over her shoulders, making sure it bunched behind her back to protect her from the rickety wagon sides. This was the oldest Studebaker she’d ever seen.

Mr. Riley and James sat at the front in silence. For a while the only sound was the occasional snort of a horse, the clop of their hooves and James spitting.

As James drove, Gracie wondered about Uncle Lou. She hoped he was interesting. She and her best friend Connie had discussed all the qualities he might have—humor, irony, mischievousness. Gracie liked to think of him as a funny old man, a little on the heavy side with tufts of hair sprouting from unlikely places. But he couldn’t be too old as he was her father’s little brother and Father was only forty.

Mother didn’t like Uncle Lou, and Father had nothing good to say about him. In fact, now that she thought about it, the reasons for their dislike had never been made clear. She had only heard Uncle Lou was unfitting, a rascal and irresponsible. He must be poor, also. Why else would he pick her up in some outdated wagon when he could send a motor vehicle?

His quirks, however, might very well work in her favor when she unveiled her plan to him.

After five minutes of interminable boredom, she decided to initiate a conversation. “Mr. Cruz, it is coincidental we’re heading the same way. Don’t you find it strange?”

“What I find strange, Miss Riley, is that you were able to keep your mouth closed for more than a minute.”

An odd gargled sound came from James’s direction, and Gracie frowned into the darkness.

“I don’t think it necessary to be so obtuse. Besides, you don’t need to address me as ‘Miss.’ You may use my Christian name. People call me Gracie.” She took a breath. “Do you live near Uncle Lou?”

More noises came from James and his shoulders began shaking uncontrollably. The sound of his hoarse wheezing filled the night air.

Alarm spiked through her, tingling to her fingertips. Was James suffering heart palpitations? She leaped to her feet, despite the bouncing floor, and grabbed the reins from his slack hands. The horses tensed and, sensing a strange driver, began to gallop. A miraculously recovered James jerked the reins from her hands.

“What’re you doing, woman? Are you mad?” His angry voice snapped at her.

Ears burning, she pulled the blanket over herself and huddled on the floor of the wagon. James hadn’t been having a heart attack, only a laughing fit. At her expense. What a rude man. And Mr. Cruz let her stand there and make a fool of herself.

Men from the West had bad manners.

Gracie shifted. Just because no one had taught these two how to act in front of a lady didn’t mean she would forsake her polite upbringing.

The temptation to pout passed. A few moments later she felt brave enough to pop her head out from beneath the heavy blanket. “My apologies, James, for stealing your reins. As I was asking earlier, are you my uncle’s neighbor, Mr. Cruz?”

“I manage things for him. My own home is half a mile from the main house.”

“You said nothing of your relationship at the station.” Silence greeted her comment. Frowning, she studied Mr. Cruz’s profile. He evidently didn’t wish to speak of his personal life.

Well, people were entitled to their secrets. She’d have to take care not to pry. Ignoring the curiosity that made her tongue itch, she forced a jovial tone. “My parents have called Uncle Lou a rascal.”

“Oh, he had his day, missy. He had his day,” James put in.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t provided a female escort. I feel perfectly safe with you but if this happened in Boston, my reputation would suffer.”

“This from the morning wanderer.”

“I didn’t say my reputation was perfect, Mr. Cruz.” Gracie smiled at the thought. Her torch-carrying for Striker had set tongues wagging. Her former beau Hugh disapproved immensely.

“Some say Striker lives out West, despite what you told me, Mr. Cruz. Others hypothesize the villain Mendez roams the Western deserts, too.” She gazed up at the star-studded sky. “Do you suppose I might meet Striker while I’m here?”

“Doubt it,” James said.

Gracie set her chin. Perseverance would be the key. So would the coordinates Connie planned to send.

“You’ll like your uncle, Gracelyn. He doesn’t follow all the rules of society but he’s a good man.” Mr. Cruz turned and looked down at her, his profile outlined by moonlight.

Heart thumping a strange, uneven rhythm, she met his shadowed gaze. For a moment their connection held before he broke it by facing forward. A relief. She could breathe again. He incited such oddness in her.

Thank goodness she’d ended her relationship with Hugh. She’d had none of this attraction for him. In truth, their relationship was based on nothing more than the mutual machinations of their parents. They’d hardly courted before she spotted a betrothal announcement in the local newspaper. Aghast, she’d confronted her parents but they’d waved away her protests in favor of their own agenda.

Just thinking about how Hugh and her parents tried to swindle her into an engagement heated her blood. William and Edith Riley thought Hugh the perfect social match for their sole child, and Hugh’s parents were probably eager for all the money they imagined would come into the family.

Gracie sighed. She hadn’t benefitted by having an on-paper fiancé. Not even a real kiss. He pecked her cheek once before she’d seen the announcement. A most boring experience. She wanted a kiss like Connie had experienced. Connie said kissing was terribly exciting, but risky, and Gracie should wait until she was married to try it out.

But she didn’t want to wait. She wanted to grab life by the steering wheel and drive until she ran out of road. Connie was most likely right, however.

Gracie also wanted to please God. Pleasing Him was of the utmost importance.

“Are you still alive down there?”

“Yes, James. But just barely with all this bouncing around.”

“You almost made five minutes again.”

“The fact that I did not is your fault, you know,” she teased. “I’d really like to hear more about Uncle Lou.”

“Look, missy, ya gotta meet him to know him.” James cackled. “His stories rival a good Tom Swift tale.”

“How intriguing.” She smiled. “I enjoy Twain myself. He’s swell.”

“Silly women,” James muttered.

She waited for Mr. Cruz to speak, curious. But he didn’t say a word. “Mr. Cruz?”

“Gracie, I’ve been traveling all day. You’re a nice girl, but I’m tired and I don’t feel like talking.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “My apologies.” She arranged the blanket to make a pillow out of it and laid her head down. A nice girl indeed.

She was more than a girl—she was a woman. A capable, independent woman who didn’t need to rely on her parents or some unwanted fiancé for survival. And she’d prove it. Her fingers found the hidden pocket in her skirt and she squeezed, relief coursing through her when she heard the rustle of papers. She would find Striker and write an amazing article so the Woman’s Liberator would hire her as an investigative reporter. Then she’d tell Striker what she thought of him.

A man should know when a woman fell madly in love with him.

* * *

Gracie coughed. A cloud of tobacco-stained breath wrenched her from sleep, had her rubbing her eyes. She pulled herself to a sitting position and sneezed.

“We’re here, missy,” James said, straightening away from her. The wagon bounced as he jumped out and rounded to its side.

She rose, letting him help her from the wagon to the ground. Both Mr. Cruz and James had picked her up easily. Perhaps she wasn’t as heavy as she felt.

“What you got in that get-up, missy? Felt like I was unloading a sack of potatoes.” James guffawed.

Gracie shot him a glare and snatched her Dotty bag from his grubby fingers. She glanced around. Mr. Cruz was nowhere to be seen. It was rather rude to not help with the trunk. Then again, he did load it.

Annoyance passing, she looked around with interest. Her breath caught in her throat.

Flat land stretched before her, frosted beneath the lunar glow. Dotting the landscape were trees surrounded by a sea of flowing grasses and scrubs made turquoise by the moon. Long-fingered shadows reached toward rugged mountains on the horizon. A soft breeze fluttered through her hair.

This place felt different than Boston, more arid and vast, yet the pressure in her chest mimicked what she experienced on mornings she dared venture to the harbor. She was overcome with a desire to raise her hands to the heavens and laugh.

“You gonna stand there all night, missy? Bed’s a-calling.”

Gracie turned and followed James to the house, noting with a quiet thrill of relief that it appeared large and modern. She’d been secretly afraid her uncle lived in a shack with an outhouse. She didn’t know if they had outhouses in Oregon, but the West was a more primitive place than Boston. One could never know about these things.

A chill rushed through her and she shivered. “Is it usually this cold in September?”

“We’re heading into winter soon, maybe an early one.”

Although shorter than she, James walked faster, even holding her heavy trunk, and she hurried to catch up to him.

“It’s so dark already. Where’s Mr. Cruz?”

“Trev gets up early so he’s gone to bed down for the night. Lou’s waiting for you. You both talk more than a roomful of women. You’ll get on real well.”

“This is a beautiful home.” Gracie stopped to gaze at the splendid pillars that flanked each end of the porch. “You must see all kinds of animals. Do you have bears here?”

When James snorted loudly, Gracie tamped down her frustration. What a grumpy man.

They climbed the porch stairs, their steps a hollow clumping on the wood. The door looked to be made of heavy oak, with a diamond-shaped glass placed in the middle. Just like home. A sharp, unexpected pain of homesickness squeezed Gracie’s chest. Drawing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. She had a plan, and focusing on that was her best course of action.

She turned to James. “Does Uncle Lou own a telephone?”

James grunted and pulled the door open.

“I really need to reach Connie,” she continued, hoping his grunt was not a negative. She absolutely had to obtain those coordinates.

As they moved into the house, warmth embraced Gracie. James turned on the lights. When her eyes adjusted, she saw a young man standing at the end of the hallway, shaggy blond hair framing a handsome face and eyes like sapphires. He strode toward her, and Gracie realized he was not as young as he appeared from afar. Lines wrinkled around his eyes as his mouth curved into a mischievous smile. A light spray of scars pebbled one cheek, though she might not have noticed if she hadn’t been studying him so hard. He was the spitting image of Father, minus the gray hairs and stately air.

“Uncle Lou?”

“You look just like Edith.” He strode forward on long legs, though he stood only an inch or so taller than she, and grasped both her hands. “How was the trip? Not too boring, I hope. And the wagon?”

“Just fine.” She smiled at him. “No one ever told me I look like my mother. Do you really think so?” It was a compliment indeed to resemble a woman as attractive as Edith.

“I thought you were her at first.” He shot her a wide grin, exposing straight white teeth. “Let’s go into the sitting room.” He motioned to a door on her left. James, grumbling about being chauffeur, escaped through a door at the far end of the hall.

Gracie followed her uncle into the sitting room and settled on a couch. She glanced around. Comfort was the first impression she felt, followed by loneliness. The room looked barren of personal mementos. Curiosity stirred.

“I apologize for the wagon ride,” Uncle Lou said, after a striking Indian woman brought a tray of refreshments. “James refuses to drive my car.”

Gracie reached for a cookie off the platter. “Quite all right. I’m here now.”

“It’s a shame about this influenza going around. But don’t worry, my dear girl. You’ll be safe here.” The crackling flames from the fireplace highlighted an impish twinkle in his eyes. “Now let me tell you of my travels….”

They spent the rest of the evening together, eating as they talked. It didn’t take long for her to realize how alike they were. He talked quite a bit for a man, and she learned he’d owned his ranch for ten years and never intended to live back east again.

Uncle Lou delighted her. She could not fathom why Mother and Father disapproved of him. He regaled her with remarkably funny jokes and adventurous tales. Despite their camaraderie, she held back on unveiling her plans for finding Striker. When the hour grew late, he promised to continue his stories tomorrow and showed her to her room.

Weary, Gracie readied for bed. She grabbed the papers from the inner pocket of her soiled suit and set them on the bed. She washed from a small basin on the dresser, and then donned her undergarments. They were silk and, after the grueling day, their smooth coolness was a luxury that made her sigh. After recording the details of her day onto her notepad, she slid into the welcome comfort of bed. She slipped the articles mentioning Striker beneath her pillow.

Connie thought she was crazy, but Gracie couldn’t help but be intrigued by the elusive government agent. Rumors said he was an older man, and without conscience, but Connie’s cousin reported otherwise. According to her, Striker had rescued her from a band of uncouth men who’d snatched her from her very own backyard in California.

Gracie needed to secure an interview with him if she was ever going to break free from her parents and live her own life.

Snuggling against her pillow, she breathed deeply and prayed for success.

Chapter Three

Trevor sat his mount high above Lou’s ranch and inhaled the crisp morning air. Below him Lou’s housekeeper, Mary, hung laundry. Gracie probably still slept, tuckered out by her long trip. He studied Mary. Was she happy here, in constant hiding?

She seemed content in her role, happy to clean and have a quiet life.

Not like Gracie. He remembered his impressions of her on the train, long before she’d officially met him at the station. Trouble, he’d thought.

Like Council Bluff.

Because the screams from that fiasco still rang in his ears, he focused on Lou’s niece.

So far, Gracie had proven curious but easy. He had to just keep her from going into Burns and stirring up interest in Striker.

He scanned the horizon. Mendez and his men were holed up somewhere in these mountains, searching for Mary, waiting for a chance to snatch the prey that had escaped Mendez so many years ago.

Trevor would make sure the only chance they got was to meet an unofficial noose.

That was Striker’s job, after all. He chased down criminals that the higher-ups didn’t have the time or knowledge to find, apprehending them and bringing them in. As the investigator beneath Lou, Trevor both reported to him and received cases from him. Lou was a senior investigator who’d been with the bureau since its formation beneath Chief Examiner Finch.

Bringing in Mendez was Trevor’s longest-running case but he’d determined to do it this year. Based on what he’d seen on the train, Mendez was getting loony. In the last year, Mendez had ramped up his efforts to find Striker. Sending henchmen to scour the countryside for Mary, wanting to use her to find the man who’d rescued her and foiled his kidnapping.

Mary had been Mendez’s first victim. A spontaneous deal that started an illegal thousand-dollar enterprise the government was still working to shut down. Quietly, of course.

But Trevor wanted to be done with all that.

The land called to him. It was time to settle down, own a ranch. No woman deserved the baggage he carried, though. Could he be content on his own? He’d been alone too many years to count. Maybe since he’d been a boy, even. His parents hadn’t offered any kind of protection or companionship, had never given him a reason to want a relationship with anyone, but the urge for a family niggled at him.

He pushed the feeling to the side. With a past like his, he didn’t deserve a wife. His mouth relaxed as he watched Mary go into the house. A short career, one he excelled at but didn’t love, would end with this assignment, even if the guilt didn’t.

And he’d get the one thing he longed for more than a home.

No more blood on his hands.

* * *

Gracie awoke to warm light streaming through large, arched windows into a spacious bedroom. She stretched her arms above her head, yawned and absorbed her new surroundings with all the famed curiosity of a cat.

Simplicity made the small room lovely. A bright, multicolored rug covered the honey-hued oak floor. A gilt mirror hung over a large wooden dresser in front of the bed. The bed had four large posts and the ivory quilt that draped it was warm and soft.

She swung her legs out of the bed and then began tidying up. Her jewels went into a far corner of the closet, shadowed by angles. They’d come in handy should she need to travel across the country in pursuit of Striker. Better yet, if she procured an interview and the Woman’s Liberator sent her on assignment, she’d be financially sound. She’d brought only some of her valuables; a few for sentiment, a few for wear and a few for hocking, should the need arise.

After they were stowed safely away, she unpacked her clothes into the heavy dresser, and then set about trying to make the bed, a chore usually taken care of by maids at home. But this is a new place, she reminded herself. Her fingers tucked the sheets beneath the mattress. There were still wrinkles in the middle of the bed.

She tugged on the sheet.

More wrinkles.

In the end, she contented herself with straightening the covers across the mattress as best she could. She’d just dressed in an olive-green blouse and matching skirt when a knock sounded.

“Coming.” She pulled the door open.

The Indian servant she’d seen last night stood in the hallway, holding a pile of linens. “May I come in?”

Gracie nodded and the woman glided into the room, more graceful than a monarch butterfly. Dozens of questions sprang to Gracie’s mind but she bit her lip and waited for the servant to speak first.

“I’m Mary, the housekeeper.” She rolled the R in her name, her sentence ending with a charming lilt. Dark brown eyes rested on Gracie. “I’ve brought you some clean linens, and breakfast is waiting downstairs. I hope you like omelets. Lou didn’t tell me anything about you so I just mixed up something quick.”

“Omelets sound wonderful. You have a darling accent.”

Mary stepped forward, holding up the pile of linens. “Where would you like these?”

“Wherever you wish. Don’t let me get in the way. Are you Indian? You sound Irish. You dress just like me.” Gracie frowned down at her own subdued clothing. “But you’re much more beautiful. How many languages do you speak?”

Mary looked a bit taken aback, her mouth rounding into a soft O. Gracie flushed and bit hard on her lip to hold in any more nosy questions.

“Three languages,” Mary finally said, regaining her soft smile. “I’m Paiute and Irish. Do you want help unpacking?” She walked to the dresser and started straightening Gracie’s clothes. “I hope you brought some wool underclothes. It gets cold here. Biting cold.”

Gracie’s stomach rumbled loudly in the quiet room and she grimaced. Mother often found her appetite a source of embarrassment. “I apologize. Perhaps you can tell I need my food.”

“Nonsense,” Mary said briskly, as if she saw Gracie’s discomfort and sought to comfort her. “I’m hungry, too. Follow me.”

They walked to the dining room on the first floor and sat at an exquisite mahogany table loaded with dishes.

“I thought you made only eggs,” Gracie said.

“Oh, that’s the main meal. Lou, Trevor and James eat quite a bit. I’ve got to make plenty of biscuits and pancakes to go with the omelets.”

While Gracie admired Mary’s glossy black hair and exotic eyes, the men shuffled in and sat. Her impressions last night had been accurate. James looked just as grizzled as ever, offsetting Uncle Lou’s handsome features and Mr. Cruz’s dark ones. She wished belatedly that she’d taken more care with her appearance. She felt large and frumpy, especially sitting near the luminous Mary.

The men grumbled their greetings. Mary rose and bustled around the table, filling cups with coffee and orange juice. Gracie wanted to help, but had no idea how. She had never served anything more than tea. She also didn’t want Mr. Cruz’s attention on her. In the light of day he looked more appealing than ever, and the last thing she wanted was for him to notice her plain attire.

The men began devouring forkfuls of food, and Gracie stared in horrified amazement. All thoughts of remaining inconspicuous deserted her.

“Is anyone going to pray?”

Quiet descended. Forks stopped in midair and four pairs of eyes turned her way. Uncle Lou spoke first.

“We don’t put much stock in prayer here, Gracie. You’re welcome to, of course, silently. Morning, by the way. Like your dress.” He resumed eating, and so did the others, while Gracie sat paralyzed with shock. She wanted to mind her own business, she really did, and her polite upbringing struggled valiantly for several seconds before it surrendered to her emotions.

“Are you jesting, Uncle Lou?” she asked carefully.

“He’s not jesting, missy. Life is harsh. If’n there’s a God, He’s a cruel one and not who we’d like to follow.”

Gracie didn’t know whether to weep with pity or laugh outright at James’s response. She stared down at her plate, silently entreating God to give her some words, some hope for these people. She looked up at last only to find everyone eating and conversing, all thoughts of God shoved to the back of their minds.

“Tell me about your business, Uncle Lou,” she said when she had regained her composure. For the rest of breakfast they monopolized the conversation with talk of business, politics and the suffrage movement. Uncle Lou, it turned out, was in favor of women getting the vote. “1912,” he said, pride swelling his voice. “We gave women that right years ago.”

“Gracie here’s a fan of jazz.” Trevor pointed his fork at her. She flushed. He’d remembered.

“Really?” Uncle Lou winked at her. “I like Jelly Roll Morton myself.”

The heat in her face hiked up a notch. “I’ve heard his morals are questionable.”

James busted out laughing. A smile played over Uncle Lou’s face. Gracie’s brows drew together, and when she glanced at Mary she noticed the other woman’s cheeks had turned scarlet.

Gracie saw Trevor studying her, a half grin catching the corners of his mouth. She caught her lip between her teeth. He found immorality amusing but seemed angered by her belief in God.

Maybe his perspective might change as they traveled the countryside searching for Striker.

* * *

Gracie almost went stir-crazy.

Four days passed before Mary agreed to take her around the ranch. She’d managed to steal a few moments each day exploring, but had spent the bulk of her time helping Mary with chores. And slipping in a few questions about Striker. Mary didn’t say much about him, though, and Uncle Lou proved exceptionally closemouthed.

After hanging laundry on the fourth day, Gracie borrowed one of Mary’s leather coats and soon they were strolling across the flat land, watching the mountains roll in the distance.

“What is that one?” Gracie pointed to a shrub near her feet.

“Bud sagebrush. It’s common around these parts. There’s some red top grass and winterfat over here.” Mary gestured to her right. The wind caught strands of hair and blew them across her high cheekbones. “Paiute use winterfat sometimes to treat fevers. The sheep eat it, too.”

Gracie studied the hoary white plants. By itself the plant looked ugly and bare. But where winterfat grew in bunches, the plant took on the appearance of a silver bouquet. The whole of Harney County took her breath away and she hadn’t even explored the mountains yet. It was unfortunate this land was so far removed from civilization.

They ambled along, Gracie listening closely as Mary pointed out various species of plants and gave little tidbits of information about the area. Then Mary stopped abruptly, her gaze resting on a peak in the distance.

Gracie squinted in that direction but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“I just remembered ironing I need to do.” Something like regret flashed across Mary’s face.

“Oh, how disappointing,” Gracie said. The brisk breeze caressed her face, carrying new and exciting scents. “Do you have to go?”

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t want to offer but forced herself to anyway. “Can I help, then?”

Mary grimaced. “No. You’ve almost been insane trying to get outside. Enjoy your walk. You’ve done more than necessary.” She hesitated. “Be careful. If you see anyone, come straight to the house.”

“Wait! Do you suppose we’ll be going into Burns anytime soon?”

“If you’re really looking for Striker, you won’t find him there.” Mary turned and picked her way to the house.

“But I need a telephone.” Gracie frowned as Mary retreated without an answer. If she knew Striker’s whereabouts, and understood why Gracie asked questions, then why had she been so evasive?

As soon as Mary became a dot on the bumpy horizon, Gracie’s gaze circled back to her surroundings. Steens Mountain rose in the distance, its snowy tips glowing in the crisp air. Mary had told her the mountains were really a single fault block, rising almost ten thousand feet in places.

Good details to get down. She pulled out her map, guessed her coordinates and refolded the map. She drew out her notepad and jotted the numbers, adding a description of the terrain. Could there be caves and hidden dwelling places in these rocks?

The back of her neck prickled. Criminals of the vilest natures could find refuge here. Would Striker? It explained the sightings in Burns and other Oregon towns.

Striker wouldn’t hide with criminals, though.

She slipped the pad of paper and folded map into her coat pocket and began to walk, stripping off the coat and tying it around her waist. In Boston she was often stuck indoors sewing, knitting, learning how to run a large household and how to balance the books. With the war going on she’d been inside much of the time, doing good deeds that left her with sore fingers and crooked stitches. Despite her longing to serve her country, there seemed to be no place where she fit.

She had wanted to join the military but her parents expressly forbid it.

Gracie had considered becoming a wartime operator but her French made people cringe.

The sight of blood caused her to faint, which ruled out nursing. Thus the uneventful good deeds such as sewing came into play.

Thankfully, there were rumors the Great War would soon end. She hoped they were true for the soldiers’ sakes as well as her own.

The sound of hooves broke her thoughts, scattering them as surely as the approaching horse shook dust from the horizon. A horseman pounded toward her, gaining ground by the second. The rider’s form sharpened into a broad-shouldered man.

Chapter Four

Heart slamming against her sternum, Gracie backed up, then realized the futility of such an endeavor. Her imagination set sail as the rider’s shape morphed into a more recognizable figure. One who wore Trevor’s conspicuous hat.

Relief rushed through her so fast her knees trembled. Trevor often came to meals but she had not been alone with him since their conversation at the train depot. She fumbled with her skirt, the memory of feeling dowdy the first morning here flustering her into a nervous state. She took a deep breath.

That was ridiculous. Gracelyn Riley did not get nervous. Especially over a man.

She straightened her shoulders, willing some starch into her backbone as the horse thundered up to her. The beast stopped mere inches from her nose. Swallowing a squeal, she stepped back.

“Hello, Trevor. What are you doing out here?” She looked up at him, shading her eyes from the morning sun.

“That would be my question for you.” His deep voice carried a sterner note than usual.

“Is there a problem with me walking in the grass?”

“Let’s just say you know nothing about the Oregon desert. Anything could happen to you out here, and you wouldn’t know how to deal with it.”

The rich scent of horse and leather floated to her. The sun warmed her cheeks and his hat cast a shadow over his face. No doubt he wore that stubborn look he’d sported on the bench.

A hot flush of anger zipped through her. Finally out from beneath her parents’ confining rules, no man was going to tell her what to do. Her shoulders stiffened. “Your presumptions about me are astounding. Move your horse so I may continue on my way.”

Trevor’s stallion shuffled in front of her, heavy hooves pounding the dirt. He looked ready to break into a gallop. He snuffled, a loud, wet and hungry sound. She eyed the large teeth warily as the horse chomped at the bit.

Perhaps a more mannerly approach would work best. “Please move your horse.”

“Why don’t I give you a ride back?”

“No, thank you. I am enjoying myself, and you seem…” She didn’t want to finish. Offending him was not in her best interests.

“Seem what?” he asked, scar quirking upward with that annoying eyebrow of his.

She backed up another step. “Uh, like you’d rather ride than walk.” She banished the word irascible to the back of her mind.

“I like walking.”

He slid off the saddle. They walked together, the horse trailing them. Gracie wanted to talk to relieve the silence, but her mind had become curiously blank. No need to talk his ear off as she’d done at the depot.

Trevor shortened his stride to match hers. For a time the horse’s plodding footsteps and the whispers of the grass in the breeze were the only sounds to keep them company.

He finally broke the silence. “What do you think of the ranch?”

“I find it charming. Have you lived here long?”

“Lou and I go way back. I knew him when he bought the place and I came to work for him shortly thereafter.”

“Do you enjoy it?” Gracie glanced at him, admiring the determination that marked his face. “The work, I mean? I’ve always thought business, besides mathematics, would be dreary.”

“I like order, structure. The thrill of competition and hunting out the perfect stock.”

She laughed. “You don’t seem adventurous, but I suppose you are, in a different sort of way.” A sigh escaped. “It is unfortunate that adventure is difficult to come by out here. A desert has little in the way of exciting activities. I fear I’ll be dreadfully bored until spring.”

Trevor snorted.

She ignored the derisive sound. “Do you plan to own your own ranch someday? Being someone else’s right-hand man is not the same as being in charge.”

“Someday I’ll buy a ranch.”

“You’d do well with it, I’m sure.”

A flicker of emotion crossed his face. “Thanks. How’s everything going for you at the house?”

“Lovely. Uncle Lou is a real sport. It’s wonderful how he financially supports the suffrage movement. Women deserve the right to participate in the choosing of our elected state representatives. Don’t you agree?”

“Change subjects quick, don’t you?”

She grimaced. “I apologize.”

Something like a smile snagged the corners of his lips.

“Women are citizens, just like any man,” he finally said after an interminably long silence.

An enlightened cowboy. For a moment, Gracie didn’t know what to say. Dragging in a deep breath, she looked over at him. “A man’s treatment of a woman’s basic rights says much of his character.”

Her toe caught against a rock and before she knew what was happening, she landed on her elbow. She winced at the sting and moved to stand.

Rattling filled the air. She stiffened, confused. Within seconds she saw the snake poised in front of her. For a second it seemed as though her heart stopped beating.

Then Trevor was beside her, raising his arm. He moved so fast she didn’t understand what he did until the rattling stopped and the only sound was gunfire echoing across the uneven landscape.

Breath shallow, Gracie stood carefully. “Thank you.” She clasped her hands tight but their shaking wouldn’t stop.

He holstered the gun, expression unreadable. “You okay?” His fingers reached toward her, then withdrew. By unspoken assent, they began to walk again, skirting around the area where the mangled carcass of a rattler must surely rest.

She wouldn’t know as she kept her gaze averted. “I see what you mean about dangers.” Good. Her voice sounded normal.

“Actually, most rattlers are curling up in crevices by now. That was strange.” He glanced at her.

Still shaky, she attempted to give him a smile and for her trouble, stumbled over a shrub again. She instinctively grabbed Trevor’s arm for support. A bright spot of red on her sleeve snagged her attention.

Blood.

The ground shifted below her. Trevor’s muscles flexed beneath her fingers as her knees lost their strength. He hauled her up and his fingers dug into her shoulders. “What’s the matter with you?” His eyes, so very dark in the morning light, searched hers.

“My pardon. The sight of blood—” she gulped “—makes me faint.”

Trevor released her and ran his hand across his chin. “You’re saying you can’t handle blood?”

Gracie knew her face must be crimson. She looked away. It was a most embarrassing disorder. “Again, my apologies.” She searched for a new topic and blurted out the first thought that came to her. “Your arms feel as though they’re hewn from rock.”

“I have reasons to stay strong.” He smirked. It transformed his face from rugged granite to soft strength.

Her heart fell faster than she could catch it.

She cleared her throat. “I suppose ranching does require strength.” She had to be mindful of her goal to find Striker for an exclusive interview. She should pick Trevor’s brain. Anything to calm her racing pulse. “Some say Striker frequents this area.”

“On to another subject now, huh?”

“Well?” They picked their way across the ground, Gracie careful to keep a respectable distance from her attractive companion.

“Who says these things?”

“The papers, people who’ve claimed to see him.”

He quirked a brow. “That so?”

“I have reason to believe he lives close by.” She studied him for a moment. “You don’t know the man, do you?” He kept walking and she shrugged. “Of course not. You do exude a dangerous edge but I don’t think you have the wild spirit to hobnob with government agents. Don’t get me wrong,” she added when he shot her a disgruntled look. “I’m sure you could handle any situation, but it’s obvious you’re a bit on the stodgy side. Besides, Striker is rumored to be an older man.”

Trevor stopped and she almost stumbled into him. He planted his hands low on his hips, looked up at the sky and groaned. His hat hung down his back. “I’m stodgy? Miss Explorer can’t find adventure in a wilderness.”

“Well, Mr. Cruz. I certainly did not mean it as an insult.”

“I know what you meant, Miss Riley.”

“Oh, look, we’re almost to the house.” Gracie pointed out the obvious and quickened her pace.

“Slow down, woman. Just meant you got a little bit of snobbishness about you.”

Snobbishness, indeed. She twisted around and eyed him. “That may be. At the moment, I do not care to debate it.”

“Ya got your skirts all twisted in a knot, don’t you, Gracie? Bet your mama wrinkles her face that way when she gets her dander up.”

Gracie didn’t remark on his outrageous words, or his sarcastic, exaggerated accent. She had one question, then she’d head up the porch steps and escape the rude man. “Do you always carry a weapon?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a reason?”

“Seems obvious enough to me. This is dangerous territory, home to more than one kind of snake.” His eyes turned serious. “Don’t go wandering by yourself, Gracie.”

“If you are referring to Mendez, Striker will take care of him. In the meantime, I’ll speak with Uncle Lou about looking around.” She used a polite but distant voice to cover her annoyance. “Thank you for walking me back.”

They parted, but once Gracie was in the warm house she rushed to the front window of the study and watched Trevor leave.

* * *

Later that day, Gracie visited Uncle Lou in his office. He had a smooth voice and smelled of sandalwood. He gave her an earful of stories about his life and local gossip but he didn’t mention Striker. As he spoke, Gracie pondered the rift between him and her parents. He seemed charming, successful, everything her parents admired. But even with all his blessings he despised the mention of God. That made her curious, too. She didn’t ask him about it because she didn’t want to be pushy.

She exercised restraint once in a while.

Eventually Uncle Lou had to leave, but not before giving her permission to use his stationery and pens. On his way out, he flicked an envelope her way, and she squealed when she recognized Connie’s tight handwriting on the front. She’d force herself to write a quick note home first, then read Connie’s letter.

If only she had a telephone, but she’d been told this area of Harney County was too distant for telephone wires. Somehow she’d get to Burns. Even if she had to walk. The coordinates she’d been given were only a guess. Connie was supposed to verify them and send more—perhaps in this letter…

Gracie finished writing home, making sure to inform her parents once again that she wouldn’t be marrying Hugh.

She left the envelopes on Uncle Lou’s desk, and then went into the hallway. A scarred oak bench sat against the wall. She sank down on its padded floral seat and ripped the letter open. Connie’s dark, bold letters jumped out. Gracie smiled and read with haste.

Dearest Gracie,

It is incredibly boring here without you. Elizabeth and Laura do not have your sense of adventure. I am writing this the day after you have left. You see, I am already resorting to letter writing to keep myself from yawning.

My dearest friend, please come home soon. I am staying indoors for the most part, as rumors of the influenza are increasing. I have heard that Anne Holbrook has it. Pray for her.

I am planning a huge party for my twenty-fifth birthday. You’ll be back by spring, no doubt.

I should have come with you to Oregon. I suppose you are having grand adventures while I am trapped in the rigid society of the Bostonians.

Not so rigid anymore, perhaps. I have bought another set of trousers. I love them, Gracie. I am convinced they are here to stay.

I love you, dearest friend. Have a wonderful experience, and I shall see you soon.

Love Always,

Connie

P.S. It is rumored Striker has gone west. Oregon or California. The ladies are all atwitter about your idea for an article. It is high time you were paid for your writing. Cousin Jane couldn’t find the coordinates she promised you. She fears they’ve been lost for good. Beware Mendez. Sources claim he’s been seen in Oregon for what could only be nefarious purposes.

Gracie lowered the letter. No coordinates? Nothing?

Footsteps sounded in the next room. Tall and lean, Trevor strode into the hall, glowering. “Is Lou in?”

“He left to go somewhere with James about an hour ago.” She stood, the letter still clutched in her grasp, and forced a smile even though her insides had sunk to her feet.

Trevor glanced at her hands. “A letter already?”

“Oh, yes, from my dearest friend, Connie. She sent it the day after I left. I suppose it came rather fast.”

“How are things back home?” He’d stopped in the middle of the hall. His hands pushed through his hair in an agitated motion—eyes distant.

“She says rumors of influenza are increasing and one of our acquaintances has caught it. Other than that, she is wondering if I have had any adventures. She longs to meet Striker, as do I.” Disheartened and a bit wary of Trevor’s mood, she rambled on. “Unfortunately, adventures in the desert are unlikely. Do you ever wish to live in the city? Somewhere exciting?”

Trevor’s eyes snapped into focus. She wished she’d bothered to straighten herself after lunch. She squared her shoulders.

“The country is just as exciting,” he said flatly.

“Perhaps I need to explore a bit more.” At least in Burns, where someone must know something of Striker. “It is dreadfully boring here, is it not, Mr. Cruz?”

Trevor frowned. She thought it boring? For a moment Gracie sounded just like Eunice and Julia. The comparison to the women he despised made his chest clench up. The fact he’d begun to like Gracie only made things worse.

He stepped forward until he towered over her. She was tall for a woman, with curves that couldn’t be hidden beneath the popular dresses, but there was something about her large doe eyes and thick brown curls that caught him unaware.

Then there was the contrast between her tendency to chatter and her ability to hold an intelligent conversation on a number of topics. At least what he’d observed during meals. He’d considered her a decent woman. Sure, he’d only known her a bit but he usually counted himself a good judge of character.

And Lou liked her.

But, barring Mary, she sounded as superficial as all the other women he’d known.

He stepped forward and Gracie backed up against the wall, rosy lips parting in surprise. He wanted to intimidate her. Unfortunately, she didn’t look cowed, just flustered.

“Do you usually become angry when people do not care for your desert, Mr. Cruz?”

“It’s not your opinion that bothers me but the shallowness inherent in your tone.”

“Me, shallow?” She visibly blanched, and then recovered by lifting her chin. “I apologize for my attitude. I hadn’t meant to offend you. It’s only that I’ve important things to do and instead I am stuck in a desert when I need to find Str—people, lots of people, and I cannot do that here.”

Gut tight, Trevor stepped away from Gracie. He’d heard her slip of the tongue. Considering the intelligence he’d received today, things were going from bad to worse. And now he had to deal with this…socialite. His teeth ground together. He had the sneaking suspicion she thought Oregon was home to old-time sheriffs riding down outlaws.

But beneath anger lurked interest and with effort he reined it in. She was his boss’s niece. Disregarding everything else going on in his life, that was reason enough to back away.

“Too bad you’re stuck here,” he said disdainfully, then spun to leave.

“Wait,” she called after him. “Aren’t you going to tell me why you’re so angry?”

Trevor turned and crossed his arms.

“Connie tells me I’m a good listener. She shares all her little dramas with me.” She caught her lip between her teeth. “It’s true. Connie has tons of men trouble.” Nodding, she tapped her chin with her forefinger. “Most people grow defensive because they’ve been hurt in some manner. What was I saying that irritated you? That the desert is dreadfully boring? Or was it something else entirely…?” She stopped chattering when he advanced swiftly.

A ferocious need clamored through his chest, locked his jaw.

“Are you angry again? I was just trying to help,” she stuttered, backing up a few steps.

“Gracelyn, I would suggest you go to your room and start a quilt before I do something…unseemly.”

“I assure you, Mr. Cruz, unseemly doesn’t faze me. And my sewing skills are atrocious, anyhow.” She stood rooted to her spot.

Frowning, he crossed his arms. If he suggested she don a pair of trousers and run into the mountains, she probably would, just for the fun of it.

She made a little squeak when he moved closer. Looking flushed and sounding breathless, she said, “You’re an intriguing man. Why aren’t you married yet?”

The hurt that lassoed through him was unexpected. He felt his features freeze into something tight and painful. “You just can’t help being nosy, can you?”

Then he strode down the hall and slammed out the front door into the brisk October breeze.

Chapter Five

Trevor mounted Butch in one smooth move. He nudged the stallion into a hard gallop and set out for his house. He wanted to rid himself of the tension in his shoulders. Confusion didn’t sit well on him. It was an emotion he likened to weakness.

Once at the house he let Butch graze while he grabbed his garden gloves and headed out back to yank persistent weeds from the hard soil.

The garden was his refuge. He could think there, process things. He knelt, his scuffed Levi’s kissing the dark dirt with familiar ease. He began to pull out the unwanted elements of this private world, the earth cool against his fingers. The act of working in the soil relaxed him, making him long for the simplicity that had escaped him for too many years.

He thought of the letter he’d picked up this morning. Life just kept getting more complicated.

Gracelyn Riley. What was wrong with her? What was wrong with him? One moment she acted little more than a schoolgirl, brimming with innocent optimism and naivety. The next, her soulful eyes seemed to see straight to his core. For her to ask about marriage…somehow she’d looked right into him and known he was lacking.

If she really possessed the ability to look into a soul, his would surely horrify her.

He sat back and surveyed his small patch of privacy. Not much grew now, not with autumn’s crisp breath cooling the land. Some broccoli, winter squash. The few weeds he’d pulled lay scattered beside him. The rest of the plants sprouted in straight rows across the garden, lined up in pristine order. The way he liked them.

He scowled. It’d be nice if the rest of his life would follow suit. A little less than a week of knowing Gracelyn Riley and it felt as if a tornado had come barreling through his tidy little world, destroying all sense of order and moving everything out of place.

The woman went outside at night, a dangerous habit he planned to report to Lou. Burned the clothes she ironed. Dropped dishes and couldn’t make edible biscuits. Mary oughta convince Gracie to go muck out the stables. Anything to keep the socialite away from the food and clothes.

“Trevor?”

He leaped up, fingers brushing his holster.

“Mary told me where to find you.” Gracie stood at the edge of his garden, hair askew, eyes wide. Her gaze darted around his sanctuary and for a moment he saw it through her eyes. The neat little garden, the rocking chair on the back porch and an endless view of sagebrush land ending in dark mountains situated against bright cobalt sky.

He crossed his arms. “Mary knows better than to send people here. What do you want?”

“Uh, yes.” Her fingers twisted in her skirts and a wary look crossed her face. “I know I’m nosy, have been told it a thousand times or more, but I didn’t mean to cause you pain.”

“I’m fine.” Trevor pulled his hands down his face, throat suddenly drier than the dirt at his feet. He gestured her toward his house. “I need some water.”

They walked in and he filled two cups before handing one to Gracie. She took it, a slight smile on her face. “You have a beautiful home.”

Trevor grunted and drank from his cup, the cool slide of water relieving his thirst.

Gracie set the glass on the kitchen counter. “Your house inspires good feelings. Are you the one who decorated?” She ran her fingers across the countertop. “Teak, right? So classy, elegant.” Her tone became serious. “I spoke without thinking. I’ve never tried to hurt or offend anyone purposefully with my words. Nevertheless, there is no excuse for my blabbering. Will you forgive me?”

Trevor leaned against the counter and shoved his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans. “It’s been a hard day. Broken fences and loose cattle put me in a bad mood.” And a letter that put everything dear to him in danger. “You’ve got nothing to be concerned about.”

Gracie chewed on her lip again, obviously not believing his paltry excuse. “Thank you for the water,” she said. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

“We call it supper here.” He shifted his hip against the counter.

Gracie blinked.

Trevor saw her silent scrutiny and had to brace himself. It had been a long time since he’d felt an attraction for a woman. Gracie pulled at his emotions, though, and he stamped the knowledge down with force. There were a lot of reasons not to care for her. He counted them in his head.

One, she was the boss’s niece.

Two, she was young, probably inexperienced. Though looks could be deceiving.

Three, a hypocrite. He couldn’t forget the trace of snobbery in her voice when she’d been lecturing him about the benefits of the city.

Four, he’d known the girl a short time. Yep, plenty of reasons.

Her pale hand rested on his kitchen counter and he resisted the urge to touch her skin, to see if it felt as smooth and warm as it looked.

“I need to get back. Thank you for the water,” she repeated. Her gaze slipped away, scanning his counter and stopping on a letter he’d meant to burn. It lay propped against where the counter met the wall, the handwriting legible from where he stood.

“I’ll let you out,” he said quickly.

Gracie looked up, and he could tell she’d seen too much. She didn’t ask questions like he’d expected but rather waggled her fingers at him and stepped out the door. A blast of cold slammed the door shut behind her.

Trevor watched her from the window in his living room, a lone figure huddled against a harsh wind. The sky was streaked orange by the setting sun. He should take her back in his Ford. It would be the kind thing to do. He reluctantly grabbed his hat and yelled out the front door. “Gracie, let me give you a ride. Wait up!”

She turned, the wind lashing her skirts against her legs. He led her to the back of his house where he kept his truck. She wore a small smile as she got in. The engine coughed to life, and they drove over the rough terrain, bouncing in awkward silence. He trained his gaze forward.

Gracie cleared her throat. “I didn’t notice the lack of a road when I walked over.”

“No need for one.” Trevor concentrated on avoiding shrubs. It helped him ignore her perfume, some flowery scent that made him think of spring.

“Thank you for driving me back. The weather turned colder than I expected.”

“Winter’s coming,” he said, voice terse.

“I’ve always loved winter, how it shows God’s goodness, His faithfulness.” She smiled, her eyes glowing in the sunset like a newly oiled rifle stock. He loved his rifle. “I can feel how close He is and how small I am in the desolation of winter.”

He looked ahead, jaw tight. “What I sense is the harshness of this place.”

“But the plants grow. He provides sun and rain, and despite the harshness, there’s life. He is good.” The unbridled optimism of youth rang in her voice.

“Time will temper that outlook.”

Gracie studied Trevor’s sharp, lined profile, wondering how to respond.

His face reflected him in many ways. Strong, stern. Weary of soul, as if the winter of life had deadened within him all ability to grow. The hope was that good seeds still lay in the frozen soil of his heart, waiting for spring.

Back in the kitchen, before seeing that intriguing letter on his counter, she’d observed how Trevor filled out his earth-stained Levi’s with muscular strength, and how his plaid shirt stretched tight against his broad shoulders. She was unaccustomed to noticing men in such a physical way, but at that moment she’d had trouble removing her gaze.

What would have happened if she’d leaned forward and kissed him?

The thought brought a stinging blush to her cheeks. She wasn’t so bold. A woman simply didn’t kiss just anyone, especially a man known for such a small time. Most important of all, it was Striker who she longed to forge a relationship with, not some taciturn cowboy.

The truck jolted over an uneven piece of land, bringing her attention back to Trevor’s profile. “Why don’t you believe in God?”

He shot her a glare. “I don’t believe in a God who lets people live in a world like this.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not even going to ask what’s wrong with it because I’m sure you’ll have a whole list of doldrums to recite. Nevertheless, you should consider the good things.”

“It’s not that easy, Gracelyn. You can’t just simplify pain and suffering.”

“I’m not. I am not trying to, at least.” She cocked her head. “You have a good life, Trevor, in a place you love. And yet you’re bitter?” She was fishing, she knew, but it was in her nature to probe. He awakened something within, and she found herself longing to discover more of him.

Trevor parked his truck next to Uncle Lou’s wagon, then turned to Gracie, eyes blazing. Her curiosity withered beneath his hard gaze.

“‘God is so good,’” he mocked. “What do you, socialite of Boston, know about pain? I could tell you stories that would shock you. You’re lighthearted and completely unaware of the suffering around you. We don’t believe in God around here for good reasons.” Trevor struck the wheel with the palm of his hand. The sound ricocheted in the truck like a gunshot. “What do you know about a drunken father who beats his kid unconscious every night for smiling the wrong way, mothers who prostitute themselves and then spend the money on whiskey and opiates. Do you know why Mary doesn’t go to church? They won’t let her in because she’s part Paiute. That’s some God you serve.”

Gracie pressed herself back against the passenger door, a faint tremor working through her stomach. No wonder Trevor hardly smiled. He was obviously a man tormented.

She frowned. She didn’t like his implication that she was a shallow child incapable of empathy, ignorant of evil. She was torn between defensive anger and deep sorrow.

As he glared at her, the scar on his brow stark white against his skin, perception filled her. She straightened from the door and leaned toward him.

“You do believe in God,” she said slowly. “You just hate Him.”

A shocked expression crossed his grim features, then a look of dawning knowledge.

There was silence as he looked away from her. “You’re right,” he said, voice low.

Gracie wanted to say more, but he looked so defeated. Gone was the strong presence she had been attracted to in his kitchen. In its place sat a lonely, desolate man. A man who had lived in darkness for far too long. She gently placed her palm on his shoulder.

“Get out.”

“But I—”

“Now.”

She opened her door and slid out quickly. Autumn sliced through her, and she wrapped her arms tightly against her ribs. The menacing intensity vibrating through his voice made her lungs feel squished within her rib cage. She’d barely made it to the front porch before his truck squealed, digging up dirt as it turned and bounced across the land, not headed toward his house, but somewhere else.

For a moment she held perfectly still, a deep pain spreading through her, immobilizing her. Would she ever say anything right? She drew a full breath, released it, then turned and went inside.

Mary stood in the hall, forehead puckered. “What’s wrong with Trevor?”

“We were talking about God,” Gracie murmured.

Her brow smoothed. “That explains it, it does. He doesn’t like the mention of Him.”

Gracie followed Mary into the dining room. “You’ve known Trevor a long time.”

“Since I was a wee babe.” Mary ran a dust rag over the rich-hued furniture. “His mama and mine shared a profession together, and he watched out for me. He’s a good man, he is, just can’t accept that God loves. He can’t put it together in his head because of his upbringing, I expect.”

“His upbringing?”

“Our mothers were prostitutes.”

“Oh.” Gracie winced. Trevor had been speaking from his own experiences. “What about your fathers?”

“Mine just wanted his whiskey. Don’t look so sad, Gracie. Bad things happen in life. So do good. It’s the way things work out.”

“It’s not right, Mary. I wish there was something I could do to change things. You don’t seem bitter.”

“God’s helped me forgive.”

“You’re a Christian, then?” The heaviness in Gracie’s chest lifted a little. “Trevor said churches here don’t accept you.”

“Some churches, unfortunately, are very prejudiced, but I do meet with a few Christian neighbors every other Sunday for our own version of a church service. There’s no local church close by so we do our best.”

“But you don’t pray at meals.”

Mary sighed. “Not out loud, no.”

They walked upstairs, and Gracie felt her depression dissipating. Church! She bounced after Mary into the bedroom, forcing thoughts of Trevor and the life he’d endured to the back of her heart.

Mary wiped the window and Gracie wrinkled her nose at the stench of vinegar.

“I’d love to meet some of the neighbors.”

“You can come.” Mary smiled gently. “But please, leave me be so I can finish cleaning.”

“I’ll help.”

“Absolutely not. This is my job. Maybe you need a rest?”

“I suppose.” Gracie shrugged and left the bedroom. Despite the excitement tumbling through her at the prospect of attending church, thoughts of Trevor would not leave. Perhaps she had been hasty in her judgments of the people here. Perhaps she was not as modern, not as accepting, as she’d once thought.

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